All That's Left of Me

by Janis Thomas

  As the somber man and Colin go over the minutiae of the service, my mind wanders. I think about the eulogy that might have been, the eulogy for old Josh. Josh had cerebral palsy. He couldn’t walk or control his limbs well. He could barely speak. He sat in his wheelchair and stared at a computer screen because his mother was too fearful on his behalf to allow him to have real experiences. Josh had no quality of life. His mother deprived him of one. She loved him, but not in the right way. God has taken him to be an angel that he might soar through the clouds. It’s for the best that he’s gone.

  We sign the papers and I write a fat check to the funeral home. I hand over the suit I don’t remember purchasing and never saw my son wear.

  Colin regularly retreats to his office, just as he did when he lived here—three days ago or a year ago, depending on which timeline I go by. He removed most of his music, but a few CDs remain, those that we both enjoyed and he had the generosity to leave behind. He tells me he is polishing his manuscript—he has his laptop with him—but I suspect he gets little work done. How can a father worry about words on a screen when his progeny has been stolen from him? Still, when he retreats to that room, I let him be. It’s easier for me to have walls and doors between us.

  I don’t ask him about Eliza, but I hear his muffled voice occasionally as he speaks into his phone, the soft reassurances of his affection and the tight reprimands that this is what he has to do and she should understand. He sleeps on the couch in the living room with the bedding I provided for him and complains not at all, even though I catch the expressions of pain when he appears in the kitchen each morning, the hand on the small of his back, the squinty eyes as he stretches from side to side. Several times I’ve almost suggested he sleep in Josh’s bed, but the sentence never leaves my lips because I know Colin would shudder at the thought.

  Katie spends time with her friends, Simone mostly. I want her to stay with me, to tether me to this reality, but I can’t deny her her escape. She moves in and out of the house like a ghost, transient, not really here. I know she cries with her friends; I see the proof in her swollen eyes when she returns, but I know she also laughs and allows herself to feel normal in a different household, a household in which tragedy has yet to strike.

  She sleeps with me in my bed each night, and we spoon, entwine ourselves, as though we are each other’s life float and will keep each other from drowning in our grief. As much as I can feel during this time, I cherish our bond. Katie slept in my bed as an infant and a toddler and was exiled to her own bed and her own room as soon as Colin rescued us. Her presence now buoys me and also assuages me of my guilt at her earlier banishment.

  For my part, I spend my time performing mundane tasks, formerly resented chores. I dust and vacuum every day, although the dust doesn’t accumulate fast enough to necessitate daily eradication. I polish silver that I haven’t touched for half a decade. I wander through the rooms of my house like a visitor, as though I’m seeing the pictures and knickknacks and curtains and furniture and appliances for the first time. I sit in front of my computer and pay bills. I endeavor not to think, not to remember. For the first time in my life, I operate completely in the moment, because to look back would only cause confusion, discombobulation, debilitating anxiety, and to look ahead (to my son’s funeral) would likely cause me to lose my delicate hold on the ledge from which I dangle.

  Friday, the night before Josh’s service, I click out of my banking and bill pay and call up Facebook. And there, on the top of the screen, is an icon telling me that Dante has accepted my friend request. With Josh’s death, I’d forgotten about it. Dante has sent me a message. I open the window, and his words reach out to me through cyberspace.

  My Em. I have longed to get in touch but was afraid I might reopen wounds that were better left healed. So pleased to receive your request. Not a day goes by when I don’t think about you. I am in New York. Not far. Let me know if and when I can see you.

  I read the message three times, but I don’t respond. I click onto the CP Parents page and spend the remainder of the evening reading about the trials and tribulations of parents with whom I shared a connection less than a week ago. Their posts move me to tears, not only because I recognize how great their challenges are, but because I am no longer a part of their community. My self-imposed exile hits home.

  Saturday, August 13

  And finally, Saturday comes.

