best. She was a nice girl, and I was bad company, and if she’d spent any more time with me she might have changed her mind about my acceptability. “Tight” would have become “please, please, please, never come near me again.” I doubted I would have even made her Fave Fifty.
Can you tell I was a depressed, neurotic mess?
To my consternation, my grandparents saw right through my “I’ll be okay” murmurs and spent hours, days, weeks, trying to cheer me up. They were wonderful people, they really were, but I know I frustrated them.
I should be crying, they said. I’d feel better. What I couldn’t bring myself to tell them was that my tears were on lockdown.
Every day I could feel the burn of them behind my eyes, but the droplets never formed, never fell. And to be honest, the lack didn’t bother me. I didn’t want to cry. Deep down I had accepted the fact that I deserved to suffer … to seethe on the inside.
Actually, I deserved worse.
When the day of the funeral dawned, I stunned everyone, including myself, by asking to skip it. I just … I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing where my family would spend the rest of eternity, rotting for years before disappearing altogether. And even though that would have counted as the “worse,” I still wanted to remember them as they’d been: alive and vibrant. But of course, my grandparents denied my request.
On the drive over, I sat in the backseat of their sedan. Today they were dressed in head-to-toe black, as was I. They’d bought me a fancy new dress. I really wish they hadn’t gone to the trouble or the expense. I would have rather worn a potato sack. This was a terrible day, and I would have liked my clothing to reflect that.
Anyway. I didn’t want to think about me. Nana had styled her shoulder-length brown hair into a loose bob that hid the paleness of her cheeks. She clutched a tissue in her shaky fist and continually dabbed at her watery eyes. She’d lost family, too, I reminded myself. I wasn’t the only one suffering. I should try to help her with her loss, should act the way she wanted me to act, but … I just couldn’t.
“Do you want to say a few words honoring the, uh, deceased?” Pops asked after clearing his throat. His graying hair had receded so much at the sides that he had a major widow’s peak. The rest was thinning and yes, he sported a cringe-worthy comb-over. How my mom had loved to tease him about that. “Ali?”
I didn’t need to think about my reply. “No, thank you.”
Nana twisted to face me. Her eyelids were puffed, the skin underneath splotched with red and her makeup streaked. I had to look away. Those golden eyes were too familiar, the pain inside them too … reflective.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “I know your mother would have wanted—”
“I’m sure,” I rushed out. Just the thought of standing in front of everyone and sharing my favorite memories caused a cold sweat to break out on my skin. No way. Just no way.
Her tone gentled as she said, “This is your chance to say goodbye, Alice.”
Gonna be sick. “Call me Ali. Please. And I … I can’t say goodbye.” I wasn’t ever going to say goodbye. Part of me still clung to the idea that there was a chance I’d wake up and discover all of this was simply a bad dream.
A weary sigh left her, and she returned her attention to the front. “All right. I don’t think what you’re doing is healthy, but all right.”
“Thank you,” I said, relief causing me to wilt against my seat belt.
The rest of the drive passed in silence, only the occasional sniffle to be heard. What I would have given for my iPod. I’d play Skillet or Red and pretend I was dancing with—myself. But I hadn’t gone home to pack my things. I hadn’t wanted to go home. Nana had done that for me, and technophobe that she was, she’d probably had no idea what that little Nano could do.
At last we reached our destination and walked to the grave sites. There would be no church service. Everything was to be done here. Which wasn’t right. My mother had loved to go to church, and my dad had hated cemeteries, had died at the edge of one—of this one, to be morbidly specific—and they were going to bury him here? That was wrong on so many levels, and ticked me off.
He should have been cremated. But what did I know? I was just the daughter who’d helped kill him.
Now, in the daylight—or what should have been daylight—I studied the place that had destroyed my life. The sky was dark and drizzly, as if the world wept for what it had lost. While I was right on board with that, my dad wouldn’t have approved. He’d loved the sun.
The hilly stretch of land was treed up just right, with a few bushes growing around some of the headstones and flowers of every color thriving in every direction.
One day there would be bushes and flowers around my family’s headstones. Right now, there were just three big, empty holes, waiting for those closed caskets to drop.
Once again I found myself the recipient of too many I’m sorrys and you’ll be okays. Screw them all. I retreated inside myself, tuning out everything that was spoken during the ceremony, simply looking around.
People around me wept into their tissues. There was Mr. and Mrs. Flanagan, my former neighbors, and their son, Cary. He was a cute boy, a little older than me. I can’t remember how many times I’d thought that if I was a normal girl, with a normal life, I’d be sitting at my window, staring out at his house, imagining him closing the distance and asking me out on a date. Imagining we’d go to dinner, he’d walk me to my door, and kiss me. My first. Imagining he’d tell me that he didn’t care how crazy my family was, that he liked me no matter what.
I never had. He never had.
Now he cast me a sad smile, and I looked away.
When the pastor had finished, when my grandparents had said their piece, everyone stood and gathered in groups, talking, swapping stories. Too many of them congregated around me, patting my shoulders and giving me hugs. Actions I didn’t appreciate or return. I just didn’t have the strength to put on a dog-and-pony show so that I wouldn’t hurt anyone’s feelings.
I wanted to be in my bed, buried under the covers, pretending I had my old life back.
“She was such a happy child, wasn’t she?” said someone at my side. A woman I couldn’t quite place but knew I’d seen before was peering at the smallest casket, tears streaming down her red cheeks. “We’re going to miss her. I remember this one time …”
On and on she talked. I stood there, suddenly unable to breathe. I opened my mouth to tell her to shut up, but the words wouldn’t form. I tried to walk away, but my feet were rooted in place, as if someone had poured concrete over my shoes.
“And then there was the time, in class, when she helped …”
A loud ringing sprouted in my ears and I couldn’t make out the individual words. Didn’t matter. I knew who she was talking about, and if she didn’t get out of my face, I was going to lose it. Already I was spiraling into an abyss, screaming silently.
“… and the other girls utterly adored her …”
Argh! Spiraling … spiraling out of control …
I deserved this, I reminded myself. This was part of my “worse.” My words, my insistence, had killed my family, had put them in those boxes. Had I done anything differently, a single detail, they would still be alive. But I hadn’t, and so here I was. There they were.
“… her talent, her spirit, were rare and glorious and I …”
The abyss threw me one way, then the other, cutting me up bit by bit, destroying me. The woman had to shut up. She just had to. Shut. Up. My heart felt pinned against my ribs, warping the beat, and if she didn’t shut up I would die. I knew I would die.
“… used to tell me she wanted to