his eyes. Then he calls to my mom like he doesn’t know what to say. He says, “Serena . . .”
“Glenn . . .” Mom places her hand on my dad’s neck. He is the person she understands best, not the rest of us, who came from her body. I think we’re a mystery to her. “Just tell her.”
And this is where he looks at me. He rests his palm on the back of my head. His hand encompasses my entire scalp, and there is safety in this knowledge that he can still fit parts of me beneath the callused strength of his fingertips. He says, “Ellie was cremated. They’re spreading her ashes today before her mother leaves on some kind of retreat.”
And then there is silence and gasping. Minutes later, I realize I am the one gasping. I make myself stop. I tell them I am sorry.
“It’s okay” is what my dad says.
“You’ll get better. Give it time,” is what my mom says.
We are silent for a long while. We are silent until we are a calm, picture-perfect family: a good mommy, a good daddy, a good daughter. And in the silence I suddenly understand the many ways a person can die but still be alive.
2.
That year Dad left us, I pressed my ear t o the wall b etween o ur b edr oo ms, listening t o y o ur quiet cries.
Jake
AFTER. NOVEMBER.
Mom says, “There’s no way you could have known.” After I came home from NYU, after I accompanied her to the morgue, after she dug manicured nails into the center of my palm, after the funeral arrangements were made, after the viewing of my sister’s body, Mom finally looks at me and says, “Jake . . .” Then she taps her foot nervously against the bottom of the sofa and looks away.
Her eyes are bloodshot, but she is uncharacteristically sober, and because of this and her grief, her hands shake cigarette ash everywhere, coating the beige carpet with a thin layer of gray. She says, “There’s no way you could have known.” Then she lays a cold compress against her skin.
I look away, toward Ellie’s room. The door is locked, as if my mother wants to lock away the memory of that night when Tommy found Ellie’s body cold and motionless on the bedroom floor. One part of me is relieved the room is inaccessible, but another part wants to break that door down and bury myself in the pieces of her abandoned life.
Mom scoots closer on the sofa, presses her wet hand over mine. I try, like always, not to cringe. I don’t confess, I knew something was wrong. I don’t confess, It was my fault. Instead I watch her eyes search the room for an anchor, something to weigh her down, and I think about the slight tremor that takes her voice and spins it like a Ferris wheel.
“I want to scream,” Mom says quietly, but I know she won’t. She doesn’t know how. She’s a doctor, a mother, and an alcoholic, but, surprisingly, none of these pursuits ever prompt her to raise her voice, not at me or my sister or any of her three idiot husbands. My mother turns things inward, so that her insides must be as black and murky as a landfill.
She clears her throat. “Your father will be here for the service tomorrow. We’ll bury Ellie’s ashes underneath a tree, beside that creek she loved when she was little.” Her voice reduces then, suddenly the density of decomposing leaves. She struggles for breath, but I do not turn my head. “Do you remember Falling Creek?”
I cover her hand with mine and say, “It’s a good spot, Mom. A real good spot.” She starts to cry then. Her shoulder slumps against mine; her tears hit the collar of my shirt. A low moan emerges from her lips. I wait for it to grow, to swirl around the room until it settles across our shoulders like a shroud. But the whimper stays low, the frequency of a turned-down radio. Eventually it stops, but not the crying. The crying remains.
BEFORE. JUNE.
The thick black smoke from the U-Haul’s exhaust pipe burned the sides of my legs, and Ellie stood, swinging her willowy arms, scratching her nose. I was
“Glenn . . .” Mom places her hand on my dad’s neck. He is the person she understands best, not the rest of us, who came from her body. I think we’re a mystery to her. “Just tell her.”
And this is where he looks at me. He rests his palm on the back of my head. His hand encompasses my entire scalp, and there is safety in this knowledge that he can still fit parts of me beneath the callused strength of his fingertips. He says, “Ellie was cremated. They’re spreading her ashes today before her mother leaves on some kind of retreat.”
And then there is silence and gasping. Minutes later, I realize I am the one gasping. I make myself stop. I tell them I am sorry.
“It’s okay” is what my dad says.
“You’ll get better. Give it time,” is what my mom says.
We are silent for a long while. We are silent until we are a calm, picture-perfect family: a good mommy, a good daddy, a good daughter. And in the silence I suddenly understand the many ways a person can die but still be alive.
2.
That year Dad left us, I pressed my ear t o the wall b etween o ur b edr oo ms, listening t o y o ur quiet cries.
Jake
AFTER. NOVEMBER.
Mom says, “There’s no way you could have known.” After I came home from NYU, after I accompanied her to the morgue, after she dug manicured nails into the center of my palm, after the funeral arrangements were made, after the viewing of my sister’s body, Mom finally looks at me and says, “Jake . . .” Then she taps her foot nervously against the bottom of the sofa and looks away.
Her eyes are bloodshot, but she is uncharacteristically sober, and because of this and her grief, her hands shake cigarette ash everywhere, coating the beige carpet with a thin layer of gray. She says, “There’s no way you could have known.” Then she lays a cold compress against her skin.
I look away, toward Ellie’s room. The door is locked, as if my mother wants to lock away the memory of that night when Tommy found Ellie’s body cold and motionless on the bedroom floor. One part of me is relieved the room is inaccessible, but another part wants to break that door down and bury myself in the pieces of her abandoned life.
Mom scoots closer on the sofa, presses her wet hand over mine. I try, like always, not to cringe. I don’t confess, I knew something was wrong. I don’t confess, It was my fault. Instead I watch her eyes search the room for an anchor, something to weigh her down, and I think about the slight tremor that takes her voice and spins it like a Ferris wheel.
“I want to scream,” Mom says quietly, but I know she won’t. She doesn’t know how. She’s a doctor, a mother, and an alcoholic, but, surprisingly, none of these pursuits ever prompt her to raise her voice, not at me or my sister or any of her three idiot husbands. My mother turns things inward, so that her insides must be as black and murky as a landfill.
She clears her throat. “Your father will be here for the service tomorrow. We’ll bury Ellie’s ashes underneath a tree, beside that creek she loved when she was little.” Her voice reduces then, suddenly the density of decomposing leaves. She struggles for breath, but I do not turn my head. “Do you remember Falling Creek?”
I cover her hand with mine and say, “It’s a good spot, Mom. A real good spot.” She starts to cry then. Her shoulder slumps against mine; her tears hit the collar of my shirt. A low moan emerges from her lips. I wait for it to grow, to swirl around the room until it settles across our shoulders like a shroud. But the whimper stays low, the frequency of a turned-down radio. Eventually it stops, but not the crying. The crying remains.
BEFORE. JUNE.
The thick black smoke from the U-Haul’s exhaust pipe burned the sides of my legs, and Ellie stood, swinging her willowy arms, scratching her nose. I was
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