What Makes a Family

by Colleen Faulkner

  I guess that means she’s going to tell him, and I shouldn’t.

  I move toward the doorway. First things first, I need to go to the bathroom. Then I need to put on a bra. I’m not sure why I think I need to put on a bra to call hospice to have my grandmother declared dead. I’m definitely going to need a big cup of my mother’s bad coffee.

  * * *

  I call Drum while I’m still in the bathroom and have another good cry. He says all the right things, and I feel better when I hang up. Then I wake Joseph, and together we wake our girls and tell them Mom Brodie is dead. Sarah’s eyes fill with tears, and she gives me a hug. She seems to accept the death of the woman she is named after with the same aplomb with which she tackles everything else in the world. Ainslie is too young to really understand, but she throws herself into her daddy’s arms for a bear hug, and the two head downstairs with her getting a piggyback ride.

  “You think it’s okay if I go for a run?” my Sarah asks me when they’re gone. She’s opened the French doors and walked out onto the balcony. A light breeze comes in off the bay, smelling briny and life-giving. “Before I see her?”

  See Mom Brodie’s body, she means. “You don’t have to see her. It’s not necessary.”

  “No, I want to.” She turns her back to me to lean on the balcony rail. She’s wearing a pair of very short pink shorts that say SCORE! across her butt cheeks. It doesn’t look like something I would have bought, but I keep my mouth shut. Pick your battles. And pick the time and place. That’s my new addition to the rule.

  “I’ve never seen a dead person,” she says, sounding scarily matter-of-fact.

  “I’ll go with you, if you want.”

  She turns to face me. “That’s okay. I need to do it alone.”

  I meet her gaze, and we have a moment. And I feel so fortunate to have my daughter. This one. “I just called hospice. It’ll be close to two hours before Gail gets here, so you have time.”

  She nods. “You going to wake up Celeste now?”

  I groan. “I guess we have to tell her at some point.” I make no attempt to keep the reluctance from my voice.

  Sarah makes a face. “You really think she’s going to be that upset, Mom? Because the only thing I’ve heard her say about Mom Brodie this weekend is that she can’t wait to get her inheritance. Did you know she’s getting a hair transplant?” This time, it’s just her freckled nose that Sarah wrinkles. “I didn’t even know there was such a thing.”

  “Hair transplant?” It sounds so crazy that it has to be true.

  We’re both quiet for a moment.

  “Well, good luck with that.” Sarah turns her back to me.

  I walk slowly down the hall toward my sister’s room. The phrase dead man walking goes through my head. Which is totally histrionic. I sound like my sister now. And Sarah’s right. Celeste isn’t going to be that broken up about Mom Brodie’s dying. Specifically, when she finds out she’s been cut out of the will.

  So why am I dreading telling her?

  Because Mom Brodie’s death will instantly become all about Celeste. Because she’ll pretend she gives two craps. Because Celeste loves a drama, and I hate providing one on a silver platter.

  I don’t knock on her bedroom door. I just walk in. Halfway through the door, I have second thoughts. What if she brought that old guy home? I don’t know if I can look at Bartholomew’s bare butt before I’ve had a cup of coffee.

  Celeste is alone in the bed. Thank God for small favors. Another one of Mom Brodie’s little sayings. I guess our loved ones really do carry on, in us.

  I walk over to the heavy drapes that cover the French doors and push them open. Celeste doesn’t move. She’s sprawled on top of the bed wearing panties and a cami. She never made it under the sheets. Her hair is plastered to one side of her head, and in the morning light I can see how thin it’s become. And I feel bad for her. And I feel bad for laughing at the idea of a hair transplant. If she wants it, if it makes her feel better about herself, who am I to judge? I know better. My grandmother taught me better.

  As I walk over to the bed, I see a pink and green dress hanging on the front of her closet door. It’s a pretty dress, chiffon with fluttery sleeves. In anticipation of the funeral? I also see her wig on her dresser. She’s stuffed it with the scarf she was wearing yesterday, and propped it on an empty fifth of vodka. The girl’s innovative; I’ll give her that.

