Two critical characters down and left to our own devices, Kent suggested it might be time to start thinking about changing the Room of Death.
“A new bed for sure,” he said. “Perhaps some paint, a little classic Cathy DIY?”
“Great idea,” Mom said, and, three hours later, Kent and I returned from grocery shopping to find that Mom had discovered beautiful solid hardwood floors beneath the early nineties carpet, ripped all of it up, rolled it up, and taken it out to the curb. She had finished the bedroom and was already hard at work on the hallway, breathless, sweating, and determined. All of this served to reaffirm a notion I already knew about Cathy—once you put an idea in her head, there’s no stopping her.22
The three of us spent the remainder of the night ripping up that hideous beige carpet and hauling it out to the curb. By 3 a.m., we had disposed of the detritus of our former life upon the edges of our lawn and were filled with an odd sense of higher purpose. We were not scavengers rummaging through the ruins of a fallen city; We were excavators! Like Heinrich Schliemann! Below the carpets lay new, undiscovered Troys and we would be the team to peel away the rubble, reveal the past, and simultaneously uncover the future—just like the archeologists of yore!
When we woke the following morning, the artifacts were gone, taken to the same unnamable place to which all life’s mysteries disappear.
But we were not empty, we were lighter somehow.
The top floor of 1367 had been stripped bare to make room for new life, and we dressed that morning with a purpose.
We were going to buy a new bed.
Art Vann on Woodward at Fourteen Mile was the first and only option that sprang to mind. We knew the name well from near-constant radio and local television commercials, and besides, it was on the same strip of Woodward as Dairy Deluxe, which gave it street cred (not to mention zero percent financing until 2004).
We arrived to find that Art Vann was above a Mercedes dealership. To enter, one had to ascend in an escalator that crested onto a cavernous warehouse floor of fluorescently lit sofas, dinettes, media stations, and bed frames.
Mom, Kent, and I were each splayed snow-angel style on a series of mattresses, gazing upward at the humming lights.
“Too firm over here,” Kent called out. “It’s a Sealy.”
“Al?”
“S’OK. A bit squishy.”
“I’m on one of those individual coil ones over here,” Mom said, “the one from that commercial with the glass of wine and the bowling ball.”
“Oh yeah!”
“How is it?”
“It’s great. It’s just right.”
Just then Mort, a stout middle-aged gentleman whose comb-over, jacket, smile, and every gesture indicated that he was an Art Vann salesman, leaned over into my vision and, hands clasped behind his back, asked, “Anything I can do for you?”
“We were just waiting for our porridge to cool,” I said.
“We’ll take this one,” Mom said.
Throw in three bowls of porridge and a blonde girl, and we’d have had ourselves a fairy-tale ending.
“Excellent,” said Mort, straightening up, eyeing us still. “You’re certain of the queen?”
“No doubt about the queen,” Kent smiled at Mom. We had decided that downsizing from the king-sized Death Bed felt right.
“And we’ll take this frame,” said Mom. “I like it— it looks like a sleigh.”
It did—a chestnut, caramel-stained, queen-sized sleigh.
“I’ll draw up the papers,” said Mort, as he turned on his tiny feet, hands still behind his back.
As Mort trotted away, we turned to Mom, who was deep in thought.
“A new bed . . . ” I said.
“Yes,” she said, running her hand along the hip of the frame.
“Happy?” Kent asked in a low voice.
Mom thought a moment before answering. Of course she was not happy. Her one and only love was gone—gone almost as callously as the upstairs carpets. The Silbers were evil, the government unhelpful, she was lost, abandoned once again, and living in Detroit with a gaggle of equally lost teenagers. It all crossed her mind; you could see it in her face, in the thoughtful hand still caressing the chestnut bed frame.
At last, the hand stopped moving. Mom paused and clutched the wood, felt its solid weight. She focused on the bed—her brand new queen-sized, chestnut sleigh bed, with thick orthopedic mattress, box spring and twenty percent Thanksgiving discount, all fit for a queen.
“Happy,” she said.
This was a step—a baby step, as Bob would say—toward the next stage of our new life, and that made her happy.
21 Another use of the 1997 pale blue Dodge caravan was hauling the Aikido Club on a trip to Cincinnati.
22 Do not get between my mother and a power tool.
“Psychic Mike”
It had always been understood that Dad possessed a certain kind of sensitivity. We never used the word “psychic” though; that seemed crass. In fact, we rarely talked about it at all. It merely was, and so we continued our lives, every now and then stippled with an event no one could truly explain.
We would be driving along the highway at night and Dad would drastically slow his speed as we turned a corner, prompting Mom to ask him why.
“There’s going to be a deer,” Dad would explain. And sure enough, there would be—a large deer standing in the middle of the highway, as if he had been waiting for us. We would remain silent as Dad flickered the headlights to shoo the deer off the road before continuing on, never to speak of it—merely filing it away under “C,” for coincidence.
