See, on your birthday you look at the next year and what you’re going to do. You look forward. If you knew that this was the last day of your life, you would have no other choice but to look back and reflect. There’s something good and clean and final about that. And that puts everything, your whole life, right into perspective.
Do I have any regrets? Yes, I do, and now I know how to change them. I know what’s been keeping me from being able to get to my parents. Alice was right. I just needed to find the strength within myself before I would be able to help them. I needed to see what everyone else could see. I know now that it’s up to me to make everything okay.
10
I’m not in seventh heaven anymore.
I’m not in fourth heaven or fifth or second or third.
I’m in a place I never want to be in ever again, a place no one else should have to visit.
I’m at the door of my childhood home and about to enter shivah, the Jewish equivalent of a wake, for a twenty-nine-year-old woman who died suddenly.
Outside of the house there’s a water basin where mourners dressed in black dresses and suits wash their hands before they enter. If I remember correctly from my grandparents’ funerals, the washing of hands before entering the home after coming from the cemetery is supposed to separate the two acts, ending the sadness and beginning the act of comforting those who have lost the person they love: thus the shivah.
As I enter the house, about one hundred pairs of black shoes line the door to my parents’ entryway. Usually, shoes were lined up in the foyer of my childhood home so no one would scuff the floors. Tonight, they are lined up in the ritual of Jewish tradition as another act of not bringing in the sadness, and as a way of comforting my parents.
Bedsheets from the house cover the mirrors for the next seven days so no one sitting shivah should have to see their own grief. I see Patsy Kleinman, a friend of my mother’s, try to lift up a part of a sheet with a lipstick in her hand. Mr. Kleinman gives her a pinch in the arm followed by this hard, disapproving look. Good one, Mr. Kleinman.
The house is crammed with people. A lot of them are people my dad has worked with, but mostly it’s friends of my parents’ and mine. Trays of sandwiches and turkeys and briskets cover the dining room table, along with sides of coleslaw, potato salad, pots of soups, and various desserts. As I stand watching people place food on their plates, another tray of sandwiches is set in front of me on the table. I turn around and see that it’s Penelope, my best friend, who is making up the table.
“I think we have enough for now,” she says to a server. “And make sure that no one’s glass is ever empty,” she adds. “Alex would want everyone sloshed out of their minds.”
This makes me laugh. It’s so true. I only wish I could get a drink for myself.
There are people milling all around Pen, serving themselves sandwiches, whispering to each other, “What a shame, only twenty-nine.” My Penelope isn’t talking to anyone. After someone takes a sandwich, Pen spreads out the remaining sandwiches so the tray still looks presentable. This is so Pen, to be arranging the sandwiches like she is. Always the one to take charge to make sure everything is just right.
“Pen,” I say, putting my hand on her shoulder, “have a drink or something, you’re making me nervous.”
That’s when she stops arranging. Does she hear me? I keep my hand on her shoulder as she puts both of her hands on the table like it’s the only thing holding her up.
“Are you okay?” Dana Stanbury asks.
“Oh sure,” she answers confidently. “I just need to take a moment.”
I follow Pen as we navigate our way through the mourners and head into my bedroom. Pen shuts the door.
We look up at the shelves in my bedroom, at the collection of the dolls from around the world. Beside the dolls, there is one picture. It’s the one we both love, the one taken of us at summer camp when we were kids. I have the same one up in heaven. We both look at the picture: two little girls, one overgrown and scraggly. Her Camp Wonderland T-shirt is too tight, exposing the mounds of fat on her stomach. She’s got her circular glasses on and a huge smile exposing her oversize gums and teeth. She has her arm around the other little girl, who is much smaller than her friend, with pigtails and also smiling this huge grin.
“You stupid idiot,” Pen whispers aloud, chuckling through her tears. “How could your fat ass get hit by such a small car?”
“That’s what I thought you’d say,” I laugh with her as she sits down on my pink canopy bed, taking the picture with her.
