by Laura Lanni
“I’ll try to depart, whatever that means, after the ceremony. I don’t know if I can, Mom, but I’ll try.”
| | | |
“Joe!” Eddie calls from downstairs, ready to wrestle if needed, “time to get dressed.”
“I am dressed, Daddy.” Joey’s innocent voice gives him away. The kid is up to something.
Eddie starts up the stairs. “No, buddy, you can’t wear your baseball uniform to Mom’s memorial service.” A typical day in the Wixim house, except that I’m dead.
“Can I wear my cap?” That’s my boy. Push and push.
“Nope.”
“Can I wear my cleats? ’Cause Mommy loves my cleats and the clicky sound they make, so she’ll know it’s me.”
“Sure, you can wear the cleats, but with your suit.” Eddie gives in. He always did when I was alive. In the game of good cop, bad cop, Eddie was the so-good-he-could-hardly-be-true cop.
My protective shield has cracked. I got too close to Eddie, and he got into my head and I now hear him thinking. You poor kid. You don’t even understand what a memorial service is about. You still think your Mom will be there, don’t you?
I will be there, Eddie. But what do you care?
Joey smiles. Only wanted the cleats anyway. Daddy’s way easier than Mom.
Eddie smiles back at him because he won’t have to wrestle or bribe Joey to get him into the suit. The tie could still be an issue, though.
Ten minutes later, Joey charges into the kitchen in his blue suit and baseball cleats. He even has his tie on—in a knot around his head. Bethany and Michelle take turns hugging him and telling him how great he looks for his mom.
How come nobody’s taking my picture like Mommy did on the first day of school?
Joey studies his adults and wonders about winning the cleat war. Daddy looks funny in his shiny shoes with all that toilet paper stuck to his chin. Bethany won’t quit crying.
Aunt Michelle hugs me too much. She feels like Mommy, but she doesn’t even know where the camera is. Mommy takes all my pictures. Without Mommy, there’ll never be another picture of me ever again.
My poor family is a pitiful mess. I watch as they line up and trudge together to the car. Joey’s cleats scratch at my hardwood floor, and I don’t even give a damn. He has cookies stashed in his pockets. Bethany pours an extra mug of coffee, over sugars it, and brings it to the car. She hasn’t showered in days. Michelle fiddles with a pile of paper scraps as she shoves dirty tissues up the sleeve of her sweater just like our mother used to do. She’s humming to herself and crying her stupid mascara off.
Eddie, last out, hesitates at the door and turns back. He looks at my purse still on the floor beside the sneaker pile. He scans the kitchen, looks toward our bedroom door. Still waiting for her. Go ahead without me, Eddie. I’ll be right behind you.
18
My Memorial
Kids park their dads’ shiny BMWs on the grass and boulevards. What a mess. People huddle together on the sidewalks in dark coats, and others push their way into the warmth of the stone building.
Since there is no body to view, the funeral directors and ushers quietly, but frantically, try to direct what looks like the entire high school population into the small chapel. They hand out programs and ask people to sit closer together to make room for more. Old Mrs. Smithers from down the street drove herself in her dead husband’s pickup truck. She sits alone in the back row eyeing the noisy teenagers who fill the seats.
Programs? At a funeral? Well, aren’t we special? That Anna was so full of herself. Thought she was so smart. Hmpff. If she was so smart, she wouldn’t be dead. It’s her own fault that she died.
How was it my fault?
Look at all those kids! So noisy in a church! Somebody should tell them to hush. She cranes her stringy neck around looking for an adult husher, but sees only ushers who are useless and the pompous principal of my high school parading in.
Mr. Carter walks stiffly down the aisle shaking hands and greeting students and parents. Oh, my lord, this is horrible. Like a PTA meeting. So many people! Is it okay for a principal to genuflect in church? Well, this isn’t my church, so I won’t. We had to close school early again today so all these teachers and kids could come to this service. In the spring they’ll forget they demanded this, and they’ll all complain when we have to make up the school day. It’s not my fault either way.