  I sit down on the edge of her bed and look down at her. I never realized how much she looks like our mother—a skinny version, albeit. She didn’t take her makeup off when she got home last night. I wonder if it has anything to do with the empty vodka bottle.

  I feel a sudden tenderness for my little sister, and I want to reach out and brush the hair off her mascara-streaked cheek. I want to whisper that everything’s going to be all right. But I don’t.

  I turn and gaze out the double doors. Celeste’s room is at the front of the house, looking out over the acres of the front lawn Daddy keeps mowed. He doesn’t do it himself, of course. He’s got a grounds crew that works all of his properties, including this house and Joseph’s. Celeste never minded having a front room, instead of one with a view of the bay. I’d have thrown a fit if Birdie ever decided to move me to the front of the house. Even when the doors are closed and the drapes pulled, I can hear the bay. Smell it. Feel it.

  But Celeste’s view is beautiful. From here, I can see acres and acres of soy beans and field corn and sorghum ready to be harvested soon. My love of farm fields comes second only to my love of the Chesapeake Bay. The view from here is so beautiful that tears well in my eyes. The older I get, the more I love this place. The more I feel Brodie Island pulling me into her arms.

  Every time I come home, Daddy mentions how nice it would be to have me here again. Yesterday, while we were having crabs, he brought up, out of the blue, the idea of Drum’s having a studio in the barn where we used to keep our ponies when we were kids. I wonder if Joseph said something to him about us splitting the money with Celeste.

  I turn back to my sister. I need to wake her because I need to get dressed and go downstairs and be with Birdie and Daddy.

  My thoughts and my heart go back to Mom Brodie, lying downstairs in the sewing room. I can’t believe she’s gone....

  I lay my hand on Celeste’s bony shoulder. She’s so thin that it’s a little scary. I wonder for a moment if she has some awful disease and hasn’t told us. But I know she’s not sick; she’d be playing that card for all it was worth.

  “Celeste,” I whisper.

  She doesn’t start like I would if someone woke me this way. She just slowly opens her eyes and looks up at me. We have the same eyes. She looks like Birdie, but we all have the Brodie eyes.

  “Hey,” I say softly.

  She blinks and pushes her hair off her face. Then she sits up and leans back against her headboard, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. I know that look.

  I hand her the half bottle of water sitting on her bedside nightstand. I reach for the bottle of ibuprofen. I have a feeling she’s going to need that, too.

  “What are you”—she twists off the cap and takes a long drink—“what are you doing here?” She reaches over, wakes her phone to see the time, and drops the phone back on the nightstand. “Christ, it’s seven thirty in the morning.”

  “Mom Brodie died,” I say softly, handing her four little white tablets.

  She stares at me, seemingly confused. Maybe because she’s not awake yet. “She died?”

  I nod. “A little while ago.”

  “She died,” she says a little more forcefully, as if she’s annoyed. “God damn it.” She looks away, shaking her head. She throws back the pain reliever and takes another long drink. A little of the water trickles from the side of her mouth. “So typical of her.” She’s past annoyed now and moved on to anger.

  My own temper flares, but I keep it to myself. “Typical?” I get up off her bed. Any tenderness I felt for my sister is gone. This is so like h
er. Everything is about Celeste. Always. “What’s that supposed to mean? She’s dead, Celeste.” My voice chokes up.

  “Right.” She sets the water bottle back on the table and leans back and closes her eyes. “She’s dead.” She seems to think on it for a moment, and then her voice changes. “Mom Brodie’s dead. I can’t believe she’s dead.” Now she sounds likes she’s going to burst into tears.

  I’m confused. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her if she’s still drunk. I bite my tongue and turn for the door. No one has the right to judge how another grieves, I tell myself. I repeat it in my head, like a mantra. “You should come down and have breakfast with us. Daddy needs us. And Birdie, too,” I add. “The nurse will be here to declare her dead in about an hour and a half. Angus says he can be here waiting to take her to the funeral home.” I stop in the doorway and turn back to look at Celeste. “So, if you want to . . . see her. To say good-bye. You should do it now.”