Pen really starts to cry now.
“What the hell am I going to do without you?” she whispers aloud as she slides to the floor and I go along with her.
She’s facedown with her head buried in white shag carpet.
“What the hell am I going to do without you?” she asks again as I stroke her back.
“I’m here for you,” I tell her. “I’m right here, you idiot,” I whisper.
She picks up her head and rolls into the fetal position on the floor; her eyes open as she stares beyond the dust ruffle under the bed. I’m sitting up, leaning against the bed, watching over my dearest friend. I hear people outside the door—glasses clinking and mumblings of talk. It might as well be miles away.
Just then, Pen picks up her head, coming to life as she focuses on something under the bed. She takes her arm and moves it under the bed to grab something. When it comes out, she’s got my old Snoopy dog, the one I threw under there the night of my first kiss all those years ago. Pen takes it into her arms and sits up next to me beside the bed, staring at the old stuffed animal and our picture.
“What are you going to do with that thing?” I ask her, though I know she can’t hear me.
“I hope you’re taking care of yourself, wherever you are,” she whispers as if she were talking to my old, dusty Snoopy. “Who is going to look after you if I can’t?”
“I can take care of myself now, Pen. I can, I promise you, I’ll be okay.”
“I just worry,” she whispers.
“Don’t,” I tell her. “Please don’t. I know what I have to do.”
“Okay,” she whispers as she wipes her tears.
We sit there for a few more seconds in silence, my best friend and me. I know she can’t hear me, though maybe she can. It’s kind of like it was on earth when I’d think of her and suddenly the phone would ring and I would pick it up without saying hello and say, “I was just thinking of you!”
“Okay,” she says, confirming to herself as she gets up and places our picture and the Snoopy doll on the bed. “Okay,” she repeats confidently, grabbing a tissue from the bedside table and wiping her face.
Pen opens the door to my childhood room, and we step out among the crowd of mourners.
“How are you?” Kerry Collins and Dana Stanbury and Olivia Wilson ask as we head toward the living room.
“I’m okay now,” she tells them.
“We’re just talking about the time Alex and I went to get those perms. Remember how hers came out?”
“She lived through that, but she couldn’t survive a MINI Cooper!” Both Pen and I start to laugh, but no one else does.
“Sorry,” Pen tells them. “I’m just . . . I miss her.”
“So do we,” Dana cries as my friends embrace.
“How are you?” Charles Kitteredge, my ex-fiancé, asks as we pass him in the hallway.
“I’m fine,” she tells him, taking his hand. “How are you?”
“She was an amazing person,” he tells her.
“She was,” Pen answers, as we continue to make our way through the crowd.
There are the twins, Seth and Tom Rosso, and Greg Rice on one side of the room. They wave hello to Pen, but Pen doesn’t stop and I don’t blame her.
“It’s so those assholes to show up,” I tell Pen.
“Assholes,” Pen murmurs to herself.
“Penelope,” we hear, making our way through the crowd. It’s Andrew McAul
iffe. “My brother sends his regrets,” he says, putting his arm around her.
“Thank you, thank you for coming, Andy,” she says, kissing him on the cheek.
“She was one crazy chick.”
“She was,” she agrees as we walk by.
I see my old buddies from the mailroom at my dad’s office. Though aged, their suits have gotten much better. I see Stan Mitchell and Lou Sernoff and my buddy Peter from Barneys. How sweet was that of them to fly in? They’re standing over by Lloyd and Kate Kerner. All that running around for Kate’s beach top and they didn’t even get to go to Hawaii. Kate is crying and Lloyd is wiping his nose, but I’m wondering if that’s because he’s upset or because of his postnasal drip. Then I suddenly realize that I’ve lost Pen in the crowd, so I turn away and look across the room to find her.
I’m looking over to the other side of the room as I maneuver my way among all the mourners. One by one they move out of my way as I make my way over to the couch.
There they are.
