Or Not to Be (13 page)

How could I stay away? It all sounded so
final. So over. The end. My finite little life reached its conclusion while I
thought I was in the middle of the twisting plot of an odyssey. But it turns
out I was the lead in a one-act play. The audience walked out when the director
stopped the action. I always understood, in theory, that my body was only on
loan to me, made up of borrowed, recycled, previously used atoms. Yet I am
still bitter about giving it up.

“Cremation sounded like a good idea when I
was alive. Now, the thought of such a rapid return and redistribution of my
atoms, breaking down my proteins and amino acids to ash and smoke, seems the
most final of all of the phases of death so far.”

“Try not to worry about that. You don’t
need that body anymore, Anna. You can exist in death and make your choices
without it. You have all you need at your disposal.”

Death still doesn’t make much sense to me.
Especially the part about choices—I have no idea what she’s talking about
there. But I understand the grieving process from too much life experience.
Memorials and funerals and wakes and the gatherings of family and friends
afterward were always an unexpectedly comforting time. Dealing with the loss
was harder alone, and being together, crying and hugging, laughing and eating,
always helped. Maybe it would help me to be there, too.

“I’ll try
to depart, whatever that means, after the ceremony. I don’t know if I can, Mom,
but I’ll try.”

| | | |

“
Joe
!”
Eddie calls from downstairs, ready to wrestle if needed, “time to get dressed.”

“I
am
dressed, Daddy.” Joey’s innocent voice gives him
away. The kid is up to something.

Eddie starts up the stairs. “No, buddy,
you can’t wear your baseball uniform to Mom’s memorial service.” A typical day
in the Wixim house, except that I’m dead.

“Can I wear my cap?” That’s my boy. Push
and push.

“Nope.”

“Can I wear my cleats? ’Cause Mommy loves
my cleats and the clicky sound they make, so she’ll know it’s me.”

 “Sure, you can
wear the cleats, but with your suit.” Eddie gives in. He always did when I was
alive. In the game of good cop, bad cop, Eddie was the
so-good-he-could-hardly-be-true cop.

My protective
shield has cracked. I got too close to Eddie, and he got into my head and I now
hear him thinking.
You poor kid. You don’t even
understand what a memorial service is about. You still think your Mom will be
there, don’t you?

I
will be there, Eddie. But what do you care?

Joey smiles.
Only wanted the cleats anyway. Daddy’s way easier than
Mom.

Eddie smiles back
at him because he won’t have to wrestle or bribe Joey to get him into the suit.
The tie could still be an issue, though.

Ten minutes later, Joey charges into the
kitchen in his blue suit and baseball cleats. He even has his tie on—in a knot
around his head. Bethany and Michelle take turns hugging him and telling him
how great he looks for his mom.

How come nobody’s taking my picture
like Mommy did on the first day of school?

Joey studies his
adults and wonders about winning the cleat war.
Daddy looks funny in his shiny shoes with all that
toilet paper stuck to his chin. Bethany won’t quit crying.

Aunt Michelle hugs me too much. She
feels like Mommy, but she doesn’t even know where the camera is. Mommy takes
all my pictures. Without Mommy, there’ll never be another picture of me ever
again.

My poor family is a pitiful mess. I watch as they line up
and trudge together to the car. Joey’s cleats scratch at my hardwood floor, and
I don’t even give a damn. He has cookies stashed in his pockets. Bethany pours
an extra mug of coffee, over sugars it, and brings it to the car. She hasn’t
showered in days. Michelle fiddles with a pile of paper scraps as she shoves
dirty tissues up the sleeve of her sweater just like our mother used to do.
She’s humming to herself and crying her stupid mascara off.

Eddie, last out, hesitates at the door and turns back. He
looks at my purse still on the floor beside the sneaker pile. He scans the
kitchen, looks toward our bedroom door.
Still waiting for her.
Go ahead
without me, Eddie. I’ll be right behind you.

18

Kids park
their dads’ shiny BMWs on the grass and boulevards.
What a mess. People huddle together on the sidewalks in dark coats, and others
push their way into the warmth of the stone building.

Since there is no body to view, the
funeral directors and ushers quietly, but frantically, try to direct what looks
like the entire high school population into the small chapel. They hand out
programs and ask people to sit closer together to make room for more. Old Mrs.
Smithers from down the street drove herself in her dead husband’s pickup truck.
She sits alone in the back row eyeing the noisy teenagers who fill the seats.

Programs? At a funeral? Well, aren’t we
special? That Anna was so full of herself. Thought she was so smart. Hmpff. If
she was so smart, she wouldn’t be dead. It’s her own fault that she died.

How was it my fault?

Look at all those kids! So noisy in a
church! Somebody should tell them to hush.
She cranes her stringy neck around looking for an adult husher, but sees only
ushers who are useless and the pompous principal of my high school parading in.

Mr. Carter walks stiffly down the aisle shaking hands and
greeting students and parents.
Oh, my lord, this is horrible. Like a PTA
meeting. So many people! Is it okay for a principal to genuflect in church?
Well, this isn’t my church, so I won’t. We had to close school early again
today so all these teachers and kids could come to this service. In the spring
they’ll forget they demanded this, and they’ll all complain when we have to
make up the school day. It’s not my fault either way.

