Without You: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and the Musical Rent (31 page)

A couple of moments after going into Mom’s room, Adam returned to the living room, his large eyes wide, his face a little paler than usual.

I stood up and made my way to her door. I paused before looking in her room. And then I looked in, and saw her lying there on her bed.

My hand gripped the doorknob and quickly closed the door behind me. A sound began to emerge from my throat, from my gut, from my chest, a moan I had never heard myself make, a low sound, a horrible, frightening sound, and though I had already shed so many tears, there were fresh ones, streaming down my face, uncontrolled, unbidden, wet and wet and wet, and there was Mom, or rather there was her body, her shell, beautifully laid there on her bed, in a simple white nightgown, under her simple white quilt, a simple white rose resting on her chest. It was clear that she had been tenderly settled there by Roberta or Terry, and I was so grateful that they had taken such care, and I was grateful to get the chance to see her one more time, and at the same time, I was more certain than I had ever been that we are not contained in our bodies; there was nothing left of my mother in that shell on that bed, that impossibly pale body that only slightly resembled Mom. It was far, far too pale and still and, well—dead, yes dead, she was dead, dead dead dead—and I would have given anything at all to have one more chance, one more moment to tell her I loved her—even though I knew she knew it—and to hold her hand, and then I reached over and touched her hand, and my fingers felt her cold and rubbery dead dead dead skin, and there was no life in that skin, no sense of her, no possible way that all of who she was—all of the love she had, all of the life she lived, all of her mistakes and all of her energy and all of her friends’ and family’s love for her—there was no way that all of that was contained in that body, that empty dead body.

And there I was moaning and keening and wailing like some kind of primal animal let loose and roaming around this house that had this death in it, and I looked up and saw my reflection in the large mirror that Mom had always had in her room, and I didn’t recognize my own face twisted up in agony. I looked again at my mom’s body, which was not my mom but only her body, and saw the eerie and horrible way her lips had begun to pull away from her teeth in a death grimace—what a terrible and frightening phrase that was—and my chest was cracking open, and I pressed my palm into my chest to stop my heart from bursting through, heaving in huge gulping sobs. Then the door opened and Adam poked his head in. “Are you okay?” he said.

I wanted to say
of course I’m not okay I’m not at all okay I’m in agony I hate this more than anything I’ve ever hated before in my life, and all of that time I was waiting for her to die, all of that time we spent laughing about it and hoping for this moment, all of that time, I would give it all back ten thousand times over to not have to go through this right now, what I’m going through right now, I hate myself for ever having said or thought those things, no I’m not okay.
But instead I caught my breath and said, “Yeah.”

“’Cause you were making some crazy sounds.”

And I said, swallowing, “I’m sorry.”

And he said, “Well, okay,” and then he closed the door and left me alone with Mom. With her body. I looked in the mirror again and saw an insane person staring back at me, a wild-eyed, red-faced, horror-
stricken insane person. More wails came, bigger than before, unstoppable, and I told myself that the only way out is through, the only way out is through, the only way out is through, but there didn’t seem to be any way out, any end to this drowning. Then slowly but surely my breathing became regular, and those horrible sounds stopped coursing through me and out of my throat. Eventually I was able to look at my mother’s body and just see her there, or at least an aspect of her, and I leaned down and kissed her cold forehead, which felt not like her forehead at all. Then, with some semblance of myself restored, I looked at her one last time and left her in her room, closing the door behind me.

Unsure if my eyes were still wild or if my smeared face was still flushed, I headed out to the living room and sat down again, not looking at anyone. The undertakers, two silent men in cheap polyester suits and soft voices, had arrived and quietly announced that they would be taking Mom away now. I sat and watched with Adam and Anne and Roberta as they lumbered back to her bedroom. They came out several minutes later wheeling my enshrouded mother, their heads bowed as they passed by, and all my tears were gone for now, as I witnessed my mother leave her home, carted away by these two strangers.

I
was finally able to speak with Todd when he called the house later that night.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t call sooner,” he said. “I was watching a movie with my friends.”

“It’s okay,” I said. And I supposed it was.

“So what’s happening?”

“Well,” I said, not sure of how I was going to say it. Then I decided. “It’s over. She’s gone.”

“Oh, honey…”

“Yeah,” I said in the silence that followed. “When can you get here?”

“Do you want me to come?”

Did I want him to come? What kind of question was that? “Of course I want you to come. When can you get here?”

“Well, I have some meetings tomorrow, so I guess I can fly there like the day after tomorrow, is that okay?”

I guessed it would have to be. “Okay, as soon as you can.”

“I will, I will,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he wanted to come, or if he was only coming because I wanted him to. But did that even matter?

“Good,” I said.