“You didn’t tell me you’d be here,” I say to my grandparents and uncle Morris.
“Talk to her,” Grandmom instructs me as she takes her hand off of my mother’s shuddering body.
“She just needs to know that you’re okay, sweetheart,” Grandpop tells me.
“How are you holding up?” uncle Morris asks.
“I’m getting through this,” I answer in the best way I can.
“You did it,” Alice Oppenheim adds, smiling, “you got here. I knew you would.”
“I figured it out,” I smile.
“Now go to your parents,” she tells me. “They need you right now.”
“Yeah, I can take over from here,” I say, giving Alice a hug and adding, “Thank you so much.”
Next to Alice is Adam. My dear Adam. Of course he’s here with me.
“Do you need anything?” Adam asks, putting his arms around me.
“It was so sweet of you to be here,” I tell him, giving him a kiss. “It’s all going to be okay.”
“I love you,” he tells me.
“I love you, too.”
“Mrs. Dorenfield,” Pen gently prods, standing over my parents with a plate of food in her hand, “you should eat a little something.”
“No, I’m fine, I’m fine,” my mother cries.
“Mr. D.,” Pen asks, “can I get you anything?”
“No, Penelope,” he tells her. “Maxine and I are okay.”
“Okay,” she tells him. “I’ll look in on how the food is going. I’ll check back with you in a little bit.”
As Pen starts to walk away, Dad takes her hand.
“Penelope,” he says with tears in his eyes, “you were a great friend.”
“Alex made it easy,” she tells him.
“You were the dearest friend, Penelope,” my mom cries. “I never saw two best girlfriends as close as you and Alex.”
“She was my soul mate,” Pen tears.
“She was mine, too,” Mom weeps.
“Come on, Maxine,” Dad softly says to my mother. “Let’s go lie down for a little while.”
“Yes, I’ll take care of everything here,” Pen says, helping them up. “You go rest and I’ll be out here if you need anything.”
My father takes my mother’s arm as I take her other arm and we head through the mourners toward my parents’ room.
“So sorry for your loss,” Charles Kitteredge Sr. tells my parents.
“Thanks, Chuck,” my father says, patting him on the back.
“She was a lovely girl,” another mourner tells my mother.
“She was,” my mother tells her. “Thank you.”
The mourners continue to say things like this as we make our way.
“Thank you,” Dad tells them.
“Thank you for coming,” Mom manages to get out.
We finally make it to my parents’ bedroom as Dad shuts the door and gets Mom onto the bed.
“I’m not going to be able to get through this,” Mom says, “Why did this happen? Why did this have to happen?” She starts to cry.
“I don’t know, darling,” Dad tells her. “Just rest for now. Let’s just rest together,” he says, cradling her in his arms.
I sit by their bed as they cry together. There’s nothing I can do at this exact moment. It’s my hope that just being here with them will help in some way. That’s all I can do for now.
It must be hours later. The chatter of people outside has calmed. The sounds of glasses clinking and silverware jingling against dishes have been replaced with the hums of car motors pulling away. I’ve watched my parents go from holding on to each other and weeping to dividing themselves on either side of the bed and falling asleep. I know that now is the time, and I walk over to my mother’s side of the bed.
“Mommy?” I whisper softly to her. “It’s Alex. Please don’t be frightened.”
“Alex?” she whispers and then begins to become startled so I caress her arm. “It’s okay, Mommy. It’s just me. Please don’t be frightened, Mommy, it’s okay.”
Her eyes are still closed, and that sudden jerk in her body upon hearing my voice dissolves back into silent sleep. “Where are you? Are you okay?” she asks through her sleep. “I miss you so much. I’m so worried about you.”
“It’s okay, Mommy,” I tell her as I continue to caress her face and dry her tears. “I’m okay. I’m up in heaven with Grandmom and Grandpop. Grandmom still drives the car that Daddy gave her. Can you believe that?”
