One Sunday morning, my first semester of senior year, I slept in abnormally late. It was a lazy morning, the sun peeking through my white generic blinds and shining light onto my reluctant to open eyelids. I tossed and turned in my warm blue Egyptian cotton sheets, rustling restlessly and fluffing my pillow. I vaguely remembered my dreams and eventually granted my body’s urge to stride forth to the bathroom. I splashed water on my face and braided my hair which needed to be washed; tomorrow I thought. I made my way to the kitchen where no kind of food seemed to be the right kind. I decided that I would watch TV which, being a Sunday morning was a random mix of infomercials, God messages, and a few educational cartoons. I entertained the idea of getting back in bed when I noticed my little pink razor phone sitting on the futon next to me. I picked it up like I had a million other times, lacking hope that anyone had called in the ten hours I had been asleep.
10 missed calls. It read
Drunk dials, I thought to myself as I hit the ‘view’ button seeing that they were all from one number. Then I saw I had a text message so I opened it.
Ash, it’s Bobby.
Steph’s dad died this morning.
Call one of us when you get this.
I called Steph who didn’t answer and then I called Bobby who answered and told me that my best friend’s dad had died of a heart attack at six am that morning. I hadn’t gotten the message until noon. Steph was on a plane on her way home to Seattle. Mike, my roommate was on a soccer trip and wouldn’t be home until later that night. I called my dad and asked him to book me a flight but he was in San Francisco and wouldn’t be home until the evening, so I waited. I cried; silent, unnoticed tears.
When she called me back that Sunday afternoon I could not manage to get words out before tears. We both just sat there, ears on the receiver, listening to each others sniffles and breathing. She was there when I lost my mom, and now three years later she had lost her dad. I didn’t want to tell anyone, but when my roommate saw me that night I couldn’t help but cry the tears I needed someone to see. He sat there with me for what seemed like hours and even when I tried to let go he held on to me with both arms, grasping the back of my neck. We sat in silence as I wiped my tears and nose onto his black jersey.
I booked my ticket to Seattle for Thursday, which was the soonest I could get away. I dredged through my week, gloomy and unreachable. At home I closed the door to my room so that my roommate wouldn’t see me and I left in the mornings before him just so he didn’t have a chance to hug me or ask me how I was. I felt embarrassed that I had let him hold me like that, that I had been weak in that moment, that he had seen me cry. I needed to be strong for Steph. I needed to be strong for me. I was afraid the memories would come rushing back and I was not ready to pick up the pieces.
The plane ride from San Antonio to Seattle is a whopping five hours. With one stop it turns into six and a half and with delays mine turned into eight. I arrived at midnight to a temperature drop of forty degrees, high winds, and of course rain. My brother left me his car at the airport and as I made my way to the garage, I felt exhausted, like a lesser version of myself. I reached into my purse only to notice that I had forgotten my glasses and would have to spend the next forty minutes on the road squinting and leaning forward in my seat in order to see properly. The windshield wipers took it out on the windshield as I attempted to stare down the dotted white lines on either side of my lane and stay between them.
At my brother Ryan’s house I was greeted by the dark. Everyone was already asleep, that everyone being Karen, my brother’s girlfriend. Ryan was in Washington DC until the morning and Adam was at his house in Seattle. I tiptoed straight to the fridge, out of habit, and examined the usual findings of yogurt, milk, cheese, and salami. Ryan’s big on the meat and dairy. On the counter was some kind of pastry which I immediately cut into. Peanut butter and jam bars, yum. My stomach rumbled from the combination of airport food, airplane, and now the consumption of sugar at midnight. I went to the guestroom or as I like to think of it: my room. There, I was welcomed by a small lamp; a selection of DVD’s to be watched on the big screen TV, and a freshly made “Heavenly” bed.
I woke up early the next morning feeling rested and revived. There’s something about sleeping at home, in your bed, that allows your body complete relaxation. I often wonder how long it takes for somewhere new to be home or if anywhere can ever be the home you grew up in. Even when I have my own home I will share it with other people, a boyfriend, a husband, children, it will never be “just mine” in the same way it was growing up, and the people, the family, will be different than the family that’s so familiar. Familiarity will be learned again over time, and the perfect sleep will follow there after, or it is a comforting thought to think so.
