Till it Stops Beating
Page 22
“Where’s Justin?”
“At the—”
But he doesn’t finish his sentence.
I put a hand on his heaving shoulder. Then I feel my own body give out, and I sink into the chair next to him and we hold each other and cry.
Chapter Sixteen
Eulogy
Birds circle us overhead and the ocean laps. Rabbi Andrew’s prayer shawl blows in the wind, and he puts a hand on his yarmulke to keep it from flying off. “Please rise as we say the Mourner’s Kaddish.”
My legs are steel posts when I stand.
The Rabbi begins, “Yit’gadal v’yit’kadash sh’mei raba.” Under the tent, a chorus of “Amens” follow.
As the Rabbi continues in Hebrew, I glance at Tony. He’s mouthing the words like he’s done this before. “B’al’ma di v’ra khir’utei v’yam’likh mal’khutei b’chayeikhon uv’yomeikhon.”
Even though I don’t know what each Hebrew word means, the sounds coming from us as we stand together on the beach saying goodbye to Bubbie feel like tiny pins pricking the back of my head.
My eyes fall on the solid brass urn on a table next to the Rabbi, surrounded by bouquets of brightly colored flowers. I scan the crowd of about sixty. Reds, purples, blues. No one is wearing black.
“I’d like to call up Helen’s granddaughter, Maddie.”
Standing up takes a long time for me. People murmur. Justin looks worried. My parents pat my legs. When I finally stand and begin to make my way, I want to stop moving. Each step is weighted with my not wanting to be in this moment. I’m surprised when I reach the Rabbi and feel his warm hand on my shoulder. I turn to the crowd of sad and silent faces.
I don’t have anything prepared, so when I open my mouth I expect to just cry. Instead I talk:
“I tried to write something for today and when that didn’t work, I tried to go through Bubbie’s journals for one of her poems. But truthfully, I hurt too much. It hurts to stand here. It hurts to tell you all how much I miss her, how much I don’t want to be here before all of you, how much I don’t want to do this. It hurts to turn the pages of her journals. To read her handwriting. To sit in her favorite chair in her bedroom. Everything, every part of me hurts…But I take some comfort in knowing that I’m not alone in my pain. In my hurt about losing my grandmother too soon, way too soon. Just this morning before we left the house, I tried one last attempt to come up with the proper eulogy for Bubbie and that’s when I remembered something she said to me not too long ago when I told her how she had to try everything to stay alive because I didn’t want to go through this.” I wave my arms around the room. “And she came back at me with one of her Bubbiesm except this one came from one of her favorite writers E.B. White, ‘Never worry about your heart till it stops beating.’ And then she added, as long as you are alive and beating, sweetie, things will hurt.” I stop and look at the faces of my mother, father, sister, Justin, and Tony and I add, “And I hurt,” I laugh while the tears fall, “so I guess I don’t have to worry.”
. . . . .
I come forward and take the urn out of the Rabbi’s hands. I hear my mother sob and my father reassure her. Then we all file out of the tent. The only sound is the ocean moving. We walk down to the water, all together, Justin holds my hand and my parents are on the right of me with Barbara and Cliff and Peter. Joyce nods her head at me. I slide out of my shoes and step into the water. I gasp from how cool it is on my feet, and then I open the urn, let go of Justin’s hand, step a little in the water and scatter the ashes.
. . . . .
My hands slide around the stack of my grandmother’s notebooks, and I place them gently in the box. I close the flaps and keep my fingers pressed on the opening. Justin pulls out a piece of packing tape and lays it across the flaps. We don’t talk. The only sound the hum of the ceiling fan in my grandmother’s bedroom and the far away sound of the ocean through the open windows.
It’s the last box. Justin takes my hand and says, “Let’s go.”
. . . . .
The view is a painting. The faraway buildings and landscape across the Pacific Ocean all in alignment, and the color is like looking at an enhanced photo. Justin’s hand is warm and firm in mine. I take the first step onto the walkaway, and my chest is tight. I don’t take the second step.