“That old Cadillac?” Mom smiles. “I knew she loved that car when Daddy gave it to her.”
“uncle Morris only smokes Cuban cigars.”
“He really is in heaven,” she smiles again.
“Yeah, and Grandpop has Phillies games to watch twenty-four hours a day.”
“Are Grandmom and Grandpop still bickering?”
“You better believe it,” I laugh and she chuckles along with me.
“And I became friends with Alice Oppenheim. She’s so cool, Mom, and we went shopping together and guess what? You get all the best clothes in heaven and shoes don’t pinch and even the highest heels feel like sneakers.”
“That’s incredible!” she laughs. “Is Alice still saying that I stole her crinolines, because you know that’s not true. I swear that I left her one.”
“Don’t worry, Mom, I defended you, and Alice sends you all her love,” I tell her, beginning to get excited myself as I continue. “And you know what else?”
“What, baby?” she smiles through her sleep, full of energy.
“I met a guy! He’s so cute and so nice. I finally met the man of my dreams!”
“Now I know you’re in heaven,” she laughs as she adds, “Is he Jewish?”
“You know what?” I tell her, “the subject never came up.”
“Well, as long as he’s good to you.”
“Yeah, Mom, he is. He’s wonderful. It’s all fine. Life really does go on after death,” I explain to her. “You know why it goes on?”
“Why, sweetheart?”
“It goes on because the love you had for the people on earth is still the same there.”
“And you’re not in any pain, Alex? Just tell me that you’re not in any pain.”
“I’m not, Mom. I’m fine. In fact, I’m in even better shape than I was before. When you get up to heaven, your cellulite is gone and you can run for miles and miles.”
“No cellulite?” she exclaims. “Now I know you’re really happy!”
“I’m perfectly fine, and Grandmom and Grandpop and uncle Morris are fine and Alice is fine. I’m okay now. Please don’t worry about me.”
She starts to cry again as we embrace, and then I lay her body back onto the bed.
“Alex, I just have one thing I want you to know,” she whispers.
“What is it, Mom?”
“I always wished that I was more like you,” she tells me.
“And I always wished that I was more like you,” I say as I kiss her on
the cheek and she settles back into a restful sleep.
I look over at my dad, who is also sleeping, but I can tell by his tears he’s heard every word. I walk over to his side of the bed and sit by his side.
“Dad,” I start, “I’ve had to do a lot of soul-searching up there. I’ve regretted one thing in my life and that’s how I treated you.”
“No,” he starts sobbing, “don’t regret anything.”
“I have to, Dad,” I cry. “I have to tell you how sorry I am for the things I did. I let you down. It was my stupid hard head.”
“You are my daughter,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Where do you think that came from? I knew things were going to get better though. I knew that one day you’d make me proud.”
“But how?” I ask, really starting to cry now.
“You were starting to do it. You were turning that determination into something more positive. Baby, I always loved you . . .”
“And I loved you, too . . .”
“That’s something you never had to worry about. You were just too much like me, that strong will.”
And it’s in this moment I know for sure. My life was not wasted. I was exactly like my father. There was no way I would not have gone on to lead a fulfilling life. I wouldn’t have let myself. After all, I am my father’s daughter.
“As much as you loved me, though, there was one thing you couldn’t give to me. I had to figure out my life for myself,” I weep.
“As parents,” he sighs, taking a deep breath, “it’s hard not to give your child everything she wants.”
“I know, Dad, but we never stopped loving each other and that’s what’s most important.”
“Thank you, Alex,” he cries. “Thank you so much for telling me that.”
“I love you so much, Daddy.” I wipe his tears and then my own.
“Will I see you again?” he asks me.
“I’ll always be here for you whenever you need me,” I tell him.
And with that, Dad falls back into a restful sleep and I take a few steps back to watch these two people, the ones I’ve loved most in this world. My mother’s tears have subsided as my dad takes my mom in his arms and they continue to rest.
The Ten Best Days of My Life Page 20