something.
Eddie starts up the stairs. “No, buddy,
you can’t wear your baseball uniform to Mom’s memorial service.” A typical day
in the Wixim house, except that I’m dead.
“Can I wear my cap?” That’s my boy. Push
and push.
“Nope.”
“Can I wear my cleats? ’Cause Mommy loves
my cleats and the clicky sound they make, so she’ll know it’s me.”
“Sure, you can
wear the cleats, but with your suit.” Eddie gives in. He always did when I was
alive. In the game of good cop, bad cop, Eddie was the
so-good-he-could-hardly-be-true cop.
My protective
shield has cracked. I got too close to Eddie, and he got into my head and I now
hear him thinking. You poor kid. You don’t even
understand what a memorial service is about. You still think your Mom will be
there, don’t you?
I
will be there, Eddie. But what do you care?
Joey smiles. Only wanted the cleats anyway. Daddy’s way easier than
Mom.
Eddie smiles back
at him because he won’t have to wrestle or bribe Joey to get him into the suit. The tie could still be an issue, though.
Ten minutes later, Joey charges into the
kitchen in his blue suit and baseball cleats. He even has his tie on—in a knot
around his head. Bethany and Michelle take turns hugging him and telling him
how great he looks for his mom.
How come nobody’s taking my picture
like Mommy did on the first day of school?
Joey studies his
adults and wonders about winning the cleat war. Daddy looks funny in his shiny shoes with all that
toilet paper stuck to his chin. Bethany won’t quit crying.
Aunt Michelle hugs me too much. She
feels like Mommy, but she doesn’t even know where the camera is. Mommy takes
all my pictures. Without Mommy, there’ll never be another picture of me ever
again.
My poor family is a pitiful mess. I watch as they line up
and trudge together to the car. Joey’s cleats scratch at my hardwood floor, and
I don’t even give a damn. He has cookies stashed in his pockets. Bethany pours
an extra mug of coffee, over sugars it, and brings it to the car. She hasn’t
showered in days. Michelle fiddles with a pile of paper scraps as she shoves
dirty tissues up the sleeve of her sweater just like our mother used to do.
She’s humming to herself and crying her stupid mascara off.
Eddie, last out, hesitates at the door and turns back. He
looks at my purse still on the floor beside the sneaker pile. He scans the
kitchen, looks toward our bedroom door. Still waiting for her. Go ahead
without me, Eddie. I’ll be right behind you.
18
My Memorial
Kids park their dads’ shiny BMWs on the grass and boulevards.
What a mess. People huddle together on the sidewalks in dark coats, and others
push their way into the warmth of the stone building.
Since there is no body to view, the
funeral directors and ushers quietly, but frantically, try to direct what looks
like the entire high school population into the small chapel. They hand out
programs and ask people to sit closer together to make room for more. Old Mrs.
Smithers from down the street drove herself in her dead husband’s pickup truck.
She sits alone in the back row eyeing the noisy teenagers who fill the seats.
Programs? At a funeral? Well, aren’t we
special? That Anna was so full of herself. Thought she was so smart. Hmpff. If
she was so smart, she wouldn’t be dead. It’s her own fault that she died.
How was it my fault?
Look at all those kids! So noisy in a
church! Somebody should tell them to hush. She cranes her stringy neck around looking for an adult husher, but sees only
ushers who are useless and the pompous principal of my high school parading in.
Mr. Carter walks stiffly down the aisle shaking hands and
greeting students and parents. Oh, my lord, this is horrible. Like a PTA
meeting. So many people! Is it okay for a principal to genuflect in church?
Well, this isn’t my church, so I won’t. We had to close school early again
today so all these teachers and kids
Eddie starts up the stairs. “No, buddy,
you can’t wear your baseball uniform to Mom’s memorial service.” A typical day
in the Wixim house, except that I’m dead.
“Can I wear my cap?” That’s my boy. Push
and push.
“Nope.”
“Can I wear my cleats? ’Cause Mommy loves
my cleats and the clicky sound they make, so she’ll know it’s me.”
“Sure, you can
wear the cleats, but with your suit.” Eddie gives in. He always did when I was
alive. In the game of good cop, bad cop, Eddie was the
so-good-he-could-hardly-be-true cop.
My protective
shield has cracked. I got too close to Eddie, and he got into my head and I now
hear him thinking. You poor kid. You don’t even
understand what a memorial service is about. You still think your Mom will be
there, don’t you?
I
will be there, Eddie. But what do you care?
Joey smiles. Only wanted the cleats anyway. Daddy’s way easier than
Mom.
Eddie smiles back
at him because he won’t have to wrestle or bribe Joey to get him into the suit. The tie could still be an issue, though.
Ten minutes later, Joey charges into the
kitchen in his blue suit and baseball cleats. He even has his tie on—in a knot
around his head. Bethany and Michelle take turns hugging him and telling him
how great he looks for his mom.
How come nobody’s taking my picture
like Mommy did on the first day of school?
Joey studies his
adults and wonders about winning the cleat war. Daddy looks funny in his shiny shoes with all that
toilet paper stuck to his chin. Bethany won’t quit crying.
Aunt Michelle hugs me too much. She
feels like Mommy, but she doesn’t even know where the camera is. Mommy takes
all my pictures. Without Mommy, there’ll never be another picture of me ever
again.
My poor family is a pitiful mess. I watch as they line up
and trudge together to the car. Joey’s cleats scratch at my hardwood floor, and
I don’t even give a damn. He has cookies stashed in his pockets. Bethany pours
an extra mug of coffee, over sugars it, and brings it to the car. She hasn’t
showered in days. Michelle fiddles with a pile of paper scraps as she shoves
dirty tissues up the sleeve of her sweater just like our mother used to do.
She’s humming to herself and crying her stupid mascara off.
Eddie, last out, hesitates at the door and turns back. He
looks at my purse still on the floor beside the sneaker pile. He scans the
kitchen, looks toward our bedroom door. Still waiting for her. Go ahead
without me, Eddie. I’ll be right behind you.
18
My Memorial
Kids park their dads’ shiny BMWs on the grass and boulevards.
What a mess. People huddle together on the sidewalks in dark coats, and others
push their way into the warmth of the stone building.
Since there is no body to view, the
funeral directors and ushers quietly, but frantically, try to direct what looks
like the entire high school population into the small chapel. They hand out
programs and ask people to sit closer together to make room for more. Old Mrs.
Smithers from down the street drove herself in her dead husband’s pickup truck.
She sits alone in the back row eyeing the noisy teenagers who fill the seats.
Programs? At a funeral? Well, aren’t we
special? That Anna was so full of herself. Thought she was so smart. Hmpff. If
she was so smart, she wouldn’t be dead. It’s her own fault that she died.
How was it my fault?
Look at all those kids! So noisy in a
church! Somebody should tell them to hush. She cranes her stringy neck around looking for an adult husher, but sees only
ushers who are useless and the pompous principal of my high school parading in.
Mr. Carter walks stiffly down the aisle shaking hands and
greeting students and parents. Oh, my lord, this is horrible. Like a PTA
meeting. So many people! Is it okay for a principal to genuflect in church?
Well, this isn’t my church, so I won’t. We had to close school early again
today so all these teachers and kids
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