Twenty One

Death has a way of wrecking shit. Then again, maybe wrecked isn’t the right word for it.

Tainting is more like it.

I used to love fall. Loved the brisk freshness of its days. Deep breaths of cool air rushing into your lungs, fingers stiffening in the cold.

Football and dead leaves and the impending turn into winter.

The final rain showers.

Everything clean. Everything crisp.

But not anymore. Now October has a fresh spot on my shit list. Now that day on the calendar will be forever stained. January 1st means nothing anymore. October 15th has taken its place.

“I wonder if she knew it was coming.”

We were in a rental car making the three-hour drive home. I had been asking this question a lot.

Jen looked at me and smiled sadly.

“I wonder if she knew we were there with her?”

“She knew,” Jen replied.

I fought to hold back the tears. “I just hope she knew she wasn’t alone. I hope she wasn’t scared.”

Jen reached over and scratched the back of my head.

“Dad said that before she got on the helicopter she took off her wedding ring and handed it to him. He said she smiled and kissed his hand.”

Why was I doing this to myself?

“He didn’t get to hear her say she loved him because it was too loud.”

Silence. Like there was anything Jen could say. Everything was rhetorical. Me convincing me that Mom knew what was up. Me convincing me that she was aware, yet felt no fear, felt no pain.

Fucking rain.

Fucking October.

Fucking cancer.

“Is cocksucker a proper noun when used to refer to God,” I asked.

Jen stifled a laugh. “That’s horrible.”

“I’m thinking it is.” I continued, “I mean why is it that all the good go people first?”

“So we can have cliches,” said Jen.

“I fucking hate cliches.”

“I know you do.”

“Seriously, there’s so many fucks who don’t deserve to live as long as they do.”

“Maybe that’s why they do,” said Jen.

“What? Live so long?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “Maybe God’s punishing them by making live as long as they do.”

“Punishing them?”

“Think about how lucky your Mom was. She was loved to the very end.”

I nodded.

“How many people get to be surrounded by the one’s they love when they die,” she asked.

“So instead of being loved and missed, the Cocksucker dooms them to an incredibly long and lonely life in which they’re hated by their family members and end up dying in some shitty little apartment surrounded by their cats.”

Jen crinkled her face.

“Discovered only after the smell of their bloated-ass body wafts through the halls,” I added.

“Something like that.”

I paused for a second.

“Jen?”

“Yeah?”

“Remind me not to piss off God.”

She laughed. “I think it’s a little too late for that.”

God notwithstanding, I realize deserve had nothing to do what happened to Mom. I think that’s what made it so hard to deal with. Of course everyone who’s been there done that always talks about experiencing the Five Stages of Grief and how it’s different for everyone. Fuck that, there aren’t five stages. There’s just one big ass-kicker, and the only way to get through it is with a shitload of alcohol and plenty of distractions. Trust me, you’ll have all the time in the world to come to grips with what’s happened, why fuck up the party by dealing with it right away?

If you’re not Irish-Catholic, I recommend you convert. At least for the wake. Fuck the Catholic funeral though. Those things too god-damned long.

For Mom we decided to make the funeral short and sweet. There would be no open casket. In fact there would be no casket at all. Instead a big picture of her in a sea kayak smiling. She was to be remembered for her life, not death. Her dignity intact. Her final gift to friends and family would be the memory of their last encounter. Closure would have to come some other way. But that was their problem, not mine.

I had my own problems.

Biggest of which was my hangover. Note to self, Port is not the same thing as wine.

From the moment I stepped into the house I’ve had a drink of some sort within arm’s reach. Usually a beer, but last night I was feeling bloated so it was Gin and Tonics and red wine punctuated by the ill-advised lowballs of Port. Now all I want to do is go back to bed, but seeing as it’s noon and the house if full of friends and family, the only choice I have is to puke and rally, grab a beer and take a shower.

Jack says I should at least try to be sober for an afternoon.

“But then I can’t drink the pain away,” is what I say to him.

