by Risa Green
Lindsay nods apologetically. “I got it,” she says. She pulls her fingers across her lips as if to zip them, then throws away the imaginary key. “Not a problem. I’m sorry.”
I know that she really is sorry, and when she reaches out to hug me, I hug her back, holding on for longer than I mean to. I sniffle into Lindsay’s shoulder, and she pats me gently on the back.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I know you really loved her.”
I wipe my eyes as I finally pull away from her. I notice that Samantha is looking at me now, in the same hesitating way that Lindsay did.
“Now what?” I ask.
“Well, um, do you think it would also be inappropriate if I asked your dad not to play his Barry Manilow CD in the car?”
We all laugh—even me.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Lindsay asks one more time before heading down the stairs.
“I’m fine,” I lie, trying to reassure her. Samantha cocks an eyebrow at me in disbelief. “I’m fine,” I say again. “Now go on, go, my dad’s waiting.”
The two of them disappear down the staircase, and as soon as they’re gone, I run into my room, fling myself onto the bed, and silently sob into my pillow.
Five
I can’t sleep at all. Every time I close my eyes, all I can see is my aunt: her skeleton lit up from inside her body, her hair standing on end, like something out of an old Tom and Jerry cartoon. I toss and turn for a few hours, listening to the rain beating down on the roof above me and watching the clock change from eleven to twelve, and then from twelve to one in the morning. All the while, my brain is racing. Why did Aunt Kiki and my mother stop talking? And why didn’t she ever call me? How come I don’t know more about her life, other than the bad, silly messes she always found herself in?
I sit up and throw the covers off of me. This is useless. I’m never going to be able to sleep.
The light is on in the kitchen. When I walk in, I find my mother at the counter, sipping a cup of herbal tea.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey,” she says back. “Can’t sleep?”
I shake my head.
“Me neither. Want a cup of tea? Or I could heat up some milk for you.”
I look at the floor. “Could I have some tea milk?” I ask sheepishly.
When I was little, like four or five, I used to have these crazy scary nightmares—like Friday the 13th kind of stuff (even though I had never seen it or watched anything like it)—and my mom would give me a drink she called tea milk to calm me down. It’s half tea, half milk, and a ton of sugar. Now that I think about it, it’s basically the same thing as those chai lattes that I get from the Coffee Bean. Only, a chai latte costs four bucks and sounds a lot cooler than tea milk.
“I haven’t made that for you in years.” Mom reaches out her hand to smooth my hair down. “I would love to make you some tea milk.”
I watch her as she goes about the process. From the back, she looks a lot like my aunt. Same height, same build, same hair color. I can feel the tears welling up again, and I reach across the counter to pull a tissue out of the box. When I sniffle, my mom turns.
“Oh, sweetie, I know this is hard.” She hesitates. “You know…I can never decide if it’s better for the family for a loved one to go suddenly or for it to be long and slow. Because when it’s long and slow, you get to tell them all the things you need to say, but then you have to watch them suffer. And when it’s sudden, there’s no suffering, but then you don’t—” Her voice breaks, and she starts to cry again before she can finish her sentence. She takes a deep breath and recovers. “There are just so many things I never got to say to her.”
“What happened between the two of you?” I ask. The question tumbles out of my mouth before I can stop it.
Mom puts my tea milk down in front of me and then sits down with a sigh.
“I’m not sure. I just always felt like she refused to grow up. She never got a real job, she never got married, never had kids. She just lived her life without any responsibility. Which is fine, but…she didn’t have any regard for anyone else. And I felt like I always had to clean up her messes.”
I nod. I’ve heard the stories a million times before. But Mom wants to tell them again, and for once, I don’t want to stop her. All I want to talk about is Aunt Kiki right now. If venting about her helps Mom to feel better too, then I’m all for it.
