Just J (2 page)

“You probably don't remember me, do you?” asks a geri–atric stranger who bears an eerie resemblance to an apple doll I made in grade five. “I think you were being toilet trained the last time I saw you.”

Well, then I had more pressing things on my mind than remembering you, didn't I?

“I used to change your diapers.”

Oh yes, now I remember. You were the one who brought the especially soft wipes.

“How are you?”

“How are you doing?”

“How are you holding up?”

These questions are all very popular at Mom's funeral.

“How are you holding up?” is my personal favorite; at least it acknowledges that something has knocked me down.

But—“How are you?”

Great, just great! Oh, did I mention my mom just died?

Think about it!

Then there's the classic—“That's too bad.”

It's too bad when you miss an episode of your favorite show or when the corner store's out of the candy you like. It's catastrophic when your mom dies. I mean, come on. What's next? “Bad luck. Have you thought about getting a cat?”

How these people remember to breathe is beyond me. The fact that I actually share the same genes with some of them disturbs me to no end. Thank God I only see them at weddings and funerals, which are pretty much the same thing.

The only difference I can see is that at weddings everyone pretends to be happy when really they're miserable because they wish it was them standing at the front of the chapel. At funerals everyone pretends to be sad when they're actually happy that it's not them lying at the front of the chapel.

Besides that, I don't see much of a difference—except maybe for the dancing and the clothes, although for most guys it's only the ties that change. The faces are the same; everyone sits quietly through a boring service, and then there's a reception where everyone eats, gets drunk and talks crap.

I'm not going to drink when I get older. I don't see what the attraction is in consuming something that will make you even dumber than you already are. People, you're stupid enough.
Trust me
. Oh, wonderful. Great-aunt Milly. The woman has an entire beard growing out of one ginormous mole stuck squarely in the center of her chin. You'd think that it would only appear at a full moon, but the thing seems to be there all the time, night or day, rain or shine. God, even I know about waxing.

Aunt Milly descends with her arms stretched out, ready to engulf me in a smothering embrace.

“J,” Dad's voice cracks as he gently grabs my arm, res–cuing me from a fate worse than…well, from a horrible fate anyway. I'd be grateful, if I hadn't guessed what was coming.

I look to the back of the funeral home and see The Evil One—who disappeared during the reception line—has returned in an expensive new outfit. She's holding Billy's hand. He's wearing a new pair of khakis and a god-awful black sweater with white lilies on it. He looks like one of the floral arrangements that surround the coffin.

The Witch insisted on going to the department store down the street for new clothes. Apparently she spent half an hour picking out a fresh suit for herself, and then she grabbed Billy's clothes from the sale rack in the Little Miss section on the way out the door.

Dad squeezes my arm; it's time.

We slowly make our way to the front. There's an open casket.
They
say it's better that way, that it gives you a chance to say good-bye. All these chances to say good-bye. Just go already.

I hate this; it's the longest walk ever. They're not going to let Billy go up.
They
say he's too young.
I
say, if he's not too young to lose his mother, he's not too young to see her dead.

If there
is
anything to this whole open casket thing, then Billy should get his chance too, don't you think? And if there
isn't
, then what am I doing here?

The closer I get, the more surreal it feels. The light reflects off Mom's forehead, making her look like wax. Blush turns her gray cheeks pink; lipstick turns her brown lips red. She looks better than she has in months. This death thing has done her a world of good.

I feel Dad's hand tighten on mine as we take our places beside the coffin. He's quivering. I'm not quivering, and I'm not feeling the way I should; at least I don't think I am. But then again, this is my first mother-dying experience, so I'm not really sure what I should be feeling.

She's so beautiful. I hope I look that good at my funeral. Heck, I hope I look that good at my wedding, not that I'm thinking of getting married any time soon—or any time at all.

Oh God, Dad's quiver is turning into a shake. He's going to lose it. Please don't let him lose it, please. The casket, look at the casket, so nice and shiny. The grain in the wood flows like waves, like waves of energy frozen in time, trapped, trapped in this box, longing to flow again, to move again.

Wake up, damn it, wake up! All these people have come to see you! They're here for you and you're just lying there! You would never have let me get away with this, never.

My cheeks; my cheeks are wet. How did they get to be wet? I look up and see Dad crying. Could some of his tears have landed on my cheeks?

I feel him pull away.

Oh my god! It's The Creature! He's gone into the arms of Satan right in front of my mother's coffin! How inappropriate is that?

Hello, distraught daughter over here! This is unbelievable. I turn to see the crowd's reaction, but they don't even notice as The Predator drags her prey away from me.

I see Billy in the back, being mauled by Aunt Milly. He looks toward me for rescue. I get down on one knee and extend my arms. He obligingly runs into them—it's his turn to say good-bye.

I pick Billy up so that he can see our mother.

“Mom,” he says.

“She's gone, Billy,” I reply.

“No, she's not. She's sleeping.”

“But she's never going to wake up.”

“Why?”

“Because she's too tired. The sickness took all her energy away,” I explain.

I feel Billy being pulled from my arms by The Beast. It must have already devoured its first victim and be hungry for more.

“Just what do you think you're doing?” The Thing snarls.

“Letting him say good-bye,” I calmly reply.

“I want to see my mom!” Billy demands as he struggles to get away from The Witch's clutches, his head over her shoulder. He can't see the body.

The body. I hate saying that.

“He's too young,” It states.

“
He
has a right. More right than
you
—that's for sure.”

“Your dad doesn't need this today,
young lady
,” The Thing says in a harsh whisper so no one else can hear. With the help of Billy's cries, she's successful.

“Let him see her,” I insist, reaching for Billy.