And since his idea of a joke is telling himself that his wife is attractive, he replies with a shake of his head and says, “That’s great Will. Real mature.” Of course Jen laughs with me (because she’s awesome like that) and this riles Jack even more.

“Go ahead, encourage him. Wouldn’t want too many adults in the same room.”

“Relax Jack,” I say as I playfully slap him on the back. “With you and Margret around no one will accuse us of having too much fun.”

Have I mentioned I hate my brother?

Mom thought that her cancer would bring us closer together, but the reality is I was only nice to Jack and Margret for her sake. Now that she’s gone I’m guessing the only time I’ll see them is at the obligatory family function or two. Maybe if I’m lucky he’ll decide to skip my wedding.

Not that I’d forgotten about that. Not like anyone would let me forget. Are you kidding? That’s the one happy piece of news this family can cling to, and let me tell you folks are clinging to that shit. As well they should, life doesn’t have to stop just because Mom’s gone. Though good luck trying to tell Jack that. He’s acting like a brooding fucking martyr. I think he just likes the attention.

“You’re an asshole,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” I reply with a smile. “I guess I must be entering the anger part of the program.”

Anger.

Admittedly I’ve always been angry at something. No shock there. But lately Jen’s been helping me turn over a new leaf. She says it’s a whole lot easier to go through life happy. Like most things, she’s right.

But with this, anger doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface.

I’m in a house surrounded by friends and family, yet the place feels empty.

I hear the laughter as the same stories are repeated over and over again.

I see the sympathetic nods and red eyes as we cling to silver linings.

“At least she was spared that which she feared most.”

“She’s so lucky to have had you all there.”

“Not everyone is fortunate enough to be able to say goodbye.”

As if such knowledge makes everything better.

The fact of the matter is she’s not here. Will never be here. And as much as I know that this was our home, being here without her makes me realize that really it was her home.

It was her favorite blanket that lay draped across her chair.

It was her gardening magazine that sat on the coffee table, folded open to an article that would never be finished.

It was her clothes that sat in the dryer; her coffee cup in the sink

An unfinished needlepoint.

The pacing dog searching for “that lady,” not quite understanding why she couldn’t find her.

A house waiting for someone who’d never return.

Could these people feel her presence? Did they feel connected to her because of this place? Were they clinging to the hope that none of this was real?

Were they like me?

Wine and small talk and laughter.

Tears and photo albums and hugs.

Liz.

“Jen, am I drunk?”

She looked at me, amused. “No more than usual.”

“Is there someone standing on the porch?”

Jen turned to the door. The woman waved.

“Why, do you know her,” Jen asked, waving back.

“Liz,” I said.

Jen’s eyes widened. “Liz, Liz,” she asked. “What is she doing here?”

“Fuck if I know,” I replied as I started walking to the door.

I opened the door and was greeted by her throwing her arms around me.

Heaving sobs.

“I’m so sorry Will.” She pulled back and took my face in her hands. Probably so I could see that she was so, so sad. “I got here as fast as I could.”

She invited herself in.

“You didn’t have to,” I said.

“Right,” she replied, rolling her eyes, “like I wouldn’t be here for you. For your family.”

Tears welled up in her eyes.

“I couldn’t believe it when I heard,” she continued. “Like, I’m still in shock.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty fucked up.”

She took my hand. “Are you okay?”

I laughed. “Yeah,” I deadpanned, “I’m great.”

“I’m serious.”

“I can tell by the tears. How long’d it take you to conjure them up?”

Her mouth fell open in mock horror.

“You have to think of the heel breaking on your Jimmy Choo’s or some shit?”

“Here I am trying to be here for you and this is how you treat me.”

She started crying.

“I’ll have you know I loved your Mom too,” she shot back, just loud enough so that a few heads turned our way.

I grabbed her elbow and walked her back to the entryway.

“You need to leave,” I said.

“Are you kidding? I just got here.” Her face searched mine, shocked that I was actually telling her what to do.

“And I don’t need you here, Liz. I don’t want you here.”

Jen walked up. “Is everything okay?”

