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by Alix Strauss


  I lurch forward, my hand extended, feel all the muscles in my neck and shoulder stretch. I hear the sound of glass breaking. Feel myself falling. Feel a sharp pain as I drop to the freshly glazed floor. Feel my head smack something as my eyes close.

  It’s a month later when I repeat this entire story to my sister as I sit by her grave site. I fill her in detail by detail because it’s the last time I’ll be visiting. The last time I can conjure her up. Even the dead need to say good-bye.

  Heavy wet flakes of snow clump together, making the cemetery look like a huge quilt. The air is so cold it seems almost thick, and it freezes in my lungs. It’s icy and lonely. I watch leaves drop. Watch people pass by. I look at the rows and rows of tombstones—a sea of fading grays and tans, breaking apart and chipping—and think of how many lives are no longer. And how cold my sister’s body must be. The grass is brown, the trees thin and barren. Though I’m dressed in thick layers, like someone prepared to go hiking in the Arctic, it does nothing to protect me from the wind, which cuts through the flannel and wool. I feel a small vibration, hear a loud roar from the subway above my head. It collides with the chirping of birds and my own heavy breathing.

  The scar above my eye is still red from where the stitches were removed two weeks ago. If Marty were still alive I’d have joked that we now have matching wounds, a family trait.

  The man who brought Anne as his date was the first to run down the stairs and see if she was breathing, which she wasn’t. A circle of guests stood over me, and I vaguely remember thinking how nice it was not to be the one in charge this time. How nice it was to have someone tell me to lie very still, have someone else hold my hand until the paramedics came. Tell me what happened—that I split my head open when I hit the floor, that bits of glass from the window cut me, that I passed out for a few moments. To ride with me in the ambulance, sit with me while a plastic surgeon Novocained my forehead, then stitched me up.

  I stand, brushing snow and leaves and dirt off of me. I lay the lilies against Dale’s headstone. Like the rest of the cemetery, it feels cold, the stone solid and bumpy in some spots, smooth like glass in others.

  Old habits die hard and I do one last room search.

  I use the key to let myself in. No need to knock, I know no one’s inside as I enter into familiarity. I strain to smell the faint fragrance of crisp citrus. I see the bouquet of yellow roses, take note of the plant off to the left, another on the window sill.

  I walk into the living room. It’s modern and sleek with its chrome chairs and coffee table, glass dining room table. The cream suede couch, piped in black, and the cream plush rug, which is fluffy and clean, indicates she’s careful with her belongings. Takes pride in her home. Though the room is bright and airy, there’s a sadness that lines the cocoa-painted walls, sleeps under the bed, and is stored away in the cabinets. Most who enter this dwelling won’t see it. It’s odorless. Invisible.

  A woman lives here. I know from the smell, from the flowers, from the books, mostly bios and memoirs, which tell me she’s interested in people’s lives, in their struggle. The music taste is harder to decode. Mostly groups—the Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, Coldplay—or compilations from the eighties and nineties, which tell me she’s in her thirties, still holding onto her youth while the New Pornographers and Death Cab for Cutie say she’s willing to step out of her comfort zone.

  The closet houses white shirts and suits in browns, blacks, navy, and tans. Not a bright color is in the bunch. She’s a serious, hardworking New Yorker. Nothing frilly or overly girly. That there are no short skirts or tight spandex dresses implies she’s slightly tense, self-conscious, conservative, and tough.

  The bedroom mirrors the living room. There are no stuffed animals, no overwhelmingly large pillows that engulf the bed. The walls are a cool minty green. The wooden antique desk and chair look as if they were bought at a flea market.

  There are no prescription pills in the bathroom. The makeup and nail polishes are all soft neutral colors. Like the rest of the rooms, everything is neat and organized.

  The kitchen is sparse and clean with its faux marble floor and matching countertop. Inside her refrigerator reveals the single woman’s dining plan: bottle of white wine, champagne, orange juice, 2 percent milk, Diet Coke, vitamin water, Red Bull, Illy coffee, butter, eggs, a few random bottles of salad dressing, and condiment packets from takeout restaurants. Ice, frozen yogurt, and vodka are found in the freezer.

  Satisfied, I look at my watch, take one last look, and walk to the front door where two black LeSportsacs reside. I estimate about six to eight days’ worth of clothing are inside. Somewhere warm is on the docket since there are no skis, no sports equipment. There’s no passport so the traveler isn’t going somewhere exotic. A plastic bag from Toys R Us holds two presents, making one assume the traveler is visiting someone with kids.

  The photo of two girls—one dressed as a cat, the other a mouse—hangs above my head. Rather than sadness, there’s a slight, almost tiny drop of comfort. A reassurance that these children had love, from each other, even from their parents.

  The back brace is in the compactor room, no need for it. The bracelet Lou sent me, a sterling silver link chain with mini silver-and-glass ashtray charms is a permanent fixture on my wrist. A second skin that reminds me I’ve quit smoking and that I’m connected to someone. The letter she wrote me is on the counter along with the thank-you note I received from Anne’s parents after I spoke at her funeral. There’s also an article from the Times that talks about Trish’s gallery opening. The party, the dead girl on the street, and that a manager from the Four Seasons who sliced her forehead open upon hitting it on the floor, thankfully, isn’t mentioned. Rather it covers her famous parents, makes generalizations about Trish, her eye for art, and highlights the man who did the portrait of Anne.

