by T Cooper
To which I call everlasting, eternal bullshit.
I am not flooded with peace. I hope Nana is, but I remain suspect about that as well. Who is to say? It’s not like her essence is going to show up in the body of a toddler, seek me out at a playground, and say, See? No harm, no foul. All good here.
I mean, maybe that could happen. I’ve seen weirder things in my life. But it hasn’t happened yet, and while I wait to see my Nana resurrected and sent on yet another epic spiritual journey, I remain pissed and resentful that she isn’t still on this one with me.
In keeping with the Changer death-is-no-biggie philosophy, Nana, like all Changers who “graduate beings,” is to be celebrated, not mourned, in a quiet, positive, respectful gathering. No tears, no drama, not even a wake. If it were up to me, Nana would have a jazz funeral, like the ones in New Orleans, where a uniformed band marches behind her casket, horns blaring out “Just a Closer Walk with Thee,” then happier, snazzier tunes as the ceremony progresses, and a second line forms, and everyone hollers and wails and dances and sweats like their pants are on fire.
But no. None of that for Changers. It would be deemed inappropriate. Disrespectful to the other billions of lives that have come and gone before hers. In the many we are one, in life and in death. Along with a lack of pomp and circumstance, Changers bury their bodies old school. That is, no draining the fluids, no applying superglue or pancake makeup and embalming Nana with carcinogenic chemicals so she can be “viewed” by friends and family one last time, and no burying her inside a giant steel reinforced coffin, or concrete vault, which supposedly stave off decomposition longer. No cremation, either, which requires a ton of fuel and releases even more carbon and mercury into the atmosphere, not to mention leaves you with material that doesn’t exactly replenish the earth from which it came. (Even if it might’ve been nice to scatter Nana’s ashes somewhere she loved, like along the coast of Florida, or even upstate New York, where she raised Dad when his father was still alive.)
So, following Changer tradition, we had a small gathering at our house this morning to honor the completion of Nana’s current slate of lives. Tracy and Mr. Crowell came, and Destiny too, to keep me company. Mom’s brother and his wife, Uncle Troy and Aunt Misty, flew in from Atlanta. And a friend of Nana’s came up last minute from Florida, an old guy who looked like a bald Santa, and who told me to call him Milty—and who apparently had been (mostly unsuccessfully) wooing Nana for years when they lived in the Pickwick Place retirement community together.
Dad said something bland and extremely brief about his mom, his hands starting to tremble slightly at the end. I sat just far enough away that I couldn’t really hear what he was saying. When he composed himself, he told guests (speaking more loudly) to enjoy the spread, and to fuel up for the afternoon. People laughed, hugged, ate, and drank. Benign classical music streamed in the background. Nobody was dressed up. I basically camped out in the window seat with Destiny, and stared at the chair Nana used to sit in when she drank her instant coffee. Her wheelchair was still in the foyer, folded into itself and leaning against the wall.
Destiny kept trying to cheer me up—“She’s in a better place? Yeah, not really. I know”—but I just wasn’t feeling it. I appreciated her trying though. Tracy came over too, just sat beside me, silent for once. But nothing, nobody, could make me less depressed. Not even the dog.
After the short reception, Destiny had to get home because her family was leaving town for the holidays, and the rest of us piled into two cars and drove an hour to this property adjacent to a nature preserve (not too far from Changers Central), where the Life Cycles Changers burial service met us with Nana’s body inside a nondescript-looking electric van. Next to the truck was a barely dug oval hole in the ground, with a bunch of shovels sticking out of it like toothpicks on a platter of hors d’oeuvres.
We all started digging out the mound under which Nana, or at least her body, would spend the rest of eternity. Well, at least until microbes finished converting her body into compost. It wasn’t scoop a couple shovelfuls of dirt and then you’re done, like you see in the movies. A man and a woman from Life Cycles pitched in, but it took pretty much all of us working in nonstop rotating shifts to finish the hole (even though it didn’t have to be as deep as a traditional grave).
