Appearances

by Sondra Helene

  “He’s not part of us,” Jake persists. “He doesn’t belong in this family.”

  I shake my head and take a gulp of wine. “He won’t go near you, don’t worry.” It’s as if Jake can be sure of his place in the family only if Richard is excluded.

  Jake downs the rest of his drink. He pulls out his wallet and slaps down two $20 bills. He purses his lips tightly, as if to prevent himself from saying something he may later regret.

  “I agree that Richard’s behavior has been upsetting,” I say. “He’s hurt Elizabeth, he’s offended you. But you have given it right back to him every time,” I say.

  “I can’t listen to this,” he says.

  “You can’t make me feel guilty just for being married to him.”

  “I have to go,” Jake says. “Tell Richard to keep his distance.”

  FOR THREE DAYS, Elizabeth drifts into and out of sleep. The fourth morning is the day that hospice has prepared us for, when Elizabeth no longer acknowledges me. The night nurse, Kathy, tells me to summon David in New York because it’s time. They control her morphine drip. I stay at my sister’s bed all day and at 6:00 p.m. tell Jake that I’ll be back in an hour. I rush home to feed Alexandra and the dogs.

  “Take your time,” Jake says. “I need to be alone with Elizabeth. I promise I’ll call you if anything seems imminent.”

  I prepare dinner but can’t eat. I open my book but can’t concentrate to read. I think about Elizabeth, barely conscious, her legs stiff like rails, her panting. I turn on the TV, but nothing distracts me. I want to be with my sister.

  I check in with Jake at midnight. “Nothing’s changed,” he says.

  “I want to come over,” I say.

  “I told you, I’ll call you when it’s time,” he says.

  Just two hours later, the phone rings. I grab it.

  “Hello,” I say, too loudly.

  “I’m sorry, she’s gone. Will you call your parents?” Jake asks.

  Pain pierces my heart. “What? You waited?” I’m furious that he didn’t call sooner. I wanted to be there, for us all to experience it together, to have closure.

  I drag myself into Alexandra’s room, sit on the side of her bed, and kiss her awake. She looks at me, and she knows. We embrace for what feels like three long minutes.

  AS SOON AS I step into Elizabeth’s darkened room, where I have spent so many of my days and nights, I feel the difference, the absence of life. Elizabeth’s body is there, but not her presence. I turn on the lamp and see her gray-cast skin. Her arm is limp. Her forehead, when I kiss it, is already cold.

  Alexandra, David, and I huddle.

  “My poor baby,” my mother says, sobbing.

  “My Elizabeth,” my father cries.

  My parents bend down and kiss their daughter. They can’t stop touching her, and my heart aches for them. My father speaks as if in a private language, his voice muffled and caressing, inaudible to the rest of us. Brooke and Lauren are stiff, wincing, following every movement with their eyes. When I hug them, they pull away and retreat to the bedrooms, quiet and stricken. Their biggest fears have become a brutal reality. Right now everything hurts, and they just want to be alone.

  Jake paces the hallway, avoiding everyone. How dare he not allow us the opportunity to be with her when she died?

  I confront him in the hallway. “How dare you not call me! You promised.”

  “I didn’t think the kids could handle screaming or crying,” he says. “She died peacefully, with us.”

  “Hurtful,” I say, and walk back in the bedroom.

  I remain with Elizabeth for an hour, until the undertaker arrives to transport her to the funeral home. In the Jewish religion, the belief is that the soul does not depart the body until it is buried, and that there should always be someone with the body until the funeral. This person, known as a Shomer, or honor guard, will remain with my sister and pray for her soul. I never appreciated the tradition until now. I can’t imagine Elizabeth being alone all night in a strange, cold place.

  When they carry my sister out, I make sure that she is placed in the hearse respectfully. We are all there, with nothing to say.

  An hour later, Alexandra and I go home. I put my daughter back to bed, and at 8:00 a.m. I phone Richard.

  “My sister died,” I say. I can hear my own exhaustion.

  “I’ll be right there,” he says.

  Elizabeth’s life is over. I am still alive.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When Richard arrives, I try to nap, dozing for an hour. The phone rings constantly, and Richard answers. I can’t bear to speak to anyone.