  Before wishes, before my high-powered job and sleek wardrobe, I owned a simple black sheath, unglamorous, unassuming. My mother made it for me twenty years ago and I kept it because it always fit, whether I was carrying an extra five pounds or had lost ten. I wore it to my rehearsal dinner the night before I married Colin. I wore it to a company party several Christmases back. I wore it to my mother’s funeral.

  The dress is nowhere to be found in my closet. I stand in front of the racks and stacks of clothing, gazing at the many designer-labeled ensembles hanging from padded hangers. Nothing is appropriate.

  All I want is that simple black sheath.

  Katie wanders in and sits on the bed. She is wearing an ankle-length charcoal skirt, a white blouse, and flat black sandals. Her hair is braided loosely down her back. Her eyes are puffy. Her face is pale. She is beautiful.

  “I don’t know what to wear,” I tell her.

  Katie says nothing. She stands and walks to the closet then sifts through the hangers. She withdraws a black skirt, a short-sleeved button-up blouse, and a peach-and-gray scarf, hands the ensemble to me, then returns to the bed.

  She watches me as I dress. Something needs to be said, but she cannot bring herself to speak. I pull a pair of panty hose from the dresser drawer and think of my boss Richard who doesn’t exist. I stuff the hose back into the drawer. It’s too hot for them anyway.

  As I stand in front of the mirror and button my blouse, Katie shifts behind me on the bed. She sighs in the manner of a teenager—a monologue sigh, a thousand words conveyed in a single exhalation of breath. I wait.

  “I . . . I loved him, Mom.”

  I turn to her and smile. “I know you did, Katie.” She is new to this reality, so she doesn’t know that she was Josh’s caregiver, that she fed him and wiped his mouth and played games with him and read to him and was his favorite companion—after me. She doesn’t remember the many ways in which she showed her love. But I remember.

  “We bagged on each other,” she says. “And he was kind of a jerk sometimes, but he was my brother. I loved him.”

  My throat is too tight to speak.

  “He was my little brother, you know?”

  I nod.

  “It totally sucks.”

  I’m sorry, Katie. I stole your brother from you. I stole your place in his heart and your connection with him, all the laughter you shared and the things you did for him that made both of you better people.

  I clear my throat to loosen my vocal cords. “It does suck. But I know that Josh knew how much you loved him.”

  She looks up at me, her expression twisted with hope and disbelief. “Really? You think he knew?”

  “Yes, honey. He knew. Boys are funny and weird and stupid sometimes. But they know. He knew.”

  “Do you believe in heaven, Mom?”

  My shoulders tighten. I don’t know what I believe. I’m not even sure I’m sane. How can I offer her wisdom from the place at which I now exist? All I can give her is my current truth.

  “I want to believe in heaven.”

  She nods, but I can tell she is dissatisfied.

  The service goes as predicted. Too long.

  I sit in the front row of the chapel, between Katie and Colin. My gaze never leaves the casket. We chose to keep the lid closed, but I feel that decision was a mistake. I imagine Josh inside, clawing to get out, pressing against the lid with his curled fingers, the plush, satin-covered padding closing in on him as he struggles to draw breath. If the casket were open, I would see a dead boy. That would be horrific but far better that the scenario I’ve crea
ted in my mind.

  Many of my work colleagues are present: Val and Wally, Bill Canning and Edward Wells, several employees from each department. The Krummunds are here. Josh’s (new) friends, looking uncomfortable in the formal clothes their parents made them wear. Katie’s friends and their families have come. Colin’s girlfriend, Eliza, sits a few rows behind me. I saw her come in and was struck by how much she looks like me, albeit younger and less burdened by life’s disappointments.

  The pastor drones on about a teenager I didn’t know. Colin reads his well-written eulogy depicting a life to which I never bore witness. Katie recites a short poem she wrote about a little brother whom she loved despite their sibling rivalry. The pastor invites others to share. A few people stand and deliver unrehearsed and painfully halting stories about the Josh they knew.

  I block everything out as best I can by calling up memories of the Josh I knew. My Josh. I think about his laughter and his inquisitiveness. His sense of humor and sideways grin. I think about the safari and the one thing he said that made my heart expand in my chest.