Mr. Crowell took off his button-down shirt and dug in a white T-shirt and khakis. Tracy even changed into pants (pants!) for the occasion. When her brow beaded up with sweat from laboring, Mr. Crowell gave her a cloth handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe herself. Dad seemed to be the only one who didn’t take a break. He said nothing the whole time, just did the labor, machinelike.
After an hour of digging, the Life Cycle dude said it was good, and opened the rear of the van, where Nana was inside a biodegradable wicker casket, almost like a structured burlap sack, which was much smaller in size than the usual coffin. It was, in fact, just a little bigger than Nana herself.
Dad pulled the casket out first, and we all joined in the further it slid out of the van. Soon all of our hands were lifting Nana and walking her over to the edge before gently lowering her into the hole we’d all just worked so hard to dig. She looked like a cocoon once she was a few feet under us. Nobody said anything. We all just stood there and looked into the hole, thinking our own thoughts, panting and sweating a little, even though it was kinda chilly outside. Mom hooked an arm around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder.
After a couple minutes of towering over her like this, Dad quietly picked up a shovel and started stabbing the dirt pile next to the grave and backfilling the hole. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the shriek of the shovel and then the slapping sound of the dirt crumbling over the top of the wicker casket. Dad did about five solo scoops before we all grabbed our shovels and joined in.
My back hurt, my feet hurt, my hands were developing blisters, but I wasn’t going to stop. Scoop-drop-scoop-drop. The harder I worked, the less I felt like crying. Scoop-drop-scoop-drop. I just kept shoveling harder and harder, this time not taking a break either, working beside Dad until Nana’s grave was piled a little higher than the earth around it.
It took way less time to cover her up than it did to dig the hole for her.
* * *
It’s after dinner now, and I can hear Mom and Dad arguing in the kitchen. Then I hear Snoopy’s nails clicking against the wood floor as he scuttles down the hall toward my room and noses through the door. He jumps on my bed, and I hug him, kiss him a dozen times on the head between his eye and ear. Just about the softest place in the world.
He endures this for a little bit before I release him, and he curls himself into a ball at the end of my bed and exhales. I envy him (all dogs, really). It must be nice not to know the specifics of what’s wrong, even though I’m sure he can sense something amiss in the house, the absence of Nana, with me, Mom, and Dad shuffling around like zombies since she left—and now, the yelling.
“I don’t care about your rules anymore!” I hear Mom scream, as I decide it’s probably best to close the door to give them their privacy. And by “their privacy,” I mean I don’t want to hear whatever it is they’re arguing about. It’s weird. I can’t remember them fighting so much before this year.
“They’re not my rules,” Dad says, like he’s talking to a child. “These systems are for the benefit of every single human on this planet.”
“A little lofty, don’t you think?” Mom snaps back. “Did you ever stop to consider the master plan of your master race isn’t actually effective?”
“Goddamnit!” Dad yells then, more out of control. “You know you don’t believe that. When are the two of you going to stop being so selfish?”
“I’m giving it to her.”
Mom begins angry-marching down the hallway toward my room then, so I pull the covers over my head and pretend to be sleeping. I can hear the door creak open, and picture her staring at me for a few seconds while deciding whether I’m really asleep. I hear her quietly walk
toward my bed, pet Snoopy, and then set something on the desk next to me. She turns out the light, closes the door.
I wait until I can hear her go into their bedroom. It sounds like Dad is still in the kitchen, likely at his laptop doing Changers Council work. It’s all he does anymore.
I lie still another minute for good measure, then get up, click on the light, and look for whatever it is Mom has left on the desk. It’s an envelope, with Kim written in Nana’s handwriting on the outside. I grab it, but stop short of ripping it open. It’s been a crap day already. What if this is more bad news?
