“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a good boy, you know that?”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She looked at me for a few more moments, then closed the door.
After another half hour I got up and put on my headphones and listened to records until a little past eight- thirty. The songs-some of them were old even back then-wove a curious kind of safety cocoon; this one came out when I was in sixth grade; this one was playing the first time I told so-and-so that I liked her in the eighth grade and she didn’t laugh at me-didn’t kiss me, either, but at least didn’t laugh; and this one, this one I always listened to by myself because it struck at something deep inside me that I didn’t want anyone else to know about because they might make fun of it or find a way to use it against me when they were mad or just feeling mean and needed to take it out on someone.
Around nine I took off the headphones and called the Cedar Hill Healthcare Center, asking to speak to someone in Admissions. As soon as they answered I gave them the same bullshit story about being Marty Weis’s nephew and how I’d tried to visit him last night, cha-cha-cha. It wasn’t hard to sound scared and confused.
“Mr. Weis is no longer with us,” said the Admissions person.
“I know that, ma’am, I was just wondering if you could tell me where he’s gone.”
“Mr. Weis was checked out of our facility two days ago.” Was checked out, not Checked himself out.
“Can you tell me who checked him out? Was it his daughter from Los Angeles?”
“I can’t give out that information, sir, and no forwarding address was provided.”
This went on for about ten minutes, I was transferred to three different people, all of whom gave me the same story, word for word: Mr. Weis is no longer with us.
I hung up while being transferred yet again, paced my room for a few minutes, then lay back down on my bed and listened to some more music.
Then I fell asleep, and dreamed of Mom standing over her medicine in the kitchen.
I jolted awake, snapping up my head so fast I heard the bones in my neck crack and felt a sharp stab of pain.
Something had happened.
Something was wrong.
I had no idea how I knew this, but the feeling was too strong to be ignored.
Yanking off the headphones, I headed downstairs. If I remembered filling the compartment and replacing the lids on the bottles, then I must have put the meds back in their hiding place as I usually did; even half-awake, your body more times than not will remember certain physical routines even if your brain doesn’t.
She was sitting at the table, face-down, her nose pressed against the Local section of The Cedar Hill Ally. One hand was still clutching the newspaper, the other held the cup of now-cold coffee she’d taken the pills with.
The radio was tuned to the local classical music station. It was playing something from some opera, Mom being the opera fan.
On the counter, five bottles of prescription medications sat where I’d left them last night. The “Morning” compartment was unopened, as were all the bottles except one-the sedatives; that bottle lay on its side, displaying the depth of the nothing it contained.
Oh, hon, I didn’t think it would hurt anything, I’ve just been real jumpy.
I knew she was dead before I even touched her. I sat there, holding her hand and saying over and over again: “You rest now, Mom, you’ve earned it. You rest now, Mom…”
I wondered what song I’d been listening to when she’d died. I wondered if she’d tried calling up to me but I didn’t hear her because of the headphones. I wondered if she’d died thinking that her life had been wasted and no one would remember her. “… you’ve earned it. You can rest now…”
I wondered if her hands had ever held blossoms.
I made the necessary calls, I waited with her body until the coroner’s wagon and police arrived; I answered all their questions, let the police collect the items they requested, and agreed to come down to the station later that day and let them take my prints. (“A formality,” said the officer. “It will help us make a determination.”) After they left, I called Criss Brothers Funeral Home and told them what happened and, yes, I could come over in a little while and make the arrangements; then it was only a matter of gathering together all the necessary papers (insurance information, etc., which Mom kept in the same metal filing box with everything relating to Dad’s death), calling what few relatives Mom still had in the area, and going about the rest of the awful business.
A lot of the next several days is something of a blur, so I’ll skip around and just hit the high points, if you don’t mind: her death was ruled accidental, I was not charged with gross negligence or anything else, her doctor was quick to mention her depression and confused state of mind, and the fact that she’d lost her husband only four weeks before confirmed for everyone that the entire incident was a terrible tragedy. Her obituary ran three short paragraphs and read more like a job resume than the summation of a life. Her remains were cremated (she’d been very specific about this for as long as I’d been alive) and placed in the finest urn Criss Brothers had to offer. There was a brief and bleak memorial service held in the chapel at the funeral home with about thirteen people, myself included, in attendance. When all was said and done, I was left sole owner of an empty, paid-for house, and had a respectable amount of money left from their insurance policies. At twenty-one, I was “set” for a good while, provided I used my resources intelligently.
The memorial service was held the Friday morning Beth’s show was scheduled to open. The night before she called at eight-thirty from a phone at the theater. I hung up as soon as I heard her voice. Less than a minute later the phone rang again and I let the answering machine pick up.
“Listen,” she said, “we’re taking a dinner break. The dress rehearsal was a disaster and we’re running through the whole thing again at ten. We need to talk and-God! I just heard how stupid that sounds. I’m so sorry about your mom, I really am, and so is Mabel. Did you get the flowers we sent? I’d really like to come to the service tomorrow morning. I would’ve called sooner but I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to-”
I picked up the receiver. “I love you, Beth, and we should be together, and you know it. I feel so alone right now, and I could just
… never mind. I don’t think I want to talk right now.”
“Then don’t say anything, just listen for a minute, okay?
“Happiness scares the hell out of me, it always has. I mean, it’s great at the time but I know it’s never going to last. I didn’t come to live with Mabel right away, you know. Mom tried palming me off on other relatives for a long time, and I’d stay with them for a couple of weeks, a month maybe, but eventually they’d always send me back because I was in the way, or didn’t get along with their cat, or made them nervous or whatever. It didn’t matter how hard I tried, how I concentrated on changing myself, remaking myself so they’d like me better and want to keep me, it was never good enough. This went on for a few years, and after the first couple of times I learned how to adapt, okay? I wasn’t going to be in any place for very long, so I found a way to make fast friends. Mostly boys. If I put out, they didn’t treat me like I was some kind of dog. And I’d spent so long being treated that way I started to believe that’s what I was-I still do, sometimes. But you spread your legs for them and you’re the most beautiful girl in the world, even if it’s just for one night. I knew it was okay to enjoy their company and stuff and not care about the consequences because I wasn’t going to be around long enough for anything I said or did to matter. I learned to trust happiness only if it was temporary, because then it’s okay when it ends. You can always find another quick fix in the next place.
“Then Mabel took me in and that was that. I stayed. And that meant having to trust I’d be happy for the long run, but the long run wasn’t in my repertoire so I just kept acting like I was going to be moving on any day now. But I didn’t. I stayed. Then one day I meet the cutest little boy in the world while I’m in the hospital and even though he’s only nine he acts like he’s thirty and I know that he’s going to be something really great when he grows into himself. And he was, and I loved him-I still love him, even though he can’t see what a great person he is. I got… I got comfortable, all right? And I always associated ‘comfortable’ with bored, because I always wanted things to be new, do you understand? I hate that about myself, but things are only interesting to me when they’re new- that’s when I feel the most alive. So anytime I’d start feeling bored, I’d see someone else for a week or so and that was new, I made myself new with them, and it was exciting and unpredictable and when it ended, when I’d get back in sync with you, we were new again. I’ve just been so used to re-making myself for so long that I couldn’t stop.