  Later, Richard goes in to the office and Alexandra and I meet my family and the rabbi at the Gordons’, all stillness and silence in Elizabeth’s house. I still can’t believe this is happening. I sit alone at the kitchen counter with my laptop and compose Elizabeth’s obituary for the Boston Globe and Jewish Advocate.

  Nearby, Lauren paces, wearing her pink Red Sox cap low like her father, covering her swollen eyes. My father can’t stop sighing. David is a pale ghost. Whenever Jake walks by, my stomach constricts with tension. Did he hold her hand when she took her last breath? Did he wake the kids or let them sleep? In the end, Jake excluded us, Elizabeth’s family of origin, for a definition of family just like Richard’s. This hypocrisy enrages me. I force myself to keep tapping the keys, knowing that I will never again be the same person.

  Rabbi Goldberg helps us choreograph the funeral, to decide who will speak, in what order. He asks detailed questions about Elizabeth for his eulogy. I praise her inner strength and maternal fierceness. How she lobbied for nut-free tables at school lunches and nut-free cakes for birthday parties to pro tect Brooke and her classmates with peanut allergies. I describe a love of different cultures that Elizabeth was just beginning to cultivate. The year before she got sick, she and Jake traveled in Europe, and she couldn’t stop raving about Italy, the Vatican, and Tuscan wine. In Paris it was the lure of the Eiffel Tower, the fashion, and eating the creamiest brie. “It’s the only reliable way to know other people,” Elizabeth had said, “to see them in their own environment.” I had coached her in French before her trip. “Répétez apr’es mol,” I said. Je voudrais un crossaint, sil vous plait.” With Italian, she was on her own.

  I tell Rabbi Goldberg that Elizabeth was a devoted wife, beyond loyal. That she and I wanted to share as much of our lives as we could. I wail that none of this was supposed to happen. Elizabeth was never supposed to die at forty-six.

  He takes detailed notes before interviewing my parents, Jake, and my brother.

  That evening, Alexandra and I are home when Richard returns, our eyes red from crying. “I brought dinner,” he says, giving us each a hug. “So terrible.” Terrible was when I found out the diagnosis, terrible was watching my sister suffer and decline. That she died isn’t terrible—it’s unthinkable.

  “Brooke and Lauren . . . ,” I say, trailing off. The children’s loss is something that I know Richard can empathize with.

  “Children should never have to lose their mother,” he says. It’s the first time he has ever expressed sympathy for Elizabeth’s kids. He seems sincere. But he could just as well be speaking for himself. Alexandra wraps her arms around my waist.

  “What else can I do?” Richard asks, plating grilled steaks and asparagus from Mastro’s—a nice touch. I sit with Richard and Alexandra, but I can manage only a few bites. I pull the cork on a bottle of cabernet and pour.

  “Will you handle calling Harrison and your sisters about the funeral?” I ask, and he does so right after dinner. I hear Richard dial his son, who will take the first shuttle up from New York. Then he calls each of his sisters to say that Elizabeth has passed away. I can’t stand those words. Passed away? Passing what? Away where? I fume at Richard’s language but concede that there’s no easy way to say someone has died. What really angers me is not the words but the fact that she’s not coming back. For the first of many times, I close my eyes and fi
x Elizabeth in my mind so that I’ll never forget her. But instead of birthdays and celebrations, I remember only chemo and radiation, her hair falling out, her wide, childlike eyes.

  When Richard asks to stay over, I say yes. We can travel to the funeral together. As a precaution, he arrived with his suit in the car.

  After dinner, Richard tidies the kitchen, slots dishes in the dishwasher. He attempts to soothe me in bed, but I lie on my back, hollowed, trying to conjure up Elizabeth.

  I travel through memories of her and me as young mothers, our walks around the reservoir, birthday celebrations, our daily conversations—what they say flashes before your eyes when you die. Instead, my sister’s life flashes before my eyes when she dies. It’s an aspect of her death that, even though I knew it was coming, I didn’t fully face: that part of me would also have to die. The night lasts forever, but then morning, the rest of my life, comes too soon.

  I open one eye on the chilly April sunlight, hearing the clicks and chirps of birds in the early dawn. I must get up to bury my sister, but I’m immobile with despair.