“When she got arrested for peyote possession, I bailed her out. When the Chinese government kicked her out of the country, I was the one who arranged for her transportation home. When she got bitten by a monkey in Costa Rica, I was the one who called the hospital and made sure that she got all of the shots she needed. But it didn’t go both ways—” She pauses and manages a sad smile. “You know all this.”
“It’s okay.”
“But it wasn’t,” Mom counters. “Kiki never did anything to help me. Do you remember when grandma broke her hip a few years ago? I had to take care of her for three months, even though I have a full-time job and a family. And Kiki…she was off doing yoga at an ashram in India, and she was completely unreachable. It was infuriating.”
“But you always fought about things like that,” I remind her. “What happened to make you stop speaking to her?”
She sighs and puts her hand on top of mine. “Oh, Erin. I didn’t stop speaking to her. She stopped speaking to me. One day I called her and she just never called me back. I left her message after message, and I emailed, and I sent her a letter. I even tried to go over there a few times to see her in person. But she refused to see me. And I have no idea what I did. It’s like one day she just decided that she didn’t want anything to do with us anymore. I never told you because I didn’t want you to be hurt. I know how much you loved her.”
What? I am horrified. I had always just assumed that it was all Mom’s fault. But for Aunt Kiki to stop calling us…calling me? To just cut off contact like that for no reason? I can understand why she might not want to talk to Mom—God knows, I have been on the receiving end of my mother’s nagging. But Kiki always told me that she loved me like I was her own daughter, and I believed her.
This changes everything, though. Now I don’t know what to believe.
Six
I’ve never been to a memorial service before, but I can tell you with the utmost confidence that this memorial service is not normal. I mean, we are talking freak show here. We are talking Weirdness with a capital W.
First of all, my parents and I and about fifty other people are sitting in my aunt’s living room. Which would be fine, except for the fact that all of the furniture has been removed and we’re sitting on the floor. In a circle. Holding hands. And to make it even creepier, the lights have all been turned off, the curtains have all been drawn, and there are candles in all four corners of the room. In the middle of the circle sits the urn holding my aunt’s ashes. All they need is dry ice and the sounds of chains clanking and people moaning and it would be an awesome setting for the B-movie version of a haunted house.
On one side of me is my mother, and on the other side of me is a man who is a dead ringer for Jerry Garcia. He’s wearing a black leather motorcycle vest with a Hells Angels patch on it. And did I mention that we are holding hands? My father, who is on the other side of my mother, is holding hands with a woman dressed in a flowing, flowery sleeveless number. The woman has a giant graphic tattoo on her arm of a mother breast-feeding two babies at the same time.
Then there’s the woman leading the service. She’s wearing a long black robe, her eyes are abnormally large, and her gray wiry hair is sticking up everywhere—as if she were struck by lightning. (Sorry. Bad joke.) She could pass either for a judge hopped up on amphetamines or a substitute teacher at the Hogwarts School.
I’m also really uncomfortable (physically, that is), because my mother said that I had to wear a dress and high heels, and now. I’m
having a hard time figuring out how to sit on the floor without flashing my underwear to the man sitting across from me in the circle (who, incidentally, has a gray ponytail and is missing four fingers on his left hand).
But the worst part is that I’m too distracted by the oddity of it all to feel anything.
The lady in the robe keeps talking about my aunt Kate, saying really nice things about her…and I keep glancing over at my mom to see if she’s going to start crying again. But she doesn’t, and I wonder if she’s feeling the same way I am. I look past my mom over to my dad, but I have to turn away because I can tell that he’s trying really hard not to crack up—and I know that if he catches my eye, we’ll both burst out laughing. I don’t want to be disrespectful. Although, Jerry Garcia’s palm is really sweaty, and I am wondering if it would be considered disrespectful if I were to let go of it and wipe my hand on my dress.
“Will everyone now please rise,” says the lady in the black robe. “One at a time, take your turn to speak to our beloved Kate. Tell her whatever you need to. Help her in her journey into death.”
