Magnetism

  ‘Coffee?’ she suggests, and then the funeral director appears and says that we might have this together; he’s ready for a cup as well.

  This stranger in his dull black suit tells me his name is Andy. We shake hands and he says it will be more comfortable to sit side by side on the couch than opposite at his desk. We are to begin the conversation about what needs to be done and I hope that this is the best possible funeral home. My mother deserves the best. Gus’s recommendation doesn’t mean I have to keep Mom here. I remind myself that I can still take my business elsewhere because nothing to do with this is yet final. If Andy is not up to this – if this place is no good, if his ugly couch is uncomfortable, or if that girl says something stupid again – I will go elsewhere. I’m not worried about the cost. Although I want an efficient service, I want one that she would be pleased with.

  ‘My mother’s friend Gus recommended you,’ I say. ‘So, I thought I should see what we need to do.’

  Andy again beckons me to sit down and plonks himself beside me. Then he pats my hand. The contact stings for some reason and I pull back from him, but he’s just trying to be nice and I’m afraid I might have offended him. I presume the bereaved are supposed to be grateful for all attempts at comfort, so I try to explain. ‘I know you’re being kind.’ The sound of my voice surprises me. ‘I’m not myself,’ I say. ‘My brain isn’t working right.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ he says. ‘These are unusual circumstances.’

  For me, not him, I think. We get back to the task at hand and there is sincere sympathy behind his blank patience as he waits for me to make a decision, any decision. I look at pictures from his brochure and laptop, and examples of the printed information they provide, and then in the display room I touch the various woods he has on show. The problem is that I can’t decide on anything. He is infinitely patient and I sense no irritation and this, finally, makes my choice clear. This is the place that she’ll stay, and he will do this. ‘Andy, why don’t you choose for me?’ I say. ‘You know what you’re doing. You must do this all the time and I don’t.’

  He said he understands and suggests moderate pricing for everything. Not too much. Not too little. Not too dark, not too light. But nothing will be just right, ever again.

  There are notices to compose for the papers and then forms to sign and, every time he passes me a pen and points to where, I obey, writing my name more illegibly each time. I disappear in my signature. I discover that death is a whole load of business and with every dotted line money is leaking. I calculate the additions to my credit card balance. Then he begins to explain the marathon of hoops to jump through. He hands me the death certificate to check, after suggesting that I should order more as I will need a number of copies at twenty dollars each – ‘the bank will want one, the insurance, the house’. I glance at it. They’ve marked ‘natural causes’, no further details.

  ‘Gus said she had a stroke,’ I say. ‘They’ve left that out, and the age recorded is wrong,’ I say. ‘This section. Here.’ I point. ‘She was seventy-four, not eighty-two.’

  ‘Well, that’s the hospital. I didn’t realise she was seventy-four.’ He’s genuinely puzzled. ‘We can get this changed. It needs to be accurate. I’ll give them a call.’ He pauses. ‘In fact, I’ll get Jeannie to do this while we finalise things. ‘I don’t think it will hold things up.’

  He leaves me a moment to ask this Jeannie to do this while we talk, and I look around at the furnishings in the room. It is all very tasteful: beige wall-to-wall carpeting, deep maroon chairs, and three oversized Davenports. Heavy drapes. He’s told me that sixty people can attend a visitation here comfortably. They don’t allow food or drink, but they can provide coffee and water near the entrance. We’ve decided on a closed casket. The funeral can take place here too, but I’ll leave this until I meet Gus’s pastor. She wasn’t religious – even when she attended church she went with barrels of cynicism – but I mustn’t hurry. I’d like everything done; I’d like it all over and in the past; but that’s impossible. This is something to get through, and right now I have to accept that lots of things will remain on hold for a while.

  When he comes back he tells me that the hospital admissions records indicate that the age on the death certificate is correct and that the cause of death being noted as natural is standard.

  ‘But she wasn’t that age.’