  I gather strength, walk into the bathroom, and see the mirror. I summon Elizabeth’s presence to fill the space around me. I tell her how much I miss her already, and that, although we never managed to talk about her funeral when she was sick, hundreds of people in our community today will mourn her. David’s friends from New York are traveling as I speak, along with my parents’ friends, and Richard’s, and mine, many of these circles overlapping, their addresses stretching to Florida.

  I wake Richard and Alexandra and make a cup of coffee downstairs. Alexandra eats Special K, and Richard downs a glass of orange juice. On autopilot, we put on our black suits and drive five minutes to the funeral at Congregation Shalom Alechem.

  We are ushered into the private, gold-carpeted, walnutpaneled chapel in the temple. In attendance: Jake, Brooke, and Lauren; my parents; David, Jill, Justin, and Brittany; Richard, Harrison, Alexandra, and me. An uneasy silence pervades the chapel, broken by my mother’s sudden sobs. My father’s arm hangs limply on her shoulder, his face stricken with grief. We find our seats.

  The Gordons are seated in front of us. Brooke and Lauren gaze at the floor. Jake turns and, to my disbelief, catches Richard’s eye. “Happy?” he mouths.

  Richard looks at me and whispers, “Do you see this?”

  “Not now,” I say.

  Justin and Brittany sit on either side of David to our right, each hanging on to their dad. The children are old enough to act somber but young enough that they are still distracted by curiosity; their heads are on swivels. Jill sits next to Justin and directs his attention forward.

  Aunts and uncles, too, file into the private chapel, as well as my cousins, whom I see about twice a year, and both of Jake’s brothers and his parents. Twenty of us. We sit on wooden folding chairs, facing each other, waiting. Unlike other funerals, we take no visitors.

  Richard reaches for my hand. I try to say with my eyes that I am grateful he is here. Despite what I told Jake, I struggled with whether I would dishonor Elizabeth by bringing Richard to her funeral, but I do not regret my decision.

  Jake’s reaction to Richard also bothers me less than I would have thought. Ten days ago, he ran twenty-six miles in less than three hours, a photo of his wife taped to his jersey, but Elizabeth only resented it.

  Rabbi Goldberg enters the chapel fringed with a tallit. He’s used to presiding over funerals and comforting families, but less often someone so young. Listening to the rabbi review the details of the service, I feel embraced to have him on our mourning path.

  As the private service is about to begin, I obsess about Elizabeth’s final moments. How I long to ask my sister about the manner in which Jake cared for her in her lonely time of need. I even go so far as to rehearse how I would ask about it, and then I gasp, realizing she isn’t here.

  Richard clears his throat. He motions that the rabbi needs my attention. Indeed, the rabbi is standing in front of me with black ribbons trickling from his fist. Rabbi Goldberg helps Jake, in front of me, fasten one to his blazer. Three-inch black ribbons symbolize the traditional rending of one’s clothing to show bereavement. In Orthodox law, you are supposed to tear part of your clothing and wear that same garment for the next seven days. As suburban conservative Jews, however, we tear the black ribbons and wear them during the seven days we sit shiva.

  Rabbi Goldberg calls the names of those of us seated behind the front rows. We are recognized because of our proximity to the deceased: we are her first-degree relatives. Elizabeth’s husband, Elizabeth’s daughters, Elizabeth’s mother, father, brother, and sister. I receive a black ribbon. Richard does not. The ribbons identify those of us whose grief is the sharpest, who will remember the longest. Religion finally answers the question that I have been grappling with, honoring the distinctions of family that Elizabeth and I held most dear.

  “Feel blessed that you had each other,” the rabbi says when he fastens my ribbon. His gesture feels nothing short of holy. My mourning period has officially begun, and I doubt it will ever be over.

  The rabbi chants a short prayer. I tear the ribbon.

  Elizabeth’s body lies in the next room. At the casket, I ask how it feels to be shut up in a wooden box. I ask when she’s coming back, despite myself. As close as I was to my grandparents, when they died I was not compelled to comfort their cold bodies; they had lived full lives. It’s obvious that my mind cannot yet make sense of my young sister being dead.