  I take one last look around the apartment realizing that upon my return, everything will remain exactly as I left it. Things will go undisturbed. Unlike the hotel, no one will be cleaning up after me or erasing my existence. Rather, I’m surrounded by proof I exist.

  I lift the bags, turn off the lights, and think of how much better this year will be. How I welcome the chance to start over. I don’t need to say good-bye to Dale as I take one last look around my apartment before I get into the car waiting downstairs, which will take me to LaGuardia Airport. I know she won’t be coming back.

  This time the only one returning will be me.

  Acknowledgments

  An enormous thanks to:

  The amazing, never tiresome team at William Morris Endeavor who always champion my projects and efforts; Lauren Heller Whitney, Anna DeRoy, and especially Andy McNicol, who keeps me grounded and is a constant voice calm and wisdom. I can’t thank you enough for that.

  The wonderfully enthusiastic team at HarperCollins: Mauro DiPreta, Sharyn Rosenblum, and especially Carrie Kania and Jennifer Schulkind, who understood these characters and embraced this project from the first page. A better duo of women I could not have found.

  My writer friends and advisors: Dani, Shari, Darin, and Jen for their kind words and support; Charles Salzberg, for our Sunday-night dinners; Ross Goldberg, for his Web work and eye for detail; Jami Beere, for her never-ending gusto; and Jessica Knight, for being a terrific assistant and friend.

  And to my parents and dear friends, who were there from the very beginning to see this all come to fruition.

  About the Author

  ALIX STRAUSS is a lifestyle trend writer who appears on national morning and talk shows. Her articles have been published in the New York Times, Marie Claire, Time, and Entertainment Weekly, among other publications. She is the author of The Joy of Funerals, Have I Got a Guy for You, and Death Becomes Them: Unearthing the Suicides of the Brilliant, the Famous, and the Notorious.

  WWW.ALIXSTRAUSS.COM

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Praise for The Joy of Funerals

&nb
sp; “As Ms. Strauss brings characters into more than one story, she creates an interconnected world of people who sometimes do outlandish things, but they are recognizably human. And despite the book’s fascination with that final leap into the great beyond, The Joy of Funerals is decidedly about the here and now.”

  —The Wall Street Journal

  “Darkly humorous…. Reading The Joy of Funerals is almost like going through the five stages of grief. You start off in denial because you can’t believe these characters are actually doing these things. You progress to horror but then begin to understand and empathize with what these people are going through. Finally…you come to some kind of catharsis and acceptance and move on.”

  —Los Angeles Times Book Review

  “Alix Strauss provides an intense (and sometimes bizarre) look at how women cope with grief and loss. A collection of short stories that will both captivate and disturb you.”

  —Marie Claire

  “The desire for human connection runs throughout Alix Strauss’s dark and spirited novel, The Joy of Funerals.”

  —Vanity Fair

  “Die-hard fans of Six Feet Under will go crazy for this kooky collection of short stories about nine women dealing with love and death…each tale is so strange and twisted, you can’t help but keep turning the pages.”

  —John Searles, Cosmopolitan

  “Strauss is a sharp-eyed accountant of the fleeting moments that wound us.”

  —Elle

  “A sort of literary Six Feet Under, this collection of dark and sometimes surprisingly buoyant stories examines the fascination some people have with death as a way to find love and connection.”

  —Glamour

  “This is chick-lit for the melancholy—the dark humor throughout does little to blunt the aching sadness of these women struggling to find their places in the world.”

  —Booklist

  “A truly unique, compelling and strangely life-affirming work of literary investigation. The perfect book to get you through the night.”

  —Rona Jaffe, author of The Room-Mating Season

  “Don’t miss this darkly comic novel about funerals, sex, and loss. Throughout these cleverly interwoven stories, Strauss navigates a taboo subject with wit and style. The Joy of Funerals is original and moving.”

  —Libby Schmais, author of The Perfect Elizabeth

  “Alix Strauss is a truly gifted writer. The Joy of Funerals is a moving, funny, and painfully honest book!”

  —Molly Jong-Fast, author of Normal Girl

  “Death has never been so sexy—or so funny, entertaining, surprising, and, yes, occasionally even sad. Alix Strauss has an enormous talent for bringing characters to life, and for finding the heart and light in even the darkest tale…a rollicking read that will make you glad you’re alive.”

  —Pamela Redmond Satran, author of How Not to Act Old

  “Alix Strauss dares us to admit to ourselves that there is a peculiar kind of comfort born in the wake of a death, a universal communion that serves to remind us that we, in fact, are still alive.”

  —Cynthia Kaplan, author of Why I’m Like This

  Also by Alix Strauss

  FICTION

  The Joy of Funerals

  NONFICTION

  Death Becomes Them: Unearthing the Suicides

  of the Brilliant, the Famous, and the Notorious

  Have I Got a Guy for You:

  What Really Happens When Mom Fixes You Up

  Credits

  Cover design by Robin Bilardello

  Cover photograph by Angela Cappetta/Getty Images

  Copyright

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity, and are used fictitiously.

  A note from the author: Though I adore the Four Seasons, I have no idea what happens behind closed doors. I would, however, love to live there someday.

  BASED UPON AVAILABILITY. Copyright © 2010 by Alix Strauss. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  FIRST EDITION

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available upon request.

  EPub Edition © May 2010 ISBN: 978-0-06-199357-2

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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