Signs of Life Read Free

strong.”
    I try not to cry at all in front of anyone at the funeral home. I say nice, comforting things to other people.
    “We’ll be okay.” I nod. I don’t know why I say this or what it means; it just comes out of my mouth.
    Josh’s aunt Barb looks at the pictures. She cries. I hug her and try to say something nice. “It’s okay, Aunt Barb.”
    She looks at me, her red eyes serious.
    “It’s not okay, honey.” She looks right at me. “It’s not okay.” She starts to cry. “It’s
not
okay. You were robbed. You were
robbed.
” I am not mad at her for saying this. I am not upset because I cry in front of people. She’s right. I know she is right.
    There are over a thousand people at the funeral. First Deedee and Chris speak. Then Pug, one of Josh’s best friends growing up, goes next. Then I speak. Somehow I speak.
    Then it is over and Vito, my dad, drives us all home. There are six of us crammed in his Volvo. The car is full of orchids, cards, flowers, and the posters with all of our pictures. I feel like we are in the car forever. I feel like I am going to throw up or pee my pants. I feel like I am suffocating in the backseat of my dad’s car. We get home. I run to the bathroom. I don’t throw up. I try to pee but can’t.
    I put all of the boards with pictures into my old room at my parents’ house. I shut the door. One by one I take all of the pictures down. One by one I look at each picture. I cry and cry and cry.
    His credit cards, our gym memberships, his cell phone, his car, his insurance, his bills, his work. Days go by of these phone calls.
    “Yes, my husband, Josh, died suddenly in an accident. I would like to cancel his debit card.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am. We’ll get that taken care of right away.”
    “Thank you.”
    I get seven copies of his death certificate. I sit in my old room and read his death certificate over and over: “Date of birth: December 21, 1979. Date of death: June 17, 2007. 1:21 a.m. Trauma to the head.”
    I call Social Security. I get a check from them for $273 and zero cents. There is a formal letter attached.
    “This lump sum has been issued to you as a result of the death of your husband, Joshua Raymond Taylor.” Another segmentreads, “The marriage of Natalie Taylor and Joshua Taylor was terminated on June 17, 2007, due to the death of Joshua Taylor.”
    More days pass. My mom, Hales, and Moo come with me to my obstetrician’s office. I called and told them what happened. There are six doctors in the practice. Today I am seeing Dr. Ford. I’ve never met Dr. Ford before.
    We crowd into the small examination room. I lie on the table. My mom sits next to me. Moo and Hales stand in the corner. A tall, slender man with thick black glasses slinks in the door. He has a large forehead and looks awkwardly at the four of us. He doesn’t say anything. I take a deep breath. We all sit in silence for a moment and wait for Dr. Ford to say something. Or are we supposed to say something?
Great
, I think to myself. Of course the one time I need a doctor who has a sense of emotional connection, I get the scientist. This jackass has no idea what he has just walked into. My throat starts to tighten at the thought of my mother and sister trying to explain what has happened to me. Finally the silence breaks.
    “I know,” he says in a clear, soft voice. “I know what happened.” He pauses. “I’m very sorry to hear about your loss.”
    “Thank you,” I mutter.
    A few moments of silence go by. Then he starts to talk.
    “How’s your brain?” he asks. He stands still as he says this.
    “It’s okay,” I shrug.
    “That’s a lie.” He then slides down the wall behind him and sits on the floor, still holding his clipboard. In any other context, it would be completely bizarre and inappropriate for any doctor to sit on the floor with his knees pulled to his chest. But right now, it feels completely right. He has put all of us at ease. He just wants us