Root by A. Sparrow

even believe she was real.

Chapter 14:
Probate
     
    Day after day, leading up to the funeral, I
tried to re-conjure a visitation. I would go into that storage
locker tingling with expectation, dangling my misery like a bass
fisherman trying to seduce a lunker out from under a sunken
log.
    I tried my best to wallow in my gloom, I
really did. But not a sprig of root ever came to visit, no matter
how much I begged and prayed. It knew I wanted it and my desires
were toxic. The faintest spark of hope was enough to keep it
away.
    I didn’t even care about the damned Reapers.
They never entered the equation. The way Karla had gone about her
business like they were raccoons knocking over her garbage
cans—maybe that emboldened me.
    The project insisted I skip work all that
week. They paid me leave even though, as a part-timer, I didn’t
qualify. I should have been grateful, but having nothing to do only
aggravated my restlessness.
    In the daytime, I basically wandered, catching
cat naps on the patio furniture of abandoned houses I knew,
showering under lawn sprinklers, raiding gardens for cukes and
zukes between my twice daily runs to the Burger King.
    There weren’t many logistics to organize. Mom
had pre-arranged for a minimal funeral, followed by a cremation.
There would be no wake, but some of our old neighbors were hosting
a little post-ceremony get-together at their house—a sad little
party for folks that knew her.
    Uncle Ed and his family were staying behind in
Ohio this time. He apologized profusely. He was so damned busy, he
said, and with the two deaths so close together, it was just
impossible for them to attend. I told him I understood even though
I didn’t. This was Darlene—his only sister, his only
sibling.
    On Thursday, we finally held her pathetic
little funeral. Mom had wanted it humble, and she had certainly
gotten her wish. Some of dad’s buddies, a few friends from work and
some families from the home school network showed up, but that was
all. Turned out, mom was almost as big of a recluse as
me.
    A Unitarian minister came to the funeral home
and got us to share some stories about Mom and participate in some
free-form praying. Marianne was there, and so was Jenny. I could
barely bring myself to glance at them, never mind talk.
    After the funeral our old neighbors, the
Trudeaus, hosted a little memorial luncheon. I went a little nuts,
pigging out on all the dishes to pass that people had brought. It
had been ages since I had seen so much free food in one place. And
it was so nice to be in air conditioning for a change.
    Marianne cornered me in the kitchen at one
point, her eyes so earnest and desperate to help me. I wish I knew
how to let her, but I was turned so inward, it just wasn’t
possible. There was no room in my head or my heart for anyone real.
It really was too bad. She seemed like such a good soul.
    I ended up conking out on the Trudeau’s couch.
When I woke up, everyone was gone. I had a pillow propped under my
head and a throw draped over me.
    It was twilight and already dinner time. The
Trudeau’s invited me to spend the night, but I told them I had
plans to stay with friends. Mrs. Trudeau made me take a couple of
roast beef sandwiches, an orange and some cookies.
    I trudged back to the Handi-Stor, all wired
and miserable. The turbulence in my skull was intolerable. I
couldn’t calm it down. I had the sense that it would never go away
unless I did something major. This was unsustainable.
    Of course, there were drastic, i.e. permanent,
means of escape, but I wasn’t quite ready for that yet. But maybe
leaving Ft. Pierce would help. There was no reason for me to stick
around here. Maybe a change of scenery would shake things
up.
    Ohio seemed like the most logical place to go.
Uncle Ed still lived in Berea, the suburb of Cleveland where I had
been born. I would be going back to my roots, so to speak. Maybe
Ohio would save me, if nothing else would.
    How to get there, though, was still a