  She mumbles something under her breath as I leave the room, but I don’t hear it. And I don’t ask because I don’t want to know.

  33

  Celeste

  I watch Abby walk out of my bedroom and close the door with more than a little attitude. I don’t know what she’s being so pissy about. I bet she’s got a big, fat pile of money coming to her as soon as Sarah Brodie’s will is probated. And I’m getting a big, fat nothing.

  I feel like throwing the water bottle at her, or at least at the door. But my head is pounding. I need the water.

  I take another sip, and my gaze drifts to the green and pink dress hanging on my closet door. The wrinkles have come out of it nicely.

  I stare at it. Now what the hell am I going to do? Mom Brodie’s ruined my perfectly good plan. The nerve of her dying and ruining my carefully planned suicide.

  Everyone on the island is going to be so worked up about Sarah Brodie’s death. Queen Brodie’s death. You can’t have two funerals in one week. Because hers will be first. Attendance would be down for mine.

  I guess they could bury us at the same time. I could request it in my suicide note.

  But she’d still be stealing my thunder. People always liked her more than me. The funerals would all be about poor Miss Sarah. People might even talk about thank goodness Miss Sarah died first and didn’t have to go through Celeste’s suicide.

  So my plan’s ruined.

  I finish the water and throw the empty bottle at the door. It hits and bounces off with a less-than-satisfying sound.

  So now what?

  I stare at the dress, my thoughts churning. It’s pretty, and I look good in it. It makes me look young, I think.

  I guess I could wear it to Mom Brodie’s funeral. I could postpone my flight off the bridge, and then they could lay me out in it.

  That plan has possibilities.

  It could be seen as tragic. Especially if I can finagle a photo of me in the dress, in dark glasses and a hat in the weekly paper. The following week, I bet I’d make the front page. Celeste Brodie is laid to rest in the dress she wore to her grandmother’s funeral.

  That could work. It would certainly get people talking.

  I get out of bed because I really have to pee. I slip into my silk robe that has the flamingos on it and tie the silk sash.

  Postponing would give me a little more time to make my plans, perfect the suicide note. I think I’ll write only one to everyone rather than one to each member of my family. I’m not much of a writer.

  I open the nightstand and pull out the pint bottle. It’s empty. I drop it in the drawer and go to my bag, at the end of the bed. There’s a few swallows left in a pint in there, and I unscrew the cap and tip the bottle. I close my eyes, relieved by the burn.

  I imagine Mom Brodie’s funeral will be Saturday. She rates a Saturday funeral. That will give out-of-towners a chance to get here.

  I could do it Saturday night. If I get lucky and my body washes up early enough Sunday morning, everyone in the three churches on the island would be talking about it by the eleven o’clock service.

  I screw the lid back on the empty bottle and drop it into my bag. I’ll need to get into town this morning and restock.

  I immediately start thinking about what I should wear today. Word will be getting around. People will want to talk. Pay their respects.

  My irritation at Mom Brodie’s ruining my plan eases. I can make this work.

  I can totally make this work.

  34

  Sarah

  I stand in the doorway, staring at her in the bed. I was expecting her face to be covered with a sheet, the way you see it in movies. It’s not. But her eyes are closed, which is good because I don’t know if I could go in if they weren’t.

  I’m all sweaty from my run. I wonder if it’s disrespectful to go see your dead great-grandmother wearing running shorts and a sports-bra top and covered in sweat. I thought about going up for a shower first, but when I came down the hall, no one was in here. Mom’s on the phone in the kitchen with someone. Celeste was smoking in her underwear on her balcony when I came up the driveway. Birdie’s out hanging clothes on the clothesline, of all things.

  I know we’re not supposed to judge people. I realize we probably all handle loss in different ways. Who’s to say my running four miles is an appropriate response? Or Grandpop standing at the end of the dock for an hour, watching his dog swim?

  But hanging clothes on a clothesline? That seems weird, even for Birdie. Like, it’s any other day. Like Mom Brodie doesn’t matter.