“How are you doing?”

How
was
I doing? I wasn’t even sure. I was exhausted and spent and yet very alive and present and sort of wide open. “I’m okay.” I sighed. “I’m okay.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

The next day was filled with delegating the various arrangements—securing the location of the funeral and memorial; renting a piano so I could sing at the memorial, as I’d promised Mom I’d do; telling more people of her death; getting food sorted out; meeting with the priest to select the readings and songs; creating and printing up the program for the memorial. Roberta took the lion’s share of the work, as she had done for the past couple of years. (She’d come to only half-jokingly nicknaming herself “The Boss.”) It felt strangely similar to putting together a theatrical production.

I stayed fairly steady throughout the day, relieved after the long, long wait for Mom’s death. Her house was sun dappled and filled with talk and activity, but a new emptiness lingered. And when I took a shower that day I had to hold myself up against the slippery tiles while a fresh wave of sobs overcame me. I stood in the steam and let out the grief. And then, as had happened the night before, it gradually lifted, and my breathing returned to normal, my head cleared, and I finished my shower and got back to helping create a fitting tribute to the life Mom had lived.

When Todd arrived the following night it was already late, and by the time we got home, the house was still and dark. Adam and his girlfriend, Devin, who had arrived earlier in the day, were the only other people sleeping at the house; Anne and Rachel were at their home, and Roberta was at hers. Todd hated flying and had to medicate himself before every takeoff, so he was loopy when he got off the plane. But already the effects were wearing off, and his familiar neurotic energy was showing through.

“So this is Mom’s house,” I said in a stage whisper, wanting to mark the occasion somehow.

“It’s nice,” he said. “Lots of plants.”

“Yeah, she was a big plant lover.”

Todd paced around, taking in everything with his lightning quick eyes. He was always proud that he could register many details of a place within mere seconds.

“Lots of books, too,” he said.

“Yeah, she loved to read.” I was nervous having him home with me. And I could tell he was nervous. He hadn’t been able to look at me.

“Are you sure it’s okay that I’m here?” he said.

“Of course I’m sure,” I said.

“’Cause I don’t feel very comfortable.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t feel comfortable,” he said, agitated. “This isn’t my house, you know I don’t feel comfortable in other people’s houses, I need my things, I need my chaos and environment and all that, you know that.”

I couldn’t believe he was already complaining, that he was making this moment about him. “Well, what do you want to do about it?”

“Oh, that’s helpful,” he said. “You should be trying to make me feel comfortable, not mocking me.”

“Mocking you? How was I mocking you? I was asking you a question.”

“Look, I’m your
guest,
I shouldn’t have to figure it out,
you
figure it out.”

“Figure
what
out?” I struggled not to raise my voice and wake up Adam and his girlfriend.

“How to make me feel more comfortable!” Todd was also trying not to raise his voice, balling up his fists, his eyes wide. I felt too raw for this conversation, but I tried to breathe and stay in it, to contain it.

“Todd,” I said, “try to calm down.”

“I am calm!” he said.

“Todd, can you just try for a second to sit and talk quietly about this?”

“Stop fucking condescending to me!”

I reached for his hand. “Come here, please,” I said. “Sit with me. Please.”

And reluctantly, he sat on the couch, under Mom’s old hand-painted
HOME SWEET HOME
sign.

Todd clutched my hand tightly and said, “You’re not being very helpful.”

As much as I wanted to scream at him for being such an asshole, I stopped myself. I breathed in and out. “What do you mean?” I said.

“This is a very awkward situation for me,” he said. “I don’t know how your family will be, I don’t know them, I don’t know this house, I don’t feel comfortable.”

“Okay,” I said.

“And you’re not being very helpful.”

“Todd, I need you to be a little helpful too right now.”

“Of course, it’s always about you! When I ask for something I need, you never can give it!”

Where was this going? “Todd, my mother just died. My mother just died and I can’t really get too much more into this right now, let’s just go to bed and we’ll see how you feel tomorrow, okay?”

“I’m not going to be able to sleep, I slept on the plane.”

“Well then just lie down with me, okay? Please?”

“Why does it always have to be what
you
need?”

I stuffed down another outburst. “Okay, Todd, whatever you want to do, that’s fine.”

“Stop fucking condescending to me!”

And we went around and around like that for what felt like hours, and may very well have been at least an hour or more, until he tired finally of running in the same loop over and over and followed me into Rachel’s old room.

We lay down in the dark on our backs, holding hands. I stared up at the ceiling in a long silence, swallowing all of my impulses to rage at Todd. Why was I still with him when he was so fucking exhausting? Sometimes it seemed the only reason I stayed was that he was the only person in my life who had closely witnessed what I’d gone through in the past year, and if I lost him I would lose that connection to my own history. Yet here we were at another dead end, spent, unable to muster any words that might make a difference.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a long silence. He didn’t usually apologize, so that was something.