Curiosity wins. I go ahead and break the seal, noticing that it seems like the glue’s already been unstuck before.
A black-and-white photograph tumbles out onto my blanket. I pick it up, hold it close. It takes awhile to focus and adjust to the light, but a face comes through, clear as can be. It kind of looks like Chase. As in, my Chase. Only . . . what in the . . . ?
The photo seems to be taken right around the same time as the other photo Nana gave me a couple years ago. I look back into the envelope, and there’s also a letter, dated a few days before Nana had her stroke, the handwriting crooked:
Sweet Angel,
I don’t know how much time I have left here with you. I really wanted to see you through your Cycle and be there at your Forever Ceremony, but it’s looking like that isn’t going to be possible. I can feel the days slipping away and while I don’t love it, there is nothing to be done, so I may as well enjoy what I can while I’m still here.
With or without me, I know you are going to find your way and make the right decision. You are an incredibly special person, and I’m proud to have known you through a handful of your lives. I could not have asked for more from a grandchild.
The reason I’m writing you this letter is because I wanted to share something important with you. Your father didn’t want me to tell you, but I’m too old for statutes and protocol, and besides, I am still his mother and he is not in charge, much as he’d like to think he is.
What I hope to do is offer you some comfort. Which is more important than rules any day. I couldn’t help but notice how sad you’ve been since your friend Chase passed. It was a terrible thing that happened, and I can see you tearing yourself up with guilt. That, however, is a useless emotion, a giant waste of time and energy. Guilt serves no one and changes nothing. If you don’t take my word for it, I’m confident you’ll discover that on your own someday.
Guilt is especially useless in your case, because your friend Chase isn’t truly gone forever.
I suppose they don’t want you to know this because it might change how you act during your Cycle, or influence your decision about your Mono, but in actuality there is a system, a method to all this madness.
Your Chase was a recycled version of many other Chases throughout the centuries. If you take a look at the enclosed photo, you will see that I was the Chase V for a year during my Cycle. And when I didn’t choose Chase as my Mono, he was released back into the universe, free to be inhabited by a new Changer just beginning his or her Cycle at some point after me.
Which means that Chase, as an identity, will return. That identity will go on and on, until somebody selects it as his Mono, and completes a lifetime as that V.
I’m sure this is confusing, my love. And more than a little unnerving. I’m still debating whether I should tell you even as I’m sitting here writing. But it’s no accident you felt so drawn to this boy, and likely no accident that he protected you the way he did. And it is no wonder you feel his loss so keenly. But you don’t have to. Chase will live on. Somewhere. Somehow.
And one day, eventually, we will all know what it’s like to be somebody else. To live as another, feel their pain, their joy, make their mistakes, celebrate their triumphs. It really is a gift we’ve been given to see and experience so much. A gift we must share. Because it does matter, Kim.
What you do matters.
Imagine how different the world is going to be once we reach that place. When there is no difference left to fear. No outsiders. No “other.”
I’m not afraid of leaving because I have so much hope for that future—your future.
So, I’ll leave you to it, Angel.
If you’re reading this, I’ve likely passed. But please don’t be sad I’m gone. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be now. And so are you.
I love you more than you’ll ever know,
Nana (and Chase, and Emily, and Jamey, and Lynette)
Change 3–Day 106
For the curious, here’s what the Internet says are signs of major or clinical depression:
Fatigue and/or loss of energy every day
CHECK
Feelings of worthlessness or guilt almost every day
CHECK
Insomnia or hypersomnia
CHECK (the second)
Diminished interest or pleasure in almost all activities, almost every day
CHECK
Recurring thoughts of death
(Not mine, anyway)
Weight loss or gain
(Betch, please)
I’ve basically had all of these for the last two weeks (maybe longer). Am I depressed? Let me ask Dr. Internet.
Common causes of major or clinical depression:
Grief from losing a loved one
(Try two)
Social isolation
CHECK
Moving
CHECK
Personal conflicts in relationships
CHECK
Major life changes
(Where do I even start?)