Jerry Garcia smiles at me and drops my hand as he stands up. Oh, thank God. I notice, however, that he has tears in his eyes, and I wonder how he knew Kiki. Actually, I wonder how any of these people knew Kiki.
The lady in the robe approaches the urn and kneels down next to it.
“Kate,” she says to the urn, “I wish you peace in the afterlife. May you be reborn into a better world.” She walks over to an empty spot on the floor and sits down, cross-legged. I notice that under her black robe, she’s wearing jeans and Birkenstocks. Her toenails are yellow, gnarled, and unpolished, and I’m sorry that I even looked at them.
Everyone else has stood up and is now in line, waiting to talk to my aunt’s ashes, except for me, my mom, and my dad. I started to stand up when the lady in the robe said that we should, but my mom gave me a look of death, so I sat right back down. Now she’s staring straight ahead. Her teeth are gritted and her face is a deep shade of red. I recognize that face. It’s the same face she made when I was ten and I captured a squirrel and brought it into the house because I wanted it to be our family pet.
“What do we do?” I finally whisper to her.
“We sit here,” she hisses. “And when this ridiculousness is over, we will take my sister’s ashes, and we will go home and have a proper memorial service for her. In a church. With chairs.”
So that’s what’s bothering her. It isn’t the ceremony itself, it’s that she’s not in charge. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Jerry Garcia is next in line. When he kneels down to take his turn, I strain to hear him. There are obviously a lot of things about Kiki that I didn’t know, but I can’t really imagine her as a bad-ass motorcycle chick.
“Kate,” Jerry Garcia says, dabbing at his eyes. “I will never forget how good you were to my Sadie. When she was a kitten and she broke her little paw…” His voice breaks, and the guy behind him pats him on the shoulder. “You just fed her from that eyedropper and you were so patient.” He pauses again to get control of himself. “We’re really going to miss you. You were a very special lady.”
He stands up and hugs the guy behind him, sobbing into his shoulder. Huh. I definitely was not expecting a kitten story from the Hells Angels guy. That’ll teach me to judge a book by its cover.
I listen to a few more people talk to my aunt—
“Kate, I hope they have tofurkey bacon in heaven, I know how much you loved it…”
“Kate, thank you for showing me that meditation can give me a better high than mushrooms, or even LSD…”
“Kate, if you ever want to send a sign that you’re with me, just blow out three candles, and that way I’ll know it’s you…”
—but then I tune them out and focus instead on trying not to let my empty stomach grumble too loudly.
Finally, when everyone has taken their turn and sat back down in the circle, the lady in the robe stands and moves back to the middle.
“Journey on now, my sister Kate. We will follow when we can. May you be born again at the same time and in the same place as those you knew and loved in this life. May you know them again and love them again.”
She lights a candle resting on a tall pillar, and then she picks up the urn and walks slowly out of the room. When she’s gone, everyone else stands up and follows her, except for me and my parents. We just look at each other, not quite knowing what to say.
“Even for Aunt Kooky, that was pretty out there,” Dad finally mutters.
My mom takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “She’s dead, Peter. Must you keep calling her that?” Then she straightens out her jacket and dusts off the back of her skirt. “I’m going to get my sister’s ashes,” she says with resolve. “I’ll meet you at the car in twenty minutes.” She walks out of the room, leaving my dad and me there by ourselves. I look at my watch. It’s almost 3:00.
“I’m starving,” I say to him. “Do you think there’s food out there?”
“Tofu, maybe,” he says, sulking a little after getting yelled at by my mom. “But I don’t know if there’s any food.”
Seven
As soon as we step into the dining room, my father is surrounded by a group of people who want to hear stories about my aunt Kate from before they knew her. I somehow manage to slip by unnoticed. I wander over to the buffet table to see if there’s anything I can scarf down quickly before my mother comes back and drags us to the car by our hair. I do a quick scan of the table: carrot sticks, celery sticks, some fruit, aha! Bagels and cream—no wait, that’s tofu cream cheese. Whatever. I’m so hungry right now I would eat a tofu horse if that’s all there was.