He finds a single seat alone on the end of a pew and remains aloof, but the deep crease between his eyebrows gives him away: he is extremely worried. How the hell am I going to find a science teacher this late in the school year? How can I explain to the media and the school board how this happened to our teacher? It isn’t my fault what happened on Friday. It isn’t my fault that we had to close school early today, either. Christ, they blame me for everything.
My principal is worried that he’ll be blamed for my death? What is going on? I can’t remember how I died. Was it my fault? Why has that not occurred to me until now?
“Because, even though you are newly dead, you’re my smart girl and you knew to focus on your family. The details of how you died are not important once you’re dead. Not to the dead, anyway.”
“Hi, Mom.” Just when I begin to lurk around, to pick people’s thoughts and snuggle in to revel in their sadness over the loss of me, spoilsport Mom pops in. “Thanks for coming.”
“I wouldn’t miss this, dear. Don’t mind me. I’ll be quiet and let you enjoy your misery. Oh, look at the lovely program—so formal. Your death is all organized, just like your life was.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Memorial for the internment of the soul of ANNA WIXIM
Procession of family
Pastor Jones—Surviving the departure of a loved one
Michelle McElveen, sister of the deceased
Chorus—River in Judea
Dr. Edward J. Wixim, husband of the deceased
Jazz Ensemble—Amazing Grace
Recessional
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Melancholy organ music starts up from the balcony. People rise, unsure, in a hesitant wave that starts in the back of the sanctuary when old Mrs. Smithers lurches to her feet. My family walks down the center aisle. Bethany and Michelle hold each other up. Joey marches in his cleats, held in line by his father’s large hand on the top of his head. Eddie’s face is granite.
This hurts.
The music ends. Sniffles echo. Bodies rustle back into seats. The standing-room crowd maneuvers to lean on walls and pillars. I’ve been here before, but never as the dead one.
The minister talks for a while, but I don’t listen so much to him. I just watch my family. Eddie’s head is bowed, and his hand rests on Joey’s leg, which kicks the wooden pew rhythmically to a beat in his head. Bethany sits straight and tall like a weeping statue beside Michelle, who keeps a protective arm around her shoulders.
Although I’m not listening to him, I do notice that the minister’s comforting thoughts have made my students cry.
Little Wendy sits behind my family. I loved Mrs. Wixim. Is it okay to love your teacher? If I didn’t love her, this wouldn’t hurt so much.
Alex, a football player who graduated a few years ago, sits with other boys from the team near the front of the church. Mrs. Wixim is dead. I can’t believe it. I remember Alex. He was the quarterback and homecoming king. So smart, but he didn’t care at all about school except for sports and girls. Man, little Tina Thomson is all grown up. She looks hot today. Heard she broke up with Brad. Maybe I’ll get a minute with her later—hold her while she cries. Crying, weeping noises dribble from the crowd of pretty girls sitting all around the football players. I wonder if they’re crying for me, or just for attention from the guys.
There is James, one of my all-time favorite kids. Sweet blue eyes brimming with tears. He breaks my heart. If I had a heart. Can you cry when you’re dead?
“Without the tears, but the feeling is the same.” The voice of r
eason, my mother asks, “How’re you doing?”
“This is rough. I might need to leave,” I admit.
“I’ll go if you will.”
“Wait. Just a little more.” I ignore my mother and concentrate for a few moments on this intelligent young man. When I taught James, I was pregnant with Joey. I was a cranky old pregnant mess, often grumpy, always tired. James wipes his nose on the back of his sleeve. I remember when I came to Mrs. Wixim’s class, I hated school. No teacher even noticed I was smart until she did. They only knew I was trouble. But Mrs. Wixim loved us even if she never said so. She was tough—just kept pushing and pushing. And those rules. She was a crazy woman with those rules. No excuses. Yes, James, you were amazing. I followed your story and heard you are in graduate school. You’ll make me proud.
I check on my family. Holding it together pretty well, I think, so I’ll take a peek. What is Eddie thinking? Anna. Anna. Anna. Anna. Anna. Anna. Anna. Anna. Well, that’s enlightening. He remembers my name.
