My heart jumps right into my throat as we lock eyes. Then he looks away, walks to the front of the classroom, taps Marshall Gleason on the shoulder, and nods in my direction. Marshall gets up and lumbers back to the stool next to me, sliding on with a sigh. He opens his Mad magazine and ignores me.
I stare at the back of Kai’s head.
My lips sting where once they tasted sweet with his mouth, with sugary cookies. With thinking the summer would be full of kisses. When I thought I was going to be one kind of girl for the summer.
I grit my teeth. Laizure starts writing on the board.
Beside me, Marshall Gleason whispers, “Dude, I am sorry about your mom, and about whatever is up with that Kai guy, but please do not cry, because that is way beyond my skill set.”
Welcome to the Big Suck, chortles the girl-bug. Not so funny now, huh?
* * *
• • •
Cake waits for me in the hallway after class, her face grim.
“What now?” I ask.
“I’m sorry,” Cake says. “The funeral home called my mom, because she’s the one who paid for the services.” She puts her hand on my arm.
My heart sinks.
Cake’s eyes get wet. “Your mom. She’s ready. They said…they said we can come and get her ashes.”
HERE IS WHAT HAPPENS when you call the funeral home to arrange to pick up your mother’s ashes.
“Hello, this is Leanna Linkletter of Linkletter and Family Funeral Home, and who am I speaking with, please?”
Me.
“And what can I help you with today?”
You can help me with this person, the woman, my mother, my mom. She’s there. You called me. June. June Tolliver. That’s her name. Was her name. Sorry.
“Thank you. The remains of June Tolliver are available for pickup today. We are open until 6 p.m.”
Okay.
“Please bring photo ID. Thank you, goodbye.”
Click.
Just like that. You’ll pick up what’s left of your mom like picking up dry cleaning or stopping for milk on the way home. A task to check off. An unexpected chore.
You will click off your phone and stand in the dusty parking lot of the high school, your tall best friend next to you, wondering what she should say to you.
Finally, she says, “We should go.”
In her car, which her parents paid for, and gave to her for her birthday, you think, No one is ever going to buy me a car. And then you feel guilty, because that’s petty.
You think: Not that my mother had money for that anyway.
Your friend says, “Do you want to listen to music?”
No.
“Do you want something to eat? We’re going to miss lunch. I have our lunches in my bag.”
No.
“Are you nervous?”
Please be quiet, please.
Your mind races, because you don’t know what to expect, because there isn’t a manual for death, though you are really, really, really starting to wish there were. What did they call those starter books for little kids a long time ago? Primers. There should be primers for death, so you could connect all the dots, like shock to sadness to ashes to sadness to shock to alone.
#dyingfordummies #deathmanual #aprimerforpain
When you get to the funeral home, the lady at the front desk asks for your ID, so you give her your school ID. At first, she seems hesitant and so you say, I mean, you are not NOT going to give me my mom, you know? And she shrugs in kind of an ashamed way and hands you some forms.
You sign the forms.
She gives you a blue velvet bag with a golden drawstring. It is square-shaped and surprisingly heavy.
You’ll find out why it’s so heavy later. It isn’t all ash in there, you know. There are bits and chunks of bones, too, like a strange little archaeological site you could puzzle out, if you had the time.
And there isn’t just one box, like you thought there’d be. There are three.
The lady tells you three death certificates and a coroner’s official report will be mailed to you in a few weeks. She says if you want additional death certificates, they’ll cost twenty-five dollars each.
Your friend says, “Isn’t three plenty?”
The lady gives you a pitying look. “Well, hon, this was your mom? I’m real sorry. Well, if she had bills in her name and all, like the telephone or a utility or a credit card, they are going to want to get paid and you will tell them, But my mama’s dead, and I am sorry to tell you, they will say, Prove it. And you have to send them a certificate. They won’t take copies. Has to be official. Most people, they end up getting at least ten, if they have the money.”
“What a dumb rip-off,” your friend says.
And that will be another thing that should go in the primer. Bills. Who does that for all the kids whose parents disappear or die? What about this phone? Your only lifeline to your friend and your mother’s voice? Karen said you could have a phone if you could pay for it, but with what?
And what about your house? Mr. Pacheco, the landlord, might have tolerated your mother’s penchant for paying rent late for many years, but he won’t tolerate no rent, and he’s just the type of sour man to throw your things in the arroyo, where they’ll be trampled by javelinas and stomped into suitable beds by coyotes.
“I am truly sorry for your loss,” the woman says. She pulls a blue plastic bag from behind her desk. “Her clothes and earrings and things.”
Oh. So, they…take those off. Before it happens.
Your friend takes the bag for you, because your arms are full of boxes of your mother.
You carry her against your chest to the car and hold her that way all the way home.
You are numb.
You think you might cry again, maybe, because the fact of her being reduced to a series of medium-sized boxes, after being so much in your life, such a presence…well, it takes all your breath away. It’s kind of incomprehensible that a human can be, after all that living, just…ash. In boxes.
Your friend asks you, “Are you…Do you…want to spread her ashes somewhere? I guess that’s a thing to think about.”