  But it’s kind of interesting how everyone is responding.

  I stare at my great-grandmother, wondering what she would think.

  She doesn’t look any deader than she did when we got here three days ago.

  I can’t believe we’ve been here only three days. It seems like . . . I’ve always been here. Like my life back home isn’t real. It’s weird, but I don’t miss that life. I don’t even really miss my friends. Just Dad.

  I take one step into the room.

  I don’t know what I’m afraid of. Dead people can’t hurt you. Well . . . zombies can, but clearly Mom Brodie isn’t a zombie, because if she was, she’d be jumping up out of that bed and snapping her teeth at me.

  I take another step toward her. I can hear Mom’s voice down the hall, in the kitchen. Birdie’s in there now, too, talking to Uncle Joseph. I can’t really hear what anyone is saying, but the sounds of their voices make me feel better. Feel safe.

  I take another tentative step toward the bed. “I’m really sorry you died,” I whisper. The words sound stupid in my head, but my mom always says go with your gut instinct. My gut told me to tell Mom Brodie that I’m sorry. Because I am sorry. I wouldn’t say I was really close to Mom Brodie. I mean, I think she liked me, and I liked her, but we never had any kind of deep conversations or anything.

  But she did like my palindromes.

  I take a couple of more quick steps toward the bed, and then I’m right there. Staring down at a dead person.

  Now that I’m here, I’m not sure what to do. I’m not even sure why I’m here. Why I felt like I had to do this.

  She’s so wrinkled that it’s hard to see the woman in the photograph on the nightstand in the face I’m looking at. It’s like she’s wearing a mask.

  But then I think about the tattoo, and the pretty young woman comes more into focus on the wrinkly face. I think about the fact that once upon a time, she was barely older than me, and she got married to Great-Grandpop Joe. In New Jersey. And he knew about the tattoo. Or found out about it pretty fast. And he loved her anyway. Her and her tattoo. At a time when tattoos on women were totally not cool or accepted the way they are now.

  I never knew my great-grandfather, but from the things people say about him, I’ve figured out he must have been a nice guy. And everyone agrees he adored Mom Brodie. Adored her until the day he died.

  I look down at her. “My mom’s really going to miss you,” I say softly. “And . . . me too, I think. I mean . . . I
know we were never like best friends or anything, but—” I’m feeling stupid again, and I don’t know where this is going, so I stop talking.

  I just stand there, looking at Mom Brodie. My gaze moves to the photo again. Then the oyster shell. Then the teacup. Then the mints and my little piece of blue paper with the palindrome.

  I look back at her again. She’s not scary, now that I’m here. It’s like . . . I’m looking at an inanimate object. I don’t get the same feeling I did when I was in the room before. When she was alive. I don’t know where I stand with souls or even God. I’ve got a lot of mixed feelings about it all. But I’m pretty certain that whatever part of Mom Brodie, even though she was in a coma, was here last night, when I came in to say good night, isn’t here now.

  So talking to her is probably dumb.

  But what if there is a heaven? What if I get there in eighty-five years or so and there she is standing at her pearly gates I’ve heard her talk about. Will she ask me why I didn’t talk to her when I was here today?

  I look down at her hand and reach out slowly with the intention of touching her. Maybe not taking her hand, but just touching it. But my hand doesn’t get all the way there before I drop it to the sheet.

  I can’t do it. If she’s cold, it will freak me out.

  I look at her face. Then the form of her body under the sheet. Somehow she looks smaller than she did the last time I was in here.

  Which is impossible, of course.

  When my gaze reaches the topography of her legs, I stare, thinking about the tattoo. I really, really want to see it one more time. Before the funeral guy comes for her body and they embalm her and stick her in a box and we stick her in the ground.

  But I wonder if that’s crossing the line, looking at the tattoo of your dead great-grandmother. The way hanging wet laundry out an hour after you find out your mother-in-law is dead is. I mean, in order for Birdie to have been hanging out wet clothes, she had to have woken up, found Mom Brodie dead, and then gone to the laundry room and thrown clothes in the washing machine.