  He says that numerous hospital records confirm that this is actually my mother’s age. ‘Some funny mix-up.’ Andy sounds embarrassed as he tells me this. ‘I guess it happens.’

  ‘But my mother wouldn’t lie to me.’

  He doesn’t reply. He turns his sympathetic look towards the floor.

  Eventually I say, ‘Well, I guess it doesn’t change anything.’ But in the cab on the way back to her house, I begin to consider how much it does change. Why would she lie to me?

  By the time the pastor arrives at the house in the afternoon, I’ve gone past feeling confused. I am angry because her lying about her age – even though I was bound to find out eventually – shouldn’t be a surprise. It’s typical of our relationship. I’m the one who doesn’t understand, who can’t keep up with what she’s got going on. And the one who has to deal with the fallout. Like today. Like now. I’m made to feel an idiot, and someone not even worth the truth.

  When the doorbell goes, I’m in her bedroom. I’ve considered her unmade bed and the piles of Target trash and cheap keepsakes on the cabinet against the wall. In her bathroom there are piles of half-used and discarded tubes of cosmetics and a dental floss container that didn’t make it as far as the empty trash can. The sink is filthy with make-up and toothpaste spills. The toilet, too, is stained and will need a proper clean. I shut the door carefully and take my time walking along the hallway to the door.

  Gus’s pastor has long grey hair tied in a ponytail but otherwise he’s wearing the costume of the office: a shiny black suit with a white priest’s collar at this neck. He tells me his name is Brandon and that he’s sorry for my loss.

  ‘Come in,’ I say. ‘The family room is through here.’

  He follows me. While I show him through the house, I think about what my mother might make of this man. Maybe she wouldn’t like him. He looks like an old hippy.

  ‘Gus was concerned that you need some support.’ He tells me this as he sits down, then he says, ‘So, why don’t you tell me about yourself.’

  ‘Let me get you a coffee or something.’

  ‘I’ll take a soda if you’ve got one.’

  She’s got two cans of Fresca in the icebox and I find two matching glasses.

  ‘Always liked Fresca,’ he says. ‘So, when did you leave Phoenix?’

  ‘Oh, long time ago now. I got married and my then husband and I left together.’

  ‘You’re not married now.’

  ‘No. No. Divorced.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘I never had children.’

  ‘Ah.’ The silence sits between us like a huge wall.

  ‘Do you have family?’ I ask.

  He nods and tells me that he has three children. The middle one has got problems, but she’s doing okay right now, he says. His wife works for the city.

  ‘Oh, I work for the city in Oklahoma, too.’

  ‘She likes it.’

  ‘So do I. I used to do events management for a commercial business in Tulsa – big auditorium events, you know? And then when I moved to Oklahoma City I saw a job advertised with the city that was pretty similar, organising tourism, shows and conventions in the Civic Center. It was more money, regular job, benefits, and I got promoted.’

  ‘You never thought about moving back here?’

  ‘No. Not seriously. Not really. No. My mom would have liked that, but I had my own life. She did too.’

  ‘So, this is really sad news for you, isn’t it?’

  It occurs to me that this is a really stupid thing to say; we are sitting here discussing my mother’s death. Of course. But, instead of telling h
im that or agreeing, I find myself telling him that I found out today that my mother was years older than I thought she was.

  ‘Do you think your dad knew? Gus said you lost your dad a while back.’

  ‘He had an accident.’

  ‘Here? At his work?’

  ‘No, not here. Not at work. It was at home, before she moved here. They had a big old house, but Mom wanted a single-storey house afterwards.’

  ‘How old was he when he had the accident?’

  ‘Well, I thought he was much older than her … but he wasn’t, I guess. Not very old, I guess. Too young to die, anyway.’

  ‘He was disabled?’

  ‘No, no. He died. He survived what happened but he couldn’t live and then he … he died … She just didn’t want anyone else to have an accident like he had so she wanted a ranch-style place.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ he says. ‘Gus said he didn’t know of any close friends. Do you know who will want to come to pay their respects?’