  “Aye thi’ th’ i’ th’ be’ moeh a’ m’ eti’ liey,” Josh says. I think this is the best moment of my entire life.

  I gave that to him. At least I could give that to him.

  At the close of the service, the pastor invites the assembled to the grave. There is to be a reception at my house. I didn’t want to have one, didn’t want to play hostess on the day of my son’s burial, but Colin was adamant. I left the arrangements to him. He chose a small catering company for which Canning and Wells did some ad work. I know the owner, Doug Craven. He and his team are at my house now, wandering through my kitchen and living room and family room, seeing the pictures of Josh on the breakfront. They are loosely connected to this tragedy but immune from the grief of it. They are going about their business of preparing trays of food and drink stations and congratulating themselves on the fact that this is not their son or their family or their loved one. I envy them. I try not to think about them.

  I try not to think about anything.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  A shiny black limousine transfers Katie and me from the funeral home to the cemetery, three short (long) miles away. Colin has opted to drive with Eliza, likely because she is feeling insecure, unappreciated, untended. He tells me of his decision and waits a beat for some sign that I might be jealous or disappointed or disdainful. I give him no reaction, and he slinks over to her Nissan and folds himself into the passenger seat.

  The air-conditioning in the limo is on the blink. The driver apologizes profusely, but his words of contrition fall upon deaf ears. August sweat drips down my back. I barely feel it. I pull the scarf from my neck and bunch it in my lap, but I don’t know if it helps to be free of the fabric. Katie fans herself with the program from the service. Her face is beet red, and a thin sheen of perspiration decorates her forehead and upper lip.

  The cemetery is welcome after the inferno of the limo. A slight breeze stirs the leaves of the nearby trees. My brain registers that the temperature is in the upper eighties, but at this point I am immune to all sensations. I’m operating according to a predetermined plan. Feel nothing, say nothing, follow instructions, get through this.

  The pallbearers, Colin; Louise Krummund’s oldest, Jett; Parker; Jesse; the other boy from the house whose name I kept forgetting; and Simone’s brother Michael; all beautifully boutonniered, thanks to the somber man at the funeral home, carry the coffin from the black hearse to the awaiting hole in the earth.

  As the coffin descends, I feel something deep within me loosen, uncoil. I made wishes, about a puppy, a tree, a horrible boss, my daughter, my disabled son. But I know that wishes don’t come true, not really, not now in the real world. They don’t. And if I close my eyes and shut all of this out, this figment of my worst imaginings, then all of this will cease to exist in reality. Josh will be as he was, imprisoned in his wheelchair, and Charlemagne will be barking furiously, incessantly, next door, and Richard, my boss, will be contriving new ways to torture and belittle and grope me, and that, all of that will be just fine, because the alternative is unacceptable and because wishes don’t come true.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and cling to my disbelief, but the squeak of the pulleys and chains lowering Josh’s coffin into the ground echoes in my ears, reverberates through my head, and when I open my eyes, all is as it was before I closed them.

  And then. And then, the unthinkable occurs. I see Owen walk toward us, Katie and me, as the last of the mourners throws dirt upon the wood box that holds the remains of my son.

  He looks slick and pleased with himself, but perhaps I’m projecting my disgust onto him because he should not be here and his presence is like acid in my stomach. Colin is too busy catering to Eliza’s dysfunctional needs to notice his approach. But Katie sees him and recoils, burrowing herself into my side.

  “What are you doing here, Owen?”

  He cocks his head to the side, a habit I am familiar with, then assembles his features into an expression of sympathy. The emotion doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “I’m so sorry about Josh, Emma,” he says.

  I don’t thank him, as I have done in response to everyone else’s condolences. Owen doesn’t deserve my thanks. In the back of my mind, I realize I should have gotten that restraining order.

  “Look, I didn’t come here to make trouble. I just came to support my daughter.”

  “Our daughter.”

  He ignores me and turns his attention to Katie, moving closer to her with each word. She trembles against me.