“It’s okay,” I said. Not that it was, not really.

“I just got freaked out.”

“It’s okay,” I said again.

“I just didn’t know what to expect.”

“It’s okay,” I said once more.

And we lay there together, and I listened to our breathing, as confused as ever but grateful for his apology and starting to feel some comfort from his presence at this most difficult time. Suddenly, before I knew it, I was overwhelmed with the desire to make love to him, to connect with him, to be with him and love him and have him love me. And I rolled over and kissed him with more passion than perhaps I ever had, not knowing where it was coming from, not really caring, momentarily wondering if it was somehow disrespectful of us to be having sex in a house in which someone—and not just any someone, but my mother—had just died. But none of that mattered now. Even though I didn’t always know why we should still be together, I still loved him. I needed him to know how much I did, and I needed him to make me know that he felt the same way. And above all else, I needed not to be alone.

On the following day, the funeral was first, to be followed by a luncheon at the park where the memorial would then take place. I hadn’t been in a church since Anne’s wedding and felt the familiar tightening in my chest as I passed the basin filled with holy water, almost reflexively reaching in to make the sign of the cross, but stopping short of getting my fingers wet; I was too much of a heathen to desecrate the holy water. I purposely didn’t hold Todd’s hand; I wasn’t ready to put our relationship in Grandma’s face. She stood near the door, receiving people, and I walked right up to her.

“Grandma, this is Todd,” I said, trying to make my voice sound assured.

She immediately took his hand and shook it. “Nice to meet you, Todd,” she said, looking him in the eye.

“Thanks for including me,” he said.

And without missing a beat, she replied, “Well, of course, you’re part of the family.” I couldn’t believe those words had come out of her mouth, but there they were. Todd and I shared relieved glances as we made our way to our pew and sat down.

The coffin was closed, and on its lid rested a color portrait of Mom, set in a tasteful frame. It was the portrait that had been taken on Anne’s wedding day—the one featuring her coiffed hair and too-red lipstick. Mom had never had any sense of glamour, or even style, beyond sweatshirts and jeans, so it struck me as odd to see her publicly represented in this way. But I imagined that Roberta must have thought it was the most flattering picture of Mom, even if it didn’t really look like her.

I wondered if Anne and Adam and Rachel felt as calm as I did, sitting in the church, listening to the priest intone his prayers and recite his homily.

After the Mass, my uncle Chris read a prepared eulogy, and I gripped Todd’s hand, simple tears leaking from my eyes—the first of the day—as I listened to Chris’s calm, quiet voice fill the church. He had been such a loyal and good brother to my mom, and I knew how much she had valued his friendship and counsel, and how much she had supported him through his life’s vicissitudes.

But mostly as I sat there, I was looking ahead to the secular comfort of the memorial service, which Mom had wanted more than a funeral. It was like a show, with a program that Roberta had designed rather beautifully. It featured my favorite portrait of Mom: a black-and-white photograph from her student nursing days, complete with an old-fashioned white cap perched atop her head. She looked young and open and calm and much more herself than in the color portrait on her coffin, even though the shot was in black and white and she was sitting in a formal pose. And the memorial would feature entrances and exits and music and the whole works.

So after the last hymn was sung, and accompanied by the clatter of the church bells’ peals in the bright spring air, we all piled into our caravan and rambled over to the park.

There was only one substantial park in Joliet, Pilcher Park, and I wasn’t sure that Mom had spent any time there, but it turned out to be a lovely setting for her memorial. The previous days had been filled with intermittent showers and blustery winds, but on this day the sky was blue and clear.

I made my way to a small clearing ringed by old oak trees with Grandma and all of Mom’s brothers and sisters (save Katrina, who was in some sort of feud with Joe and refused to come), Rachel and Adam and myself, Devin and Todd and Dad, Tom and Terry and the other hospice workers, Gloria, and other friends and coworkers of Mom’s. I wondered how Rachel was feeling being around Lucie, her birth mother, and her two brothers, Nathaniel and Matthew, on a day like this. She was only nine years old, and I wondered how she was processing what was happening—I was having a hard enough time myself, at almost three times her age. But I had to help set up the service, so I didn’t have an opportunity to check in with her.

After we all munched on the comfort food that was awaiting us in the park, we made our way to the folding chairs that had been set up for us, and found our seats. I was glad to see that the piano delivery I had arranged came through, and I conferred with my accompanist, Beverly, whom I knew from my days at Joliet West High School and who had graciously agreed to donate her services today.