She turns so that he's just out of my grasp. Then, while holding Billy with one arm, she grabs me with the other. I look over to Dad. He's being babied by Great-aunt Milly and can't see the peril his children are in—nobody can.

The Witch has shrouded us with some sort of invisibility spell, probably created by the bat's breath that she releases from her mouth.

“That's enough!” It says. “You're impossible. Your mother is well rid of you!” She releases my arm and immediately puts on a fake smile before slithering back to Dad. Visible again, The Creature casts a wave of silence behind her that begins to smother me as I stand alone with my mother's mannequin.

The hush entombs every crack and crevice of this empty room filled with empty minds and an empty body. It gets louder and louder, the quiet crushing me till I can bear the weight no longer. My mouth opens and a shattering scream forces out every inch of the calm that had no place there to begin with—my mother always hated quiet.

After emptying my lungs, I look around the room and realize that my scream has transformed the spell of silence into one of immobility. Everyone stands like statues, staring at me with balloon eyes.

Fortunately the paralyzing spell doesn't have any hold on me. I refill my powerful lungs with enough air to carry me as fast and as far as I can go.

Chapter Three

S
itting on the grass in the middle of High Park, blocks away from the funeral home, head between my knees, I watch ants carry things into their farm, and I try to forget that I just ran away from my own mother's funeral.

Why is it called an ant farm? Shouldn't it really be called an ant
site
? Ants are more like construction workers than farmers. Their exoskeletons are like hard hats, covering them so their little bodies won't get hurt as they work.

“I suppose it should be,” says a gentle female voice. I look up at the most beautiful woman I've ever seen—she looks very familiar, but I can't think why.

She's in her thirties or forties, it's hard to tell which. Her hair is long and untamed, and she's wearing a flowing bur–gundy sundress that floats under a well-worn jean jacket. Her belt and matching earrings look very aboriginal— linked silver discs with a sun design and an all-seeing turquoise eye in the center. Her necklace is a circle of silver dolphins leaping around another turquoise stone. Too New Age hippie to be cool, but at least it's not a business suit, so score one for the stranger.

“What?” I ask as my hand touches my cheek, which feels as though I've just been swimming. I turn away and try to dry it with my sleeve before she notices. More pity I don't need.

The stranger kneels down beside me.

“It should be called a site,” she says.

“How did you know what I was thinking?”

She continues to look at the ground. A small smile moves across her face.

“Oh, crap. I was talking to myself, wasn't I?” I say. “I'm not crazy. I just do that once in a while. Talk to myself, I mean, but I never answer—myself. I mean, I know it's me talking. I just don't always know when it's out loud.”

She looks at me with understanding eyes. “It's okay. I do that quite often too. I find that one can have some very interesting conversations without the interruptions of others.

Wouldn't you agree?”

She reaches out and touches my shoulder. She seems harmless enough, but I don't like this sign of familiarity, no matter how kind she sounds or how familiar she looks. I jump up and move away from her.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“You seemed in need of a hug,” she replies.

“Well, I'm not,” I say.

“My mistake,” she apologizes.

“Are you a pedophile? 'Cause I know all about pedophiles, so don't try anything.”

She laughs, but it doesn't seem to be at me.

“You don't mince words, do you?” she says.

“I may be young, but I don't see that as an excuse to waste time.”

“You're very wise for your age.”

“Sorry, perhaps I missed it. Who are you?”

“Straight to the point. I like that. I'm your Aunt Guinevere, Jenevieve.”

“Okay, I don't know how you know my name, but I don't have an Aunt Guinevere. The only aunt I have is Dad's Aunt Milly, and she's as dense as my dad. It seems to run in that side of the family. I'm hoping to avoid it.”

“Your father has a good heart. He may not always have the courage to do anything with it, but he does have a good heart.”

“Whatever,” I say. “That still doesn't tell me who you are.”

“I'm your mother's big sister.”

“My mother doesn't have any sisters—or didn't.”

“Now that's not a very bright thing for such an intelligent girl to say. If she doesn't have any sisters, then who am I?”

“That's what I want to know.”

“But I've told you.”

“And I told you that my mother didn't have any sisters.”

“You see, this is why I prefer talking to myself—fewer disagreements.”

What is she talking about?

“Do you not believe your own eyes?” she continues.

“I do, and they're telling me that I've never seen you before.”

“Your mind has more than memory, so look closer and listen harder.”

She stretches her hand out and places it next to mine.

Hers is older and slightly larger, yet our hands are somehow the same. Examining her hair more closely, I see how it matches mine. Lighter, more beautiful, but again the same.

The longer I look at her face, the more she looks like… Mom.

“Now,” she asks, “can you see?”

Before I know it, my cheeks are getting wet again. I quickly get
that
under control.

“Where did you come from?” I ask, looking around.

“How did you find me? Why haven't I met you before?”

“Questions, questions. And we'll have time to answer them all, but first we'd better get you back to the funeral home.”

“I'd really rather not.”

“I'd rather not too,” she says, leaving out the
but we have
to
part of the sentence.

She stands up and extends her hand to me. I know I'm going to have to return sooner or later, and it would be better to do so with an ally. At least, I hope that's what she is.

Chapter Four

W
alking back to the funeral home is terrifying. The knot in my stomach makes its way up to the base of my throat and I feel sick.

On the doorstep, my feet decide to grow roots, ripping through the concrete to embed themselves in the ground. My legs become a solid trunk, and I pray that the rest of me will transform into an ornamental tree so that I can stand out here forever and be admired rather than enter the chapel and be despised.

Aunt Guinevere grabs my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. Her eyes throw a protective shield around me. A few tears trickle down my cheek and fall to the ground. Their salt kills the roots and allows me to move forward. The sickness temporarily subsides.