Bethany? They cremated Mom today. She’s gone. Mom’s body is really gone. There’s nothing left of her. She’s gone. A steady stream of tears runs down her cheeks, leaving two growing wet spots on the shoulders of her jacket.
Joey? They all said Mommy would be here. He pivots his head like an owl and searches around the church. I don’t see her. Good thing I wore my cleats. They click real good on this wood floor. I get to do a lot of things now without Mommy telling me not to all the time. But I wish she would get here. I saved her a seat.
Oh, my sweet boy, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
The song ends, and Michelle stands up. She watches the toes of her high heels walk up the three steps to the podium. I wait for it. And there it is. Gravity strikes again. She caught her toe on the top step. That’s my sister. The chronic tripper.
God, Anna, I need some backup here. Or at least a hug. Help me with this one, will you?
“Mom, I need a break.” I’m the one who needs the help.
“Sure. Let’s get you away from here. We can come back later if you want to.”
“Take me somewhere and tell me how I died. And why it was my fault.”
“Honey, I can take you somewhere, but I cannot tell you what you already know.”
19
Last Lunch Duty
Friday, November eleventh, 11:00 a.m., first lunch. Like water escaping a high-pressure hose, hormonal teenage bodies blasted through the narrow doors into the cafeteria. They brought noise with their fragrant mass. I was accustomed to these attributes of the humans with whom I spent my working life. Teenagers are incessantly noisy, perpetually hungry, and relentlessly mad with hormones; I understood them. I even pitied them a little as I waited, impatient and unreasonable, for them to get on with their growing up.
Lunch duty was a dreaded event for me every Friday. I tried to trade for Mondays. I’d rather get this over with at the beginning of the week than have to face it, tired, at the end. I failed. Nobody would trade. Normal, intelligent college graduates do not become teachers because they have a burning desire to serve lunch duty. It is a shocking and hazardous fringe benefit for teachers to learn that they are expected to herd kids like cattle—to patrol them like a cop walking a beat, enforcing rules laid down by administrators. Lunch duty was comprised of too many moving parts: four hundred kids, one administrator, four grumpy lunch ladies, twenty-two minutes, 500 milligrams of ibuprofen, and me. It was a deadly mix.
I gave myself a pep talk. I only had lunch duty thirty-six times a year. Just twenty-two minutes each time. If I ended up teaching for thirty years, lunch duty would only consume about seventeen days of my life. Seventeen days. Ugh. Quit your whining, Anna. People spent more time in lines at the bank and grocery store and DMV. Some people are shoe salesmen. Some people scrape gunk off other people’s teeth. Some people empty urine pans. This wasn’t so bad. I said shut up to my calculating head and went in. I could survive this.
Two freshmen girls came in swinging their boyish hips, doing the look-at-me stroll. They dropped their book bags on a table to lay their claim and walked, showing their bellies and pierced navels, to the cookie line. They didn’t even try to disguise their mission: they were prowling some senior boys. The boys ignored them, which of course made the flirts even louder.
The Goths sat together and didn’t eat. Ever. One boy was busy pushing the end of a paperclip into his wiry, thin forearm. Another was reading a magazine with dark images on the cover. At least they can read. I held out my hand to Goth number one as I passed by. He looked up, non-confrontational. I glanced at the paperclip and nodded, and he dropped it in my hand. I tossed it in the trash on the way to the cookie line.
I wonder if these kids will be embarrassed one day to remember how they behaved in high school. It’s agonizing to watch them try to figure out which version of themselves to be.
At the cookie line I made eye contact with one of the noisy freshmen flirters. She glared back at me, but I didn’t look away. She became uneasy when I glanced down at her belly, which was not on display for me. She yanked down her shirt and gave me a sneer. I smiled a thank-you and walked away.
I was two-for-two and hadn’t needed to yell or even speak yet. This luck couldn’t hold up much longer.
At the pizza line, some of the free- and reduced-lunch kids were trying to buy pizza with their free tax dollars like they did every single Friday. The cashier was once again denying them this forbidden pleasure, and they were ganging up to argue with her. I stepped up to the leader at the front of the line and asked if I could offer my assistance.