He finds a single seat alone on the end of a pew and
remains aloof, but the deep crease between his eyebrows gives him away: he is
extremely worried.
How the hell am I going to find a science teacher this
late in the school year? How can I explain to the media and the school board
how this happened to our teacher? It isn’t my fault what happened on Friday. It
isn’t my fault that we had to close school early today, either. Christ, they
blame me for everything.

My principal is worried that he’ll be blamed for my death?
What is going on? I can’t remember how I died. Was it my fault? Why has that
not occurred to me until now?

“Because, even though you are newly dead, you’re my smart
girl and you knew to focus on your family. The details of how you died are not
important once you’re dead. Not to the dead, anyway.”

“Hi, Mom.” Just when I begin to lurk around, to pick
people’s thoughts and snuggle in to revel in their sadness over the loss of me,
spoilsport Mom pops in. “Thanks for coming.”

“I wouldn’t miss this, dear. Don’t mind me. I’ll be quiet
and let you enjoy your misery. Oh, look at the lovely program—so formal. Your
death is all organized, just like your life was.”

Melancholy organ music starts up from the
balcony. People rise, unsure, in a hesitant wave that starts in the back of the
sanctuary when old Mrs. Smithers lurches to her feet. My family walks down the
center aisle. Bethany and Michelle hold each other up. Joey marches in his
cleats, held in line by his father’s large hand on the top of his head. Eddie’s
face is granite.

This hurts.

The music ends. Sniffles echo. Bodies
rustle back into seats. The standing-room crowd maneuvers to lean on walls and
pillars. I’ve been here before, but never as the dead one.

The minister talks for a while, but I
don’t listen so much to him. I just watch my family. Eddie’s head is bowed, and
his hand rests on Joey’s leg, which kicks the wooden pew rhythmically to a beat
in his head. Bethany sits straight and tall like a weeping statue beside
Michelle, who keeps a protective arm around her shoulders.

Although I’m not listening to him, I do
notice that the minister’s comforting thoughts have made my students cry.

Little Wendy sits
behind my family.
I loved Mrs.
Wixim. Is it okay to love your teacher? If I didn’t love her, this wouldn’t
hurt so much.

Alex, a football
player who graduated a few years ago, sits with other boys from the team near
the front of the church.
Mrs.
Wixim is dead. I can’t believe it.
I remember Alex. He was the quarterback and homecoming
king. So smart, but he didn’t care at all about school except for sports and
girls.
Man, little Tina Thomson
is all grown up. She looks hot today. Heard she broke up with Brad. Maybe I’ll
get a minute with her later—hold her while she cries.
Crying, weeping noises
dribble from the crowd of pretty girls sitting all around the football players.
I wonder if they’re crying for me, or just for attention from the guys.

There is James, one of my all-time favorite
kids. Sweet blue eyes brimming with tears. He breaks my heart. If I had a
heart. Can you cry when you’re dead?

“Without the tears, but the feeling is the
same.” The voice of reason, my mother asks, “How’re you doing?”

“This is rough. I might need to leave,” I
admit.

“I’ll go if you will.”

“Wait. Just a
little more.” I ignore my mother and concentrate for a few moments on this
intelligent young man. When I taught James, I was pregnant with Joey. I was a
cranky old pregnant mess, often grumpy, always tired. James wipes his nose on
the back of his sleeve.
I
remember when I came to Mrs. Wixim’s class, I hated school. No teacher even
noticed I was smart until she did. They only knew I was trouble. But Mrs. Wixim
loved us even if she never said so. She was tough—just kept pushing and
pushing. And those rules. She was a crazy woman with those rules. No excuses.
Yes, James, you were amazing.
I followed your story and heard you are in graduate school. You’ll make me
proud.

I check on my
family. Holding it together pretty well, I think, so I’ll take a peek. What is
Eddie thinking?
Anna. Anna.
Anna. Anna. Anna. Anna. Anna. Anna.
Well, that’s enlightening. He remembers my name.

Bethany?
They cremated Mom today. She’s gone. Mom’s body is
really gone. There’s nothing left of her. She’s gone.
A steady stream of tears runs
down her cheeks, leaving two growing wet spots on the shoulders of her jacket.

Joey?
They all said Mommy would be here.
He pivots his head like an owl
and searches around the church.
I
don’t see her. Good thing I wore my cleats. They click real good on this wood
floor. I get to do a lot of things now without Mommy telling me not to all the
time. But I wish she would get here. I saved her a seat.

Oh, my sweet boy,
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

The song ends, and
Michelle stands up. She watches the toes of her high heels walk up the three
steps to the podium. I wait for it. And there it is. Gravity strikes again. She
caught her toe on the top step. That’s my sister. The chronic tripper.

God, Anna, I need some backup here. Or
at least a hug. Help me with this one, will you?

“Mom, I need a break.” I’m the one who
needs the help.

“Sure. Let’s get you away from here. We
can come back later if you want to.”

“Take me somewhere and tell me how I died.
And why it was my fault.”

“Honey, I can take you somewhere, but I
cannot tell you what you already know.”