“We’re fine,” I replied. “Liz just wanted to stop by to pay her respects.”

Jen smiled. “That’s so nice of you Liz.” Then turning to me she said, “Will, how about you go grab us a couple of glasses of wine?”

I shot Jen a nervous and slightly agitated glance.

“I’ll have more red,” she said, handing me her glass.

“And for you Liz,” I asked.

“White Zin please.”

Of course, I thought as I walked to the kitchen.

Because the kitchen was crowded with people who felt the need to talk to me, it took longer than I thought to get the wine. My uncle handed me a fresh beer and for a moment I felt bad for leaving Jen alone with Liz, but then I remembered that if it wasn’t for her, Liz’s ass would have been gone. What the hell, I thought, it’s not like I see my uncle that much.

“Who’s the blond,” he asked.

“His ex.”

“Is that who she is, Margret,” I asked my favorite sister-in-law. “I’d almost forgot.”

Margret did her gossipy, curt smile thing that she always did. “I’m sure the new one’s happy to see her.”

I turned to my uncle and said, “by new one she means Jen.”

He nodded, a big smile spread across his face, gleefully anticipating the dust up. No one liked Margret.

She ignored my comment and spoke directly to my uncle. “You’ll have to forgive me. You see we only just met a few days ago.”

“Yeah,” he replied, “I could see how Jen would be a tough name to remember.”

I was just about to make a snide comment when the sound of breaking glass and Liz screaming “you bitch” shot through the house.

Fucking hell.

I ran back to the entryway and saw Jen sitting on the floor, back against the wall, head in her hands.

Dad was holding Liz back by the arms.

“Fucking let go of me Goddammit!”

I knelt down to see if Jen was okay. “What the hell happened?”

Jen was rubbing the back of her head. “I dunno, one sec I was telling her that we got engaged and the next thing I know I’m getting shoved against the wall.”

A picture frame lay broken on the floor – the photo it held, torn. Younger versions of Mom, Jack and I standing by a lake smiling. My favorite picture. Some of the glass was red. I reached my hand out and felt the back of Jen’s head. It was wet.

“You’re bleeding,” I said.

“I’ll go get a towel,” someone said.

By now Jack was helping Dad march a screaming Liz out of the house.

“I said fucking let me go asshole!”

“Do you want me to call the cops,” my Dad shouted from the yard.

Margret had rushed over and asked if we needed anything. “I’m fine,” Liz said, somewhat embarrassed.

“Lean forward,” I said, standing so I could get a better look at her head.

“It looks pretty deep,” said Margret.

“Can you take her to the ER,” I asked.

Margret nodded.

“Seriously,” Jen protested, “I’m fine.”

I kissed her on the forehead.

“You need stitches, babe.”

“What a psycho,” Jen said. “I can’t believe you dated her.”

“She’s no good for you,” Liz screamed from the yard. “She doesn’t love you like I do.”

Everyone stepped back as Margret and Jen stood up.

“Call me from the hospital,” I said to Margret. Then after hurriedly kissing Jen, I turned and walked outside to confront Liz.

Liz was standing in the middle of the yard. Jack and Dad were hovering a few feet away from her, just out of arms reach. Jack was touching his lower lip with his finger and kept on pulling it back to survey the damage.

“She get you too,” I asked him.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, “suppose I got to get a rabies shot now.”

We laughed.

“Fuck you,” she spat.

My dad asked, “Do I need to call the cops, Will? Or can you get her under control?”

I looked over to Liz. “Are you done?”

“I’m gonna sue the fuck out of you assholes.”

“Are you done,” I asked again, this time taking my phone out of my pocket. “Because if you’re gonna pull this shit I’d rather have the cops deal with it.”

“Good, call the fucking cops,” she said. “I’ll tell them what really happened.”

Jack interrupted. “If you don’t call the cops Will, I’m gonna.”

I studied Liz for a moment. She looked like a cornered hyena, or at least what I’d imagine a cornered hyena to look like. She also looked scared.

“What are you doing Liz,” I asked, tone a hell of a lot nicer that it should have been.