  ‘She had a few friends locally. I found her address book this morning and I’m going to phone around this evening, let people know, but none of her good friends live around here now.’

  ‘Well, making contact is good. It’ll help to bring your mother more present for you.’

  I think that this is an odd thing to say. My mother is so present now, she could walk into the room. In fact, it’s odd that she hasn’t walked in here and asked the two of us what the hell is going on. Suddenly I just blurt out, ‘Hey, listen. Can you do the funeral? Can you just do it? It would help. A lot.’

  He appears to be surprised. This is not what he’s expecting and right before I said it I didn’t know I was going to ask him, but it feels good to have done something. He tells me that he’s just come for me, not to talk about the funeral. Gus asked him to call in to meet with me, because I’ve not got any other family here in Phoenix. He asks if she had her own pastor, or if there’s some other church she might want to use for the funeral. ‘What’s her affiliation?’

  ‘She was originally a Catholic, but she wasn’t religious. We don’t have to go with that, do we?’

  ‘Ah, I see. No.’ And then he says he’ll be happy to do the funeral. I don’t care that I think he feels sorry for me.

  When he’s gone I abandon cleaning up Mom’s room and make a start at letting people know. I begin with the As in the address book and work my way through. It’s hard because I have to keep it together when I tell all these people what has happened, and I don’t really know what most of them were to Mom. Patty is listed by her previous married name, so that means I get to her when I reach the Ds.

  ‘Oh, honey,’ she says. ‘I haven’t seen your mother since the wedding and she was so sick then. Still came, though.’

  ‘Well, she wasn’t really ill. She was just … ’

  ‘And now she’s died. Lived on borrowed time, I guess. When is the funeral?’

  ‘We’ve not yet finalised it. I can let you know.’

  ‘Oh, yes, please do. Gary and I will be there for you.’

  Louelle’s surname is listed as Edwards. This, too, is her previous married name. I’m glad, though, because otherwise she’d be at the end of the book and I might not have the stamina to make it all the way to the Ys. She answers my call on the first ring. ‘Hey, honey,’ she says. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘It’s me, Louelle, not my mom. I’m phoning because I’ve got some bad news.’

  Immediately after I explain that Mom has died, she says, ‘I’m there for you.’ Minutes after I get off the phone, she phones me back to say she’s got a flight and will be here in two days’ time, at ten o’clock, and I say that I’ll pick her up at the airport.

  There’s a Frank listed under the Fs, but when I phone him he doesn’t seem to recollect my mom and is not interested when I tell him that she died. It makes me want to cry that he doesn’t remember her. My mother had two sisters but they both died a long time ago. I never knew them, and their names, addresses and numbers have been crossed through in the book. There is no reply to my call to Dad’s brother, Pete who is now my only blood relation. I leave a message on his voicemail. Then I put aside the address book and return to Mom’s room. I clean it to within an inch of bare and I move my stuff into there. Then I give the guest bedroom the same treatment in order to make it habitable for Mom’s best friend and, finally, I scrub the kitchen. By the time I’m done the house is gleaming and I’m exhausted but I still make my way all through the rest of the address book because if I don’t do it now, then I won’t ever do it.

  After this I take a look through my Mom’s supply of drugs. I choose one of her sleeping tablets and climb into her bed. Though I’ve washed all the clothes she’d dropped on the floor instead of in the laundry basket, I didn’t change the sheets.

  The adrenaline has vanished all together by the next morning. I can’t get up. Instead, I take another one of Mom’s sleeping pills as the sun comes up and when I eventually wake I just turn on the shopping channel and watch in bed until sufficient time passes to allow myself another pill. Instead of cooking, I phone take out and they deliver pizza. I finish off four bottles of wine in two days.

  On the morning that Louelle is due to arrive, I get up and shower and get out to the airport. She comes down the escalator wearing a cream kaftan, arms outstretched, like Jesus himself, ready to save me. She puts her arms around me and hugs me forever. In the car she tells me that she’ll field all the telephone calls and will arrange all the outstanding details of the funeral.