Hey, Changers Council, a tip from me to you: in addition to your Bible, you need to publish your own mental health evaluation guide. Because far as I can tell, every Changer is going to tick hella boxes on these Static forms. Major life changes? What would I even tell a shrink about that? Well, I’ve swapped gender three times, changed races twice, discovered I’m tasked with making the world a shiny, happy place for all of humanity, and, oh yeah, I’m being bullied at school for being fat. You got a prescription for that?
If I’m honest with myself, my life has been a blur since closing night of the play. Mom is “closely monitoring” the grief situation, and I love her, but nobody should have their mom for a therapist. During the whole holiday break, I’ve essentially slept 75 percent of the time, occasionally waking up to eat, followed by overwhelming feelings of guilt and sadness, and then more sleep. I have no energy. I care about nothing. I mean, I do abstractly. I care about Nana, and Chase, and Snoopy, and starving refugees. The basics. But my teeth haven’t seen a toothbrush in days, and my wardrobe of Goth chic has devolved into genuine ambivalence. I could probably stand a shower. Or so I’ve been told.
Here’s the conversation that goes on when I do “join the living,” as Dad passive-aggressively puts it every time I manage to drag my grubbiness into the kitchen in between sleeping jags:
“How bad does this have to get,” he asks me, but it’s really directed at Mom, “before we start thinking about sending you back to the RRR?”
“This is what grief looks like, Will. You’re sick of dealing with it, so we’re just going to ship her away to become someone else’s problem?” Mom counters, as though I’m not there. (Which I’m not.)
“This feels like something a professional would be better at dealing with,” Dad clarifies, trying to sound measured, though his irritation seeps through.
“I am a freaking professional!” Mom shrieks, glaring at Dad like she wants to stab a rusty fork into his skull.
Meantime, I just sit there silently eating my cereal, a bagel and cream cheese, burnt toast with peanut butter, a cut-up apple, or whatever it is I’ve somehow mustered the energy to prepare, before I toss most of it into the garbage and head back to my bedroom to go back to sleep.
Change 3–Day 108
Destiny keeps bugging me to come out with her and DJ tonight. There’s a twenty-four-hour New Year’s Eve–into-Day screening of black-an
d-white noir films from the 1940s in downtown Nashville. Something the old me (well, the new old me) would have really dug. But now? Under these circumstances—i.e., having to watch my two friends fall deeper in love by the mushy minute, and given my busy sleeping/corporeal neglect schedule—I’m just not sure I want to ring in the new year sitting ringside at everyone else’s joy.
Nor am I sure I could even physically leave the house at this point. The thought of it is unbearable. It’s like I’m made of molten lead. Every movement feels like bench-pressing a Buick. I only showered this morning because Dad threatened to take away my laptop if I didn’t, my laptop streaming being the only thing that puts me back to sleep or brings me any comfort, my glowing drug of choice.
Mom invited Tracy and Mr. Crowell over for dinner and to “watch the ball drop.”
“The ball has already dropped, Mom,” I say when she comes into my room. But she is not having it, as she flings open the curtains to allow the last of the low winter light to violently assault me in my bed.
HISSSSS, I recoil like a rabid vampire bat.
“Funny,” she says, picking up some dirty dishes and clothes.
“I’m not trying to be funny,” I say.
“Well, you need to come out and make an appearance, at the very least. Even if you don’t stay up with us until midnight.”
Which I don’t. Stay up till midnight with them. Nor even make an appearance, unless you count floating down the hall like a ghost, trying not to see or be seen by any of them. Of course, Tracy is like a purebred spaniel, and the minute she hears the floorboard creak, she whips her head around and tracks me to the kitchen.
“Hi, stranger!” she chirps.
“Some might say you’re the strange one,” I say, popping a bag of popcorn in the microwave and pressing Start.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No duh.”