I scrape some of the faux cream cheese onto my plate, and as I reach for a bagel, I notice the picture hanging on the wall above the table. It’s a poster of a Thomas Hirschhorn sculpture titled Camo-Outgrowth, my aunt’s favorite work of art. The piece is made up of about fifty or sixty globes, sticking out horizontally from the wall, each one partially covered in camouflage. It’s always hung there, but with the furniture all moved around, it looks strangely out of place. I stare at the poster, and for the first time today my throat tightens and my eyes begin to sting. I remember when Aunt Kiki bought it, right after the piece had been installed at the county art museum. She’d said it was “haunting her.” So she went back and bought the poster, and every time I came to visit her she had come up with another explanation for what it was supposed to mean. I must have spent a good twenty hours of my life talking about that poster with her. In fact, it was the sole reason why I decided to take AP Art History this year.
Someone taps my shoulder, startling me.
When I spin around I find a thin, petite woman with very pale skin and very dark hair standing in front of me. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, but her face is otherwise pretty. She’s older, but not as old as my mom. Mid-thirties, maybe. She’s holding a small, brown cardboard box.
“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Her voice is calm and steady, and I recognize it instantly. She’s the one who called the other day.
“That’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m Erin,” I announce, holding out my hand.
“I know. I’m Roni.” She shifts the box to her left hand and shakes my hand with her right. Her skin is smooth and cool. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.” I hesitate for a moment. “Were you and my aunt close?” It’s obvious that they were, but I don’t know what else to say to her. It’s not like I can be all, Hey, was that the weirdest freaking memorial service you’ve ever been to or what?
“Kate was my best friend,” Roni says, her eyes beginning to water again. “She loved you very much, you know.”
I want to ask Roni, Then why didn’t she call me for an entire year? But I’m worried that if I open my mouth, I’ll cry too, and I won’t be able to stop.
&nbs
p; She holds the box out toward me. “She wanted you to have this.”
“What is it?” I manage to croak, without taking it from her.
“You’ll see,” she says. She reaches out and places the box in my hands. “Just please, don’t open it until you’re alone. It was very important to Kate that you not open it until you’re alone.”
I shrug. “Okay. Um…thanks.”
She attempts a smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace. As if even her mouth muscles are too sad to make the full effort. “And here,” she says, taking a piece of paper out of the back pocket of her jeans. “This is my phone number. Call me when you’re ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“When you’re ready, you’ll know.” With that, she turns around and walks back into the crowd.
I look down at the piece of paper she handed me.
Roni, 555-9436. When you’re ready.
At that moment, my mother comes barreling toward me, with my father following behind. Her face is even redder than before, and I can tell that she’s been crying.
“Come on,” she says, grabbing my arm. “We’re leaving.”
“Can I just eat my bagel?” I ask. “I’m starv—”
“Take it in the car,” she orders. “Now.” She pulls on my arm and I have to almost run to keep up with her.
“Where’s the urn?” I whisper loudly as we snake through the crowd of people toward the front door.
“They won’t let me have it,” my mother states. Her voice is even and matter-of-fact. She’s gone into doctor mode. “Apparently, Kate instructed in her will that her best friend was to keep it. They even had a lawyer here, ready to stop me in case I tried to take it.” She swallows hard. This is hurting her. A lot. What was my aunt so angry about? Why did she want it to be this way?
When we get to the car, I realize that I’m still holding the box. My parents are so upset that neither one of them even notices. I slide into the backseat and place it on the floor next to me. I’m tempted to open it now during the drive home. But then I remember what Roni said. I look at it again. It’s just a plain old, regular cardboard box. There’s no writing on it, no label, nothing to give me a clue as to what is inside.