Suddenly aware that she looked like shit, Liz walked over to the house and stood in front of the living room window. For a moment I thought she was going to throw something through it, but then I realized she was using it as a mirror.

“Liz,” I said again, “fix your hair another time and tell me what in the fuck you’re doing here.”

She spun around and started walking towards me. There was just enough psycho in her grin to make me nervous.

“Well look who grew a pair,” she said as she tried to cup her right hand around my groin.

I smiled back. “You know, it feels a whole lot better when Jen does that.”

And like that her smile was gone. She stepped back and crossed her arms.

“You would say something like that.”

I shrugged. “You know me so well.”

“Exactly,” she said, eyes widening with what could have only been excitement. “That’s why I’m here.”

Looking over to Jack and Dad I said, “I’ve got this. Head back in and tell everyone it was just a misunderstanding. If they ask, say she was drunk.”

“I’m not drunk, asshole.”

“You sure,” asked my Dad.

“Yeah,” I replied, “this won’t take long.”

I turned back to Liz and stared at her with a feeling I had – to this point- never felt towards her. I was ambivalent.

“Listen,” I said, “I appreciate your concern.”

She stepped towards me and I countered by taking a step back.

“And you have a right to be sad.”

She wiped a tear from her cheek.

“But you have to leave.”

She started to cry harder.

“Don’t do this,” I said. Then in an effort to seem supportive I added, “Please.”

“I made a mistake Will.”

More and more tears. Real tears.

“I wasn’t thinking,” she continued, the excuses rushing from her mouth, “it was all my fault. I was angry with myself. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

Two months ago I would have been happy to hear this. Now I felt only the slightest hint of satisfaction.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Liz. We’re done. I’ve moved on.”

“But it does,” she pleaded, “it does matter. I never wanted to lose you. I just wanted you to notice me.”

Do I tell her that makes no sense?

She rushed towards me and wrapped her arms around my waist. “I wanted you to love me as much as I loved you.”

“I did,” I said, breaking away from her. Our eyes met and for a fleeting instant I felt bad for what I was about to say. “At least I thought I did.”

Hearing what she wanted to, her eyes widened as her face became flushed with happiness, as her face was trying to convince her mind that everything was going to be okay. That she was about to get her way. And why wouldn’t she think that? The chick had a gift when it came to getting what she wanted.

“The truth is,” I continued, “we were never really right for each other.”

Her smile faded as my words hit her.

“Uh uh,” she said, shaking her head violently.

“Liz.”

“We’re perfect for each other,” she said, interrupting me.

“Jen and I are engaged.”

“No you’re not,” she replied. “You’re lying.”

“The wedding’s this summer.”

“It isn’t.”

I was about to step towards her and do the whole comfort thing, but stopped dead in my tracks when I noticed the look on her face. She wasn’t looking at me, she was staring though me. Her eyes were glazed and – aside from the slightest of smiles – her face was expressionless.

And then I realized: I was watching her lose her mind.

Should I help her over the ledge?

“But you love me,” she continued. “You need me.”

“No,” I replied. “I don’t. I never did.”

“Lies,” she whispered.

“I just convinced myself otherwise.”

She was rocking back and forth on her heels.

“I thought you were the best I could do,” I added. Nails in the coffin.

“Liar, liar, liar,” she repeated to herself.

“Thankfully one of us was smart enough to get out.” I put my hand on her shoulder. She flinched. “I can’t imagine where I’d be if it wasn’t for you.”

Tears fell down her face.

“Actually,” I said, “I suppose I should be thanking Heath too.”

“Stop it.”

“In fact,” I asked, “could you do that for me when you see him again?”

“Stop it,” she screamed. “Stop it, stop it, stop it!”

Maybe if she had any real emotions I’d have felt bad. But she didn’t, so I said: “Oh, that’s right, Heath doesn’t want anything to do with you either.”

Then I told her she should probably leave. Though in hindsight, telling her to “enjoy her lonely fucking life,” was probably was a tad insensitive.