You remember what Rhonda and LaLa said about ashes: the roadie rhododendron pot, spreading Speedy’s ashes along her favorite rail line. You picture yourself flinging your mother’s ashes in Lake Powell or making a somber trip to Mexico to drop them in the sea. Your mother never said anything about what she wanted, and it doesn’t seem right to just guess for her.
And if you let the wind or water carry her ashes away, you won’t have her anymore.
You understand now why some people prefer burials and cemeteries: they have a place to visit. To feel sad. To sit and cry, to know the person, or what is left of the person, is still, somehow, physically there.
Like wearing the lace dress, you can imagine yourself carrying around your mother in her white boxes with the red-and-green dragons inside the blue velvet bag for all eternity.
You tell your friend, I can’t think about that right now. That’s too much.
“You don’t have to decide anything right now. We’ll just go home.”
You want to ask, Where is that? But you don’t.
The ride is very quiet, though she says she’s hungry, and stops once for burgers and salty fries, ignoring the lunches in her backpack. The sounds of the wrapper crinkling in the car sound like rain. The ice knocking in your soda cup sounds like rain.
You don’t mind.
Your phone lights up. You look down. It’s the boy orphan.
Hang in there.
You hug the boxes of your mother tighter against your body. You are only sixteen, and this should not be happening to you, that what’s left of your mom is in bits and pieces, ash and burned bone.
You think about what the boy texted. His simple, kin
d words.
All your life, you’ve loved words and language, even if you aren’t that great at school. You’ve loved weird words and smart words and beautiful words and awkward words, all of them. Podunk. Mastermind. Effluvium. Macrosomatic. Hullabaloo.
But there isn’t a single word in the universe that you can think of that would describe the way you feel right now.
8 days, 16 hours
KAREN’S CAR IS IN LaLa’s driveway, which is strange, since she hasn’t texted me or anything, but what’s stranger is when Cake and I walk by the car, I notice a blazing pink duffel bag stretched out across the backseat. Is Karen going on a trip? She doesn’t seem like a pink kind of person.
Cake stares at the pink duffel bag and her eyes widen. She says, “Oh, holy hell,” and my heart freezes.
This is it.
In the driveway, we stare at each other.
The front door swings open. Sarah shouts, “She’s here! Tiger, your sister is here!”
Cake stares at me and I stare at Cake. Two deer, frozen.
“I’m not ready,” I say.
“Too late. It’s happening.”
“I can’t.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
She puts her hands on my shoulders, turns me toward the house. Nudges me forward. As we walk, Cake murmurs, “Stay positive.”
LaLa, Thaddeus, and Karen have grim faces. A ponytailed, skinny girl in a tank top and cutoff jeans, with a flannel shirt tied around her waist, is pacing back and forth in front of the couch, listening to something on her phone. She looks frustrated.
Karen says, “Shayna Lee?”
At the sound of her name, the ponytailed girl—woman? What are you when you’re twenty, anyway?—turns, and blinks at me.
Time stops. I don’t think anyone in the room is breathing, including Sarah.
The very first thing my brand-new sister says to me is “What. The nutballs. Are you freaking wearing?”
8 days, 17 hours
MY SISTER’S CAR BROKE down somewhere in Utah. I have no idea why she would be in Utah, or why she decided to make coming to get me a kind of road trip for herself. I thought she was coming directly here.
She ended up taking a bus to Tucson, where Karen picked her up. She’s hot, and sweaty, and dirty, and in a bad mood. She frowns at me in the living room.
“My mom bought it for me. For a dance,” I say quietly.
“You can dance at a time like this?”
I freeze. I can’t tell if she’s joking or not, and she’s looking at me, quite frankly, as though I’m some sort of annoying insect; like she’s figuring out how to swat me away if I sting her.
I guess we aren’t going to hug, or anything like that, because she doesn’t make any moves toward me, and I don’t make any toward her.
I guess I thought our first meeting would be a little more sisterly than this.
Shayna abruptly turns to LaLa. “Where’s the bathroom? I think I need to freshen up before we hit the road again.” LaLa points down the hall.
Once we hear the bathroom door close, Thaddeus says, “Oh. My. God.”
I clench my Boxes of Mom closer to my chest.
“That was awkward,” Cake whispers.
“She’s tired,” Karen says. “This is going to be stressful and overwhelming for everyone. Let’s just take it step by step.”
The toilet flushes.
Shayna saunters back into the room, her face brighter. She claps her hands together.
“Well,” she says. “What happens now? I’m brand-new at this. Do I need to sign some papers or something? For…her?”
I get a cold feeling in my chest. I’m not a puppy from the pound.
Thaddeus gives me a small shrug, like, Give her a chance.
Maybe he’s right. I mean, what did I think I was going to get, Jennifer Aniston? Some sort of cheerful angel who hugs me right away and does my hair and giggles secrets in my ear?
Shayna crosses her arms across her chest and juts her hip, inspecting her nails. I’m glad her eyes are looking down. I can look at her freely.