  When it’s time to proceed into the main sanctuary, where we will have the public memorial, I put on my sunglasses. Richard takes my hand, and Jake sneers as we stand there, waiting for our family to gather, as if we’re some kind of affront. Maybe now that he’s lost Elizabeth, Jake will begrudge us our marriage even more intensely, warts and all. With my free hand, I reach for Alexandra and pull her close.

  To begin the funeral, the twenty of us linked by blood and marriage will process from the chapel into the main sanctuary. Behind the surviving Gordons and my parents, I will walk with Richard, Alexandra, and Harrison. The service will begin with Elizabeth’s favorite Hebrew song. When the cantor takes his seat on the bimah, the rabbi will eulogize my sister. Then Brooke, David, and I will be called upon to speak.

  The main sanctuary holds nine hundred people, and there isn’t an empty seat. The surreality of my sister’s death persists, and I go numb. I avoid eye contact with all of my extended family, friends, community, and business associates—until I see the dark frames and endearing jug-handle ears of Dr. Hamilton, the man Elizabeth spent so much of her time with.

  We take our seats in the second row behind my parents, Jake, Brooke, and Lauren. I plaster myself between Richard and Alexandra, hip to hip. “I love you, Mommy,” Alexandra whispers, and I kiss her on the forehead.

  The cantor commences the service from the back of the sanctuary with the Hebrew “L’dor V’dor,” “Generation to Generation.” His voice is rich, his chanting sure, but I already feel robbed. If this song about life passing peacefully from generation to generation were accurate, my parents wouldn’t be burying their daughter and Elizabeth’s children wouldn’t still be children.

  The rabbi stands, commanding attention with his silence. He includes a detail in his eulogy about the intimacy of Elizabeth’s marriage to Jake. “It was as if when she breathed in, he breathed out.”

  When the rabbi finishes, David, Brooke, and I approach the bimah together. I walk deliberately in my black heels, aware of everyone’s eyes. I climb three stairs to the pulpit and gather my strength. I stare into the audience, speaking in a steady, somber voice.

  “Hello, everyone. Thank you all for coming. Your presence here today, your support throughout the past two and a half years, your cards, flowers, gifts, calls, lunches, dinners, and, most important, your heartfelt compassion for our family during this most sorrowful time, have been invaluable. My sister, Elizabeth, and I had a special bond. I loved her deeply from the day she was born t
o the day she died.” I pause, and bring a tissue to my eye.

  “We each had only one sister.” I go on to describe our childhood, Elizabeth’s education, her love of family, our symbiosis, and our lack of sibling rivalry.

  Before this vast audience, I then address my parents, risking that I will cry: “Mom and Dad, I’m so sorry you have lost Elizabeth. She was my sister, but she was your baby. She had so much more than half a life to give. In our hearts, she lives forever.”

  I sit on the bimah. Next, David gives his remarks. He describes Caribbean vacations with Elizabeth, how she hammered him for every detail about his children, how he will miss her terribly. “Because of Elizabeth and Samantha, I have three mothers,” David says, and sits.

  My niece, Brooke, who just turned seventeen, now stands. In her black suit and stilettos, she’s suddenly a young adult, so different from the ninth-grade adolescent whose mother was diagnosed. Brooke’s shiny black hair blends with her suit; I recognize for the first time her womanly build. Lauren resembles Elizabeth much more, physically, than her sister does with her big blue eyes and light brown hair. But as Brooke delivers her eulogy, I recognize so much of Elizabeth’s own sensitivity and loyalty.

  I glance over at Lauren and see that she’s hanging on to her sister’s every word. She wonders who will help her pack for college, who will plan her wedding. Brooke begins to cry, but I don’t, even though her speech is raw and painful.

  On the bimah, facing everyone in the synagogue, I feel my skin stinging, like Tom Tam is putting pins in my arms. From my vantage, it’s all tears and tissues. Mascara streaks Robin’s and Jane’s faces. The men cry into their handkerchiefs or simply stare off, looking grave and bewildered. Not even God will say why this happened.

  When the funeral ends, I again hide behind my sunglasses.

  We are ushered into three black limos for the trip to the cemetery. Richard, Alexandra, Harrison, and I ride with my aunt and uncle, my father’s sister and her husband. There’s a police escort and, following our limos, at least a hundred cars holding friends, family, locals, and business partners.