~
I wore all black, not because it is politically correct, but because it was the only color that could express what I was feeling. It was borrowed black too, borrowed pants from a friend and a borrowed sweater and cashmere wrap from my brother’s girlfriend, Karen. I debated lipstick for at least ten minutes, not knowing whether or not it was appropriate. It was the only makeup to consider because any form of eye beautification was out of the question given the tears I could feel waiting with anticipation like a small child almost at the front of the line for an ice cream cone, eager and expectant. I swiped on a light layer of whatever MAC lipstick was in the drawer, a shade of red, and I put on my oversized sunglasses. I looked the part. The part of a grieving individual, cloaked in black, properly tucked away in the pews of a church.
I hadn’t been to a funeral since my mom passed, and we didn’t call that a funeral but rather a celebration of life. We had a slideshow of pictures and a sharing time where everyone told stories about my mom. We had four songs sung, all of which my mom herself had selected as her favorite’s before she left us. There was no casket, there was no burial. There was nothing that resembled death. My mom was like a mother to Stephanie, her own never really being up for the job, and so her death hit her hard and we grieved together alongside my family.
When Steph asked me to meet her family at the cemetery for the burial I didn’t know what to expect. When I arrived, I realized that looking the part was not going to be enough. I exited my brother’s black Four Runner and wrapped Karen’s black wrap closer in to hug my body. I could feel the whipping wind through my pants and although it was not yet raining I could see the grey clouds that ensured the arrival of droplets at anytime. I had parked far away and was walking with a map of the cemetery in hand when I saw her, through the crowd of about fifteen people, this tiny little girl amidst the blur of black. I quickened my step and listened to the clicking sound that my high heels made on the wet pavement; every other step was a shuffle. She began to walk towards me. She started jogging and I didn’t quicken my step. I couldn’t. When she reached me I threw my arms around her and she burst into tears; the kind of tears that are only cried over the death of someone you love. The tears she had been waiting to cry all week.
I said, “I’m sorry, I love you.”
She said, “I miss him so much.”
“I know you do,” I said.
The tears began to stream down my face as Stephanie’s poured out between inhales of air. I held her tighter and we cried harder.
She said, “I’m not strong like you are.”
“I’m pretending,” I said.
~
Stephanie used to have big sleepover parties every year on her birthday. There would be at least ten girls at her house marching into the bonus room with sleeping bags and pillows in various shades of pastels. There were too many snacks to ever eat and too many movies to watch in just one night. Her dad was always there with the video camera aimed in our faces trying to capture the joy and angst of our teenage years. He made us sit in a chair one on two with him and the video camera and relay our favorite memory of Stephanie from the past year. He was the first, and the only person I ever met in Washington who used the phrase “y’all,” which both Steph and I would pick up later in Texas. He never yelled at us when we stayed up all night making all kinds of noise as we choreographed dances to Christina Aguilera and N’Sync. The next morning her dad would always wake up early to bake those Pillsbury cinnamon rolls for all of us. He was a cool dad who listened to our music stations, who drove us to the mall and who made us all laugh in the car with his goofy sense of humor.
~
I stood behind Stephanie and her little sister at the burial. They sat down on a bench with a blanket in front of the casket. I stroked their hair from behind, maybe more for my comfort than theirs. When the service began Stephanie’s mom broke down. She held her face in her hands and yelled out her husband’s name over and over again. When they lowered the casket Stephanie fell to the ground in sobs and I stood back watching, not knowing what to do. I prayed for her and for her family. I shut my eyes tight to will out the rest of my tears and ask God to be with them and bring them comfort in some way. But their sobs didn’t subside, and neither did mine.