  Andy and Louelle talk. Gus’s pastor and Louelle talk. Gus finds someone from Mom’s Mah Jongg group who will say something at the funeral. This woman talks to Louelle and Louelle tells me that she will do a eulogy as well. Louelle phones Patty who will come, but says she can’t possibly say anything at the funeral. She is beside herself, Louelle says, and then laughs. ‘As if she could actually be beside herself,’ she says. ‘Last time I saw her she was the size of a small room.’

  Louelle takes the returned phone call from my uncle Pete and says that he can’t come – his wife is ill and he can’t leave her – but that he wants me to call him when I can. ‘He sounded concerned,’ she said. ‘He really wanted to talk to you. He’ll be a help.’

  ‘We haven’t seen him since Dad’s funeral. He did the eulogy because Mom wouldn’t let Jack do it. I don’t think she’s spoken to him since then.’

  ‘Well, maybe talk to him about what happened. You owe it to the future to try to make things in the past right, if you can.’

  ‘Mom was older than she told everyone. That was really shit.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ She looks sheepish. ‘Listen, your mother was embarrassed,’ she said. ‘She never got a high-school diploma, did you know that?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Well, I guess that made her feel defensive for a start. And, despite those two proud sisters – who did nothing to help except complain about their stepfather and younger sister – the family were really piss-poor. Your grandmother, her mother, died when your mom was not even twelve, and soon after that your grandfather ran off. As soon as she could your poor momma dropped out of school to work. She was way clever enough to stay on, but she couldn’t. It wasn’t that long after the Depression. She had to lie. I know she added years to her age so she could get a job and later on she subtracted them back, and in the process decided to drop a few extra. She was a bit vain, you know.’

  ‘She could have told me. She didn’t have to pretend with me.’

  ‘Maybe, but habits die hard, don’t they?’

  Louelle doesn’t stop me taking the pills. I see that she understands me and for the first time in my life I can sleep at will. Wonderfully, I sleep dreamlessly and wake in the same position as I settled down.

  On the morning of her cremation I kiss her waxy, meat-cold cheek knowing that it is the last time I will touch my mother. Louelle holds my hand and I say that Andy can now close the casket. It is okay, I say. It’s time. But, as I hear t
he sound of the heavy wood moving, I shut my eyes and long to be in there with her, curled up beside her forever instead of with Andy and Louelle, watching this dreadful thing happen.

  Then I allow the two of them to walk me through what has to be done; they guide me away from the casket and to my seat.

  Half an hour later people begin to arrive for the visitation. I speak only when spoken to but Louelle sits next to me and chatters up a storm to everyone who comes to pay their respects so that I don’t have to. Andy circulates and makes sure that everyone signs the condolence book.

  I realise he was right when he said that I’d find it hard to remember today. I’m forgetting it even as it happens.

  Louelle stays on with me for a week after the funeral. Though she is not motherly at all – in the past I wondered if she even likes her own daughter – she does mother me. She sits with me in silence, holding my hand, hugging me when I cry. She reminds me to brush my teeth and tells me to wash my hair. At one point I say, ‘I am motherless. I am an orphan.’

  ‘Now no need to go crazy,’ she says. ‘You’re a grown woman. You’ll be okay,’ which is the best thing to say, of course.

  ‘I just didn’t get enough of her.’

  We drink a lot and after a couple of days she insists that I get dressed in the mornings even though we don’t go out anywhere. She makes us both fat BLTs and serves up whole tubs of Häagen-Dazs for dessert. I want her to tell me what it was like when she and Mom were young and she replies, ‘We met when we were both struggling with life, I guess. She’d got herself into some trouble. People from where she lived as a child, with those kinds of circumstances, hardly ever get away, but she did.’

  ‘What would I do without you?’ This is true. ‘Nothing. I couldn’t have done anything this week without you.’

  She smiles. ‘Oh, anyone would have been the same … Your mom was something else.’