Zoo by Tara Elizabeth

friend, Phil
Landry. They’ve been good friends for as long as I can remember. He
was always at family bar-b-ques and most of my birthday parties as
a child. It makes sense that he would be the one to call.
    I reach out to open the door to the house,
but I can’t do anything except be where I am. I have no body. No
hands. No arms or legs. No eyes to shut out what I’m seeing. No
throat or mouth to gasp when I realize this.
    I see my mother collapse to the tile floor.
She slides against the wood cabinets on her way down. And then she
erupts. Sobs rake her body as my father tries to helplessly comfort
her. She hits him and tells him to get away from her. He’s stubborn
and keeps trying to hold her, but she keeps on pushing him away,
over and over again.
    Just when I feel like I can’t stand another
second of this, everything flashes white.
     
    ***
     
    First I hear the music; slow, sad, mournful
music. Then, I hear crying while my father talks about what a
wonderful and neurotic, or wonderfully neurotic child I was. His
hair is combed perfectly, and his black suit is pristinely pressed,
but his hands are shaking as he recounts the time I got lost at a
theme park when I was a child.
    “ There are so many
adjectives to describe Emma. She was courageous, resourceful,
funny, sarcastic, determined, hardworking, and loving—just to name
a few. I’ve never known a woman or a child like our Emma. I
remember when she was eight years old, and her mother and I took
her to a theme park for her birthday. She was so excited to ride
everything. Some things she rode with us, and some she rode alone
because she either wanted to or because we were too scared to go
with her. She was never afraid to do things on her own.
    “ After she got off one of
the rides, she took a different exit than the one where we waited.
She got lost.” My father lets a small chuckle escape, as he
remembers the family trip gone awry. He says, “Emma found a woman
that worked at the park and demanded that she make her own
announcement over the loud speaker. She said over the P.A., ‘Mom.
Dad. This is Emma and I got lost. I’ll be waiting for you at the
ice cream stand next to the Ferris wheel. But don’t worry, I paid
for my strawberry sundae with my own money.” My father’s voice
catches as he tries not to cry in front of the rows and rows of
people seated at my funeral service. Some of them laugh at the cute
story. Some of them cry. Some of them do both.
    He finishes his speech with one more thing.
“And because Emma was courageous, resourceful, funny, sarcastic,
determined, hardworking, and loving, we are comforted in knowing
that wherever she is now, she is doing well. She will be missed
more than words can express, but we will always remember the life
in her.”
    I’m glad he doesn’t know that I’m actually
not doing well. I have a bad attitude, and I’ve felt like giving up
more than once. His words of praise are too good for me. I feel so
ashamed as I look at his sad face and then over to my mother’s.
    My mother is sobbing in the front row with
an empty seat next to her, one that my father is headed toward as
the funeral director takes his place at the podium. She has dark
circles under her eyes and peeling finger nail polish. She’s lost
without her only child.
    My family surrounds her in the next three
rows and my friends occupy the rows behind them. There are a few
people I don’t know sprinkled throughout the room. They are
probably my parents’ co-workers and acquaintances, here to show
support.
    They all look so sad.
    I want to scream at them, “I’m not dead! I’m
here!” but I can’t. I don’t have a mouth. I don’t have a voice.
    Another flash of light.
     
    ***
     
    My parents are fighting about a coffee cup
that wasn’t put back in the proper cabinet. It’s a fight about
nothing.
    Another flash of light.
     
    ***
     
    It’s dark, and I’m at the end of my parents’
bed, watching them while they sleep. They are as