Once, just after we had moved to Michigan, we were having a particularly difficult financial time—the cost of the move from California, his recent health troubles, and a miserable deal Dad had been working on for his father. At breakfast, before everyone headed off, Dad sat hunched sketching on a sheet of paper in a twisted, left-handed stance. He was sketching out a symbol, flecking the page with his pen, brow furrowed.
“What’s that?” I asked, looking over with curiosity.
“Something I dreamed,” he replied, “it appeared in my dreams over and over again—an unknown, somewhat familiar symbol next to the number four. I wanted to see if I could capture it.”
Later that night, hours after Mom had picked me up from school and long after dinner should have been eaten, Dad had not yet returned. Mom gazed out the window of our temporary apartment in Troy, Michigan—where we had lived just before we moved in to 1367—concern clear upon her face. Moments later, Dad walked in the front door, hands stuck firmly in his pockets, face slanted downward, almost as if ashamed.
“Michael where have you been?” Mom cried. “I was worried!”
“I’m sorry,” Dad said, voice modest.
“Dad,” I said. “What’s the matter?”
Dad kept his eyes locked on the ground, his face very grave. “I had to see it through,” he declared.
“See what through?” said Mom.
“The symbol from my dream. I had to know what it was and if it meant anything.”
Most people would have responded to such a claim by scoffing (or burying their head in their hands, or perhaps by berating the person for being a fool). But not us—we were used to moments such as this. Though we never could have dreamed of what came next.
“It did,” Dad whispered, the grave look on his face suddenly filled with sparkle. “I knew I recognized the symbol. It’s not something I ever would have thought of had I not had the strongest instinct to take a different road to work today. As I was driving I passed the racetrack, it hit me. That symbol was a betting symbol. I pulled in, parked the car, and put it all on horse number four.”
“What?” my mother and I said in unison, dumbstruck. To our knowledge Dad had never bet on horses—or anything at all, for that matter.
At that, Dad’s hands flew out of his pockets and into the air he flung thousands of dollars.
We all laughed and cheered and
hugged one another amid the wash of money now scattered bountifully throughout our apartment. It was magical. It was.
But it was not even remotely the most magical thing that had ever happened to the Silber family. We teemed with magic. And the magic came from him.
I awake in a sweat. The room smells of his cologne—the one we had boxed away and stored in the garage weeks ago. I am wide awake. I looked about me, eyes sharp, searching for tonight’s message.
Then there it was.
In the pool of moonlight flooding in from the bedroom window that overlooks River Rouge, it lays there clear as day: a dollar bill.
Getting Over Your Grief
BOB: Excuse me, Phil, but with these particular symptoms, is Prozac the right choice?
LILY MARVIN: You think Prozac is a mistake?
BOB: Well, with this kind of manic episode, I would think Librium might be a more effective management tool.
DR. PHIL: You could be right. I’ll rewrite the prescription.
— What About Bob?
There are few situations on earth more awkward than the aftermath of someone kicking the bucket. As a result, the same paltry bits of advice have been recycled for years to try to save people from embarrassing conversations. Let me assure you: they do not work. If and when you find yourself in this unforgiving situation of having recently lost a loved one, you will most likely be met with the following suggestions, in order for those around you to feel more at ease about your constant, stabbing emotional pain.
Inactive? Why don’t you enjoy a nice walk in the woods? Your friends may suggest.
Can’t sleep? Why don’t you put an amethyst under your pillow?
Join a painting group.
Make some pots.
Snuggle.
You know what I want to say to all of those people? “I’m busy not bathing, not eating, and watching Bill Murray and Nora Ephron movies on repeat and don’t care if I smell like a sewer or bike shorts drenched in caustic lye. And speaking of bike shorts, let me tell you where you can put that amethyst . . . ”
Prepare yourself for some cold hard truths.
WHAT “THEY” WILL TELL YOU TO DO AL’S INTERPRETATION OF WHAT “THEY” REALLY MEAN:
MEMORIALIZE!
Plant a tree, start a fund, or run in a charity race. If you insist.
JOIN A SUPPORT GROUP.
You don’t have to be alone with your feelings or your pain. Wow. Gosh. They—whoever “they” are—just have the best answers to everything. I’m going write “you don’t have to be alone with your feelings or your pain” down in my catalog of “Brilliant Things They Said.”
EXPRESS YOUR EMOTIONS!
Don’t stop yourself from having a good cry if you feel one coming on. Watch sad movies, play sad music, and bring back memories of the person that you lost. Feel free! Do not cry. Tears are icky and make people squeamish. Also, you know who likes tears? Al-Qaeda.
GRIEF IS NORMAL!
Time heals all.It’ll pass! Right. And Enola Gay was delivering origami paper.
BE AROUND PEOPLE.
Even informal gatherings of family and friends bring a sense of support. They help not to feel so isolated in the first days and weeks of their grief. What do you call this? What? Does living in the House of Death with my grieving mother and a slew of college dropouts not count for anything anymore?
TALK ABOUT IT!
Some people find it helpful to talk about their feelings. But no one should feel pressured to talk. Good. Because I think I’ll just watch What About Bob? on repeat, thanks.
EXPRESS YOURSELF.