  “How are you doing, honey?”

  Katie follows my lead and doesn’t respond to him. “I know how hard this must be for you,” he continues, unruffled. “I just want you to know that I’m here for you. I know what you’re going through. My brother died when I was fifteen.”

  “Of an overdose.”

  “That’s uncalled for, Emma.”

  “It’s the truth,” I say, my voice tight. “I don’t want to make a scene, Owen. But you need to leave. You don’t belong here. I’ll call the police if I have to.” Like I should have done at the outlets.

  His eyes narrow at me. I see a flicker of rage hiding just beneath the surface of his restraint, coupled with a hint of skepticism. He knows me well enough to know I won’t call the police. Not here. Not at Josh’s funeral. I wrap my arm around Katie and pull her away from him.

  “Katie,” he calls out, following us as we move toward the limo. “I’m your dad. I’m here for you. Your mom wants to keep you from me, but she can’t, not forever. You need me, just like I need you.”

  I hear it then. The slight slur in his words. I didn’t catch it before, I was too angry and too surprised to pay close attention. But there it is—the drawn out s’s, the omission of hard consonants, the way his volume increases and decreases rapidly.

  I glance over my shoulder. Owen’s footsteps are erratic and foreshortened. “You’re drunk,” I spit at him. “Get the hell out of here.”

  By now, Colin has noticed what’s going on. He rushes toward us, leaving Eliza standing alone beside Josh’s grave.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Stay away from me, man,” Owen shouts.

  The remaining mourners stop their hushed conversations and their migration to their cars. They look in our direction, an audience of sheep, unconcerned, unconnected, unsure of what to do. Eliza stands frozen next to the hole in the ground.

  “Emma, what’s going on?” Colin asks. “What is he doing here?”

  “This is none of your business. This is between me and my daughter!”

  “She’s more my daughter than yours,” Colin says. The cords in his neck are rigid. He puts his hand on Owen’s shoulder, and Owen shoves him away. He stumbles backward as Owen reaches out and grabs Katie’s arm and yanks her from my embrace.

  “Leave her alone!” I cry.

  “I just want to talk to you, Katie. I just want us to be together.”
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  Colin comes up behind Owen as I move in to claim Katie. Her face is ghostly white and her mouth is open, as though she is trying to say something but unable to get it out. Colin grasps Owen by the back of the neck as I pull Katie away from him. Owen bats at Colin’s hand, twists around and shoves him again, this time with more force, and Colin goes down hard. I take two steps forward and slap Owen across the face as hard as I can. White-hot pain shoots all the way up my arm. Owen starts to retaliate by raising his fist. My anger erupts.

  “Go ahead. Hit me! I’ll see you rot in jail before I let you get near my daughter again. How dare you come to this place on this day, drunk, high? What did you expect was going to happen? You are pathetic.”

  He drops his arm to his side, but his face has gone crimson.

  “I am pathetic. But you’re worse. You used to be . . . amazing . . . beautiful . . . happy. But now all you are is a cold, selfish, hateful woman. I may be a drunk, and I might fall, but I’ll get back up again. I’ll do anything to make myself worthy of that girl. And you can’t erase me, Emma. You can’t. Someday I’m going to get to know my daughter, and she’s gonna resent you for keeping her from me all this time.” He sneers at me. “Then you’ll be all alone. Alone, Emma! A miserable woman with a daughter who hates her and a dead son.”

  My whole body is shaking with rage. “You fucking bastard. I wish I’d never met you!”

  Oh God. No.

  My hands jerk forward, my fingers clawing the air as though I can grab the words and shove them back down inside me. I slam my fists against my mouth as my heart jackhammers in my chest.

  How could I let that wish out? How could I let it out?

  I turn around to see Katie staring at me, her eyes filled with tears.

  “I didn’t mean it, Katie. You know that.” I lumber over to her and gather her in my arms. “I didn’t mean it. I would never take any of it back. I have you because of him. I would never do anything differently. I promise.”