He said, “What? Are you the Walmart greeter or something?” I wanted to backhand him.
I smiled my best fake teacher smile, glanced at his ID tag, and said, “It looks like you’re in the wrong line, Pete. Let me put that food back for you so you can step over to the turkey-and-mashed-potato-entrée line.”
He flipped over his picture badge and turned back to argue with the red-faced cashier. “Just ring up my pizza, will ya?”
“No, sir, I will not. You know the rules,” she replied with a nod of her round, curly head. She crossed her arms the best she could across her flat, wide chest.
“But I don’t want no turkey entrée. I want pizza.”
“That’s your misfortune,” I said to the back of his head. “Come with me now, or I’ll call the resource officer to escort you out of the cafeteria.”
I’d dealt with this kid—I thought of him as Pizza Boy—for nine Fridays so far and was weary at the thought that I was facing a couple dozen more. Two months ago, when we first came face-to-face over his desire for pizza for lunch, I felt sorry for him. I took his side and pleaded his case with the cafeteria staff, while they explained the rules to me as they might to an imbecile—only the main entrée line was approved for subsidized lunches. It didn’t make sense to me or to the kid, and I thought he’d appreciate that I went to bat for him. My efforts embarrassed him. On a subsequent Friday when he tried again to get the pizza, I offered to pay for him, which sent him over the edge. He flipped me off, and I had to report him to the administration. At this point, we had walked the tightrope of lunch rules together and frayed the line. It made no sense that we were fighting the same, futile battle again.
“Resource officer? Do you see him around here anywhere? Like he has time to deal with a freakin’ lunch issue.” Pizza Boy addressed me without turning around, posturing in front of his followers. While I watched the back of his greasy head, I heard him say, “Don’t you know about the gangs in this school? And the drugs? And the guns?” He turned to me then, glaring into my eyes. “There are lots of guns, lady. You just don’t know where they might turn up.”
On my last Friday of lunch duty, I nodded to the cashier, and she pushed her button to call for the administration. I should have stayed quiet and waited for help. Instead, I was furious that he had the nerve to threaten me, and I said, “I don’t care if you have a gun.” I could barely get a full breath I was so furious with h
im. “It is time for you to stop blocking this line. If you’re hungry and have a gun but no money, your only lunch option is the turkey. I expect to be obeyed. Immediately. Now, move!” A bit loud, even in the noisy cafeteria, I managed to get the attention of a hundred students, but there still wasn’t an administrator in sight.
He didn’t talk back this time. Somehow in the last few years I had managed to disregard my small size, and I never backed down to any kid. They were all children, no matter how tough they seemed. My poor Pizza Boy realized he’d lost again. He dropped his tray of pizza on the floor, ducked between the bars, and stormed to the back of the cafeteria.
Well, at least he was gone. Still no administrators. I sighed.
Seventeen minutes to go. The ibuprofen wasn’t working.
I grabbed a cup of water and trudged to my designated post by the door. Technically, once the lines of kids died down, my job was to keep them penned in, to stand by the door and just say no. This was the best part of lunch duty because there was no need for discussion. The rule was no students were allowed to leave through my door and no one could enter. Simple. It was no longer a door, just an extension of the wall.
A big girl with long, oily hair approached me, and I wondered why kids didn’t wash their hair anymore. Hairs, I corrected myself and smiled. I liked plurals with and without the extra s. She asked, “Hey, can I go to the math hall and use the soda machine?”
“No.”
Insistent and craving sugar, she whined, “Why not? Come on. I can’t drink that crappy milk again.”
“Sorry. Nobody leaves the cafeteria during lunch,” I said with a smile. She deserved a smile at least, if I had to deny her a caffeine fix.
She gave up and walked away with a groan. While I was busy with her, two other kids approached with requests. I dealt with one—I said no—while the other tried to sneak out the door. This was a blatant, coordinated approach to escape. I turned in time to see the door closing on him and chased him into the hall. He came back in.