Even if you don’t feel like talking, find ways to express your emotions and thoughts. Journal about memories, and how you’re feeling since the passing. Or write a song, poem, or tribute about your loved one and share it with others. Give this a hard pass. Does anyone here understand that a person has a right not to have their personal life picked apart mercilessly in a public forum? I am not Monica Lewinsky.
EXERCISE.
Exercise can help your mood. It may be hard to get motivated, so modify your usual routine if you need to. Does this include taking boxing? Because I could get really motivated if my exercise regime included the possibility of KO-ing my grandparents. After all, I’m just healing, and healing feels good. Incredibly good—like Christian Bale dressed as he was in Little Women kissing me with a mouth full of Oreos good.
EAT RIGHT.
Your body needs fuel. Thank the Lord above for the invention of the sandwich, and for the fact that Kent makes the best sandwich on earth.
Where would we be without the sandwich? You’d have to chug a shot of peanut butter and then desperately chase it with a shot of jelly. You’d pound fistfuls of luncheon meat into your maw and chug Grey Poupon just to feel alive. (There is only so much you can stare at a fridge full of kugel . . .)
RITUALS.
Funerals and other memorial traditions help people get through the first few days and honor the person who died. I think we have previously established that that sucked pretty hard.
Mostly, the reality is that most people want to say, “Get off your ass and stop being sad.” But mostly they just tolerate you. And let’s face it: there is just nothing better than being tolerated.
“I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful,” are the first words of What About Bob? Bob Wiley sits on his bed in his hermetically sealed New York apartment, fiercely massaging his temples, repeating his mantra over and over again as he attempts to psych himself up enough to leave the security of his apartment to see Dr. Leo Marvin for the first time. It’s a brilliant opener—sardonic, irreverent, and oddly touching all at once.
We recited Bob’s opening mantra a lot in those first weeks, massaged our temples and laughed together. The pressure to feel better, move forward, or just simply get any scrap of shit done was looming over us like a personal injury attorney at a highway car accident.
I never returned to the University of Minnesota or the Guthrie Training Program. I only ever returned to Minneapolis to retrieve my things. I returned to my tiny coffin-like single room on the thirteenth floor of the gigantic college dormitory and despite barely knowing them, my classmates were very kind. They helped assemble boxes, fold clothes, and inherited my collegiate dorm-room artifacts. I hugged them all and wished them well.
I returned to Michigan. I was officially a college dropout.
Here is the schedule:
STEP 1
Late each night, we set a time to wake up the next morning (which we always ignore).
STEP 2
Mom goes to her makeshift office Place of Sleeping in Dad’s old office (the new bed had arrived, but she didn’t quite feel ready to sleep in the room), Kent and I go to my room at the top of the stairs, and Grey goes to his in the downstairs guestroom.
STEP 3
We yell goodnight.
STEP 4
We sleep.
STEP 5
The next morning, we meet in the kitchen, where Mom and I have coffee and Grey and Kent have Cheerios. We then go about planning a very precise schedule that completely falls apart by midmorning. This happens daily.
STEP 6
After the morning gathering, Grey and Kent report to the downstairs bathroom, emerging twenty to thirty minutes later triumphant, both of them basking in the glory of their regularity.
STEP 7
We all shower and get dressed for the morning activities. Grey reports to his cave. I go for a run (because I have, mysteriously, taken up running) or Mom and I go on The Walk. Kent pours over the political sections of the paper.
STEP 8
We report back around noon in an attempt to achieve in the day ahead. This could hold any number of activities, which may or may not include:
College re-audition preparations (this includes, at first, a great deal of time spent on the Internet trying to truly find places for all of us to go to school; then making lists, gathering audition requirements, and making phone calls; and eventu
ally filling out applications, working on pieces, and Grey spending countless hours designing a model set for the musical Cabaret in his guestroom/office/cave).
Plans for a DIY revamp of the House of Death
A trip to our regular hangout, the place we eat when we forget to cook; Greek Islands Coney Restaurant (herein known simply by its initials “GI”)
Reading Harry Potter (all of us for the very first time) and obsessively talking about it and preparing for the launch of the first film. And then following the release of said film, obsessing over that, and driving to the Birmingham Palladium to watch the movie nearly every day.
Local tourism (with visits including the Henry Ford and Motown museums and a trip the grounds of the Cranbrook House, Gardens, and Science Center.)
Planning ahead for Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year.
STEP 9
We either cook dinner or go out to find something to eat.
STEP 10
We do it all over again.
People assume that artists, the self-employed, and college dropouts are no better than drug dealers and late sleepers—they are obviously lethargic and worthless and clearly to be lumped in with those miscreants who party until dawn at a drug-fueled rave, drenched in sweat and glitter with glow sticks stuffed in their Lycra bras.
We didn’t love our existence in those days, but it was what it was: necessary. We may have been unemployed college dropouts, but we weren’t covered in glitter: we were pitching in. We were discovering the
meaning of life by rebuilding a life, at 1367. Above all, were all finding our way.
White Hot Grief Parade Page 14