I wish for a fleeting moment that I could freeze everyone in the room, especially Shayna, with some sort of superhero power, so I can circle her slowly and inspect her for signs of me. I want that time to suss her out, like she’s a rare artifact or a precious object. We’re blood, after all. What things do we share?
Karen is talking quietly on her phone. Shayna looks up, blows out her cheeks.
Her eyes fall on me, finally, “So, you’re you. There you are. In a very weird dress.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too, I guess,” I reply snarkily. Thaddeus sucks in a breath.
“This isn’t going well,” he murmurs.
My sister regards me.
Karen clicks off her phone and clears her throat. “Let’s get this show on the road, Tiger. LaLa’s packed your suitcase and I have another client in a few hours. We can talk more about expectations and procedures in the car.”
Shayna pastes a big smile on her face, suddenly noticing the blue velvet bag I’m holding. “You have a present for me? That bag is so pretty! Thank you!” She moves to take the bag.
I say, “It’s my mom.”
The room descends into an awkward silence.
Shayna jerks her hands back. “Right. Moving on. Thank you, everybody, for taking care of my little sister. I’ll be assuming the reins now. Don’t worry, everything will be just fine. Just super.”
She slides the red sunglasses perched in her dark hair down over her eyes and moseys out the front door to Karen’s car.
I stand there, slightly freaked out. She’s literally only four years older than me and she’s going to be taking care of me.
I can’t even move.
I miss my mother so much right now it’s loud inside me, like the worst thunder, the kind that shakes the windows, shoves the sides of your house, makes you feel unsafe. It’s so loud I don’t even know if it’s LaLa, Cake, or Thaddeus who says, It’ll be okay.
All I know is, I want to scream so hard it will tear their ears off. Because it will never be okay, never ever ever.
Like a zombie, I turn to go, ignoring Cake’s attempt at a hug, Thaddeus telling me to call, LaLa and her whispered Be brave.
Brave, says the girl-bug. What’s that?
* * *
• • •
Outside, the three of us climb into Karen’s car, me in the back, as usual. My sister’s pink duffel bag emanates a perfumy smell. I hold my Boxes of Mom tight to my chest.
No one says anything for a long time, until Karen finally breaks the silence. “I’ve been out to your house to check on things, Tiger. We need to stop at the grocery store on the way. You’ve got no food.”
Shayna says slowly, “About that. I kind of blew a lot of money on a tow and motel in Utah, so I’m a little short.”
“Why were you even in Utah?” I ask, suddenly and sharply.
My sister doesn’t turn around. “Seeing friends. Bought a car, but it turned out to be a dud. Fancy that.”
Karen says, “We’ve got a food card set up right now, until we can get some paperwork done and get you both in the system for benefits.” She goes on about Social Security payments for orphaned children, a monthly allowance from the state, paperwork for medical and rent needs. “It’s going to move slow. It always does.”
Shayna grunts. “I spent a lot of money on the plane ticket here.” She glances back at me. “I hope you’re worth it!”
I think she thinks she’s making a joke, but it’s not a good one, and I’m already feeling sensitive about the dress comment, and maybe the fact that she hasn’t been, well, sisterly to me so far at all, so what comes out of my mouth is kind of a shout.
“Sorry about your stupid money, but no one asked you to come he
re anyway.”
“Actually,” Shayna retorts, shoving her sunglasses on top of her head and leaning back to glare at me, “somebody did ask me to come here, as a matter of fact. To save you, apparently.”
“Save me from what? My mother’s dead—you can’t save me from that.”
“Save you from the orphanage, of course. If I wasn’t here, that’s where you’d be. Because God knows you can’t count on dear old Dad. You know, our dad. Or, as I like to call him now, inmate number 24491. The one who left me and my mom for your mom. That’s a whole two years I’ll never get back, by the way, so you could be a little more grateful.” Her voice cracks, and she turns back to the front seat, dropping her sunglasses back down over her eyes.
“They don’t even have orphanages anymore,” I spit. “Just foster homes. Rent-a-parents, right, Karen? You just have no idea at all what this is. At all.” Tears of anger and confusion spring to my eyes.
“Girls,” Karen says firmly. “Enough.”
Neither my sister nor I say anything. I hold my Boxes of Mom tighter and look down at my lap. The dad comment hurt. I’d never really thought, in all my years of hoping for a dad, thinking about him, that he might actually have another family, a kid even—one who might have gotten really hurt, too.
And here she is, in front of me.
And I’m pretty sure she hates me.
She hates me, I text to Cake. This is all horrible.
She doesn’t! You’re un-hateable. Relax. Give her a chance.
Karen says quietly, “Girls. I don’t think this is a good conversation to have right now. Let’s all take a deep breath, get some food, get back to Tiger’s house, and begin the transition into the home space.”
I mumble, “I never even knew him. It’s not my fault.”
Shayna frowns. “Yeah,” she said. “Well, I did know him. We had a whole little family and then your mom came along and kaboom.” She flutters her fingers and turns to the window.
It suddenly seems like my mom’s life before me left an awful lot of wreckage. It’s like I feel guilty now for something I had nothing to do with.
How to Make Friends with the Dark Page 18