My mom told me when I was little I asked her if the sky was always sad; when she asked me why I thought that I told her that it seemed to cry a lot. The sky cried for the rest of the day. After the burial we drove to Sumner, a small town just southeast of Puyallup, where we grew up. It was a wet ride and I rode it alone, blazing in front of the others as I made my way down winding Shaw Road and into the valley. I had forgotten how beautiful western Washington is in the fall. It had been three years since I had seen the reds, oranges, and yellows that are painted across the trees as if a great artist had mixed the most beautiful water colors and created the images with a flick of his brush. The leaves were falling and covering the damp grass and pavement everywhere with splatters of beautiful. The pumpkin patches were all up and running and Van Leerups tulip farm was still standing, with their annual “bulbs for sale” sign out on the street.
Things had changed though. The old farm house at the bottom of the hill was torn down; the one that used to put up a light display at Christmas that featured a plastic Santa sitting on the toilet in an outhouse. I counted on that Santa every December when we all drove around to look at Christmas lights, a comic relief from the serious, competitive decorations of the surrounding ritzy neighborhoods. Now that farm house is only in my memory, like so many other things from home. Driving down the street literally took my breath away and I wondered if I had taken it for granted all those nineteen years I lived there. Sometimes, even if you have been gone a long time, you have to go back home to appreciate what you are missing. Memories fall short when remembering the beauty of Washington’s fall.
I arrived at the funeral home early, or at least before anyone else. I walked across the street to a Starbucks and allowed the rain to pour down on me, hitting my face and drenching my hair. By the time I reached the green awnings I was dripping wet. I ordered a pumpkin spice latte because it felt like the right choice, or maybe because it was the recommended latte of the day and I was just too tired to care. I sat by the fireplace inside for a few minutes, feeling awkward and out of place. The girl working behind the counter had gone to my high school, graduated in the same class as me, and remembered my first and last name. I barely recognized her face. She was working at Starbucks part time and living at home with her parents, she told me. The truth was I didn’t care to know. I told her I was in town for a funeral, just killing some time before the service across the street. I told her that I go to school in Texas and that I’m applying to graduate schools. I don’t know why I told her that, except that it felt good to say it out loud. It felt good to know I chose a school a thousand miles from home, chose a life outside the suburbs of Seattle.
~
Steph asked me to sit by her at the service, so I did. The pastor was one chosen through the funeral home and was less than mediocre. He told us all personal stories and recited the same two bible versus that he had already read at the burial. I could tell Steph hated him, and I hated him too but there was nothing that could be done about it and so I gave him dirty looks through gritted teeth until he opened up the microphone for story sharing by the audience. Steph was the first one to stand and walk to the front. I envied how strong she was, getting up there, struggling through streams of sniffles and cries to share the story she had written about her dad. It was out of a father’s day book she had made him. It was inspiring. When she was reading there wasn’t a dry eye in the small rectangular room, until I looked over at the pastor who casually glanced down at his watch.
I have never understood why there is food after a funeral. It’s not a party. In fact, I would prefer to go home afterward, or linger in the church lobby and talk there. I remember at my mom’s funeral people walking around with small plates of finger food, food that was picked out and purchased by us, by the grieving family to ensure that everyone had an okay time. It really pissed me off. I knew Steph felt the same way. We all went over to her house after the service to find a smorgasbord of sandwiches and yummy looking treats. People flocked to the food like a group of vultures swooping down on field mice and I quickly squeezed my way out of the kitchen. I watched Steph as she endlessly greeted and thanked person after person for coming. Just watching her made me remember how exhausting it all is. I wanted to greet the people for her but I knew that I couldn’t so I just sat there on the couch and made conversation with no one until Bobby came over and did the same.
When the last guest left the house and the last tray of food had been Saran wrapped away Steph laid next to me on the comfy black leather couch in her living room.
“When does it get easier?” she asked.
I thought of all the things I could say about what I had gone through, about how it never really gets easier, that time just passes and the wound closes a little bit and some of the bleeding stops; then the next day the wound opens up again and you bleed memories that a band aid can’t cover.
I said, “It doesn’t, you just get stronger.”
And I already knew she was stronger than me because she had the courage to get up there and read when I barely had the courage to cry.
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