“It’s the perfect ending,” Justin squeezes my hand. “Come on.”
We walk across the bridge in silence, and I don’t look up, just at my feet. Studying in the movements. Pick up foot. Put down. Pick up. Put down.
We have to be close to the other side by now. I stop and look up. Nope. Not at all.
I catch my breath, drop Justin’s hand, and lean against the railing of the bridge out across the water. I toy with the locket around my neck. Bubbie bought this to “fit just enough of me to remember”, an ash pendant in the shape of a Jewish star.
The view of the far away buildings and landscape makes me feel mid-air, flying. I wrap my arms around myself and shiver. I don’t need the ashes to remember.
Justin slides an arm around me. I lean into him and stare across the vast water. We stand like this in silence for a few minutes, the air smelling of ocean and sunshine.
I reach around to unclasp the necklace, but my fingers fumble.
“Let me,” Justin says and turns me around. His hands graze my neck as he unlocks the clasp.
“Here,” he hands it to me, and the chain curls into the palm of my hand.
I run my thumb along the shape of the star and unlatch the tiny lock. “Good bye, Bubbie.” I whisper as the ashes flutter into the wind.
Chapter Seventeen
The (Real) Perfect Ending
The “fasten seatbelts” sign flashes with a ding. Justin holds a greasy paper bag open in front of my nose. “I got some snacks.”
Peering in, I see a sugar covered, hole-less…doughnut.
My eyes dart up to his face. “Is this some kind of joke?”
He gives me his let’s get-it-on smile.
“Are you kidding?” I push the bag away and snatch the Sky magazine from the pocket in front of me. “Jelly doughnuts?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Justin’s face fall. The bag crumples in his lap. “You don’t remember?”
“Remember what?” My stomach growls. “I thought you bought bagels.”
He rubs my knee, “You love jelly doughnuts. Raspberry, to be specific.”
What is he talking about? My stomach makes another grotesque noise.
“Here,” he puts the bag in front of my nose again. “You’re obviously hungry.”
I look at him and then at the bag. The smell of sugar and grease so strong it’s almost hypnotic.
Oh. My. God.
Me and Justin on my back porch. You’re obviously hungry. Here. My stomach growling, me blushing, him handing me a doughnut.
Justin leans into me, the bag crumples a little. “We were in eighth grade. Working on a project for school.” His whisper tickles my ear. “I brought the doughnuts. And you…had this interesting way of eating them.”
I blush.
“You stuck your finger all the way inside of it and pulled out a glob of jelly.” He says into my neck, his lips driving me crazy. “And you licked it from your finger.”
The pilot comes on the speaker and says a bunch of things I can’t understand. Now Justin is kissing my fingertips.
“And your mouth dropped open,” I continue the memory, my free hand brushing the bag that’s now between us. “And I said, ‘want some?’”
“Then I said, ‘Sure’ and I sucked the rest of the jelly off your finger.”
His lips continue to make soft kisses on the palm of my hand while my other one has found its way into the bag and feels around for the powdery soft doughnut inside.
Passengers move around in their seats, a toddler cries, the pilot talks about the weather in New York. The plane begins to roll. My fingers wrap around the plump pastry.
Justin holds my other hand and sits back. “I remember everything, Maddie.”
I palm the doughnut and bring it to my lips. We move faster down the runway.
“Like playing air guitar to your dad’s seventies rock tapes and kissing you for the first time under that tree.”
I take a huge bite and squeeze Justin’s hand. “Your right, Justin. I love jelly doughnuts. I really love jelly doughnuts.” Then I give him a long and sweet jelly filled kiss.
About the Author
From college essays to resumes to books, as a writing coach, Hannah R. Goodman specializes in helping people find their writer’s voice. Her twenty-year career also includes the titles author, teacher, and, more recently, mental health counselor. Among the many titles she has, mother to three girls—two humans and one feline—is most important. Because she spent enough money on them, she wants to share her fancy letters: M.Ed, MFA, and more recently, LMHC.
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