Now he’s snapping his fingers. He’s literally snapping. He picks up the death certificate and starts reading portions of it out loud to the person on the other end.
“A letter of instruction or something like that?” He starts whistling. “Mm-hmm, mm-hmm. Mmm-hmmmm.”
I put my hand over my mouth because hateful sentiments are about to exorcist out of me, and I’m already late picking up Iris from school.
He hangs up with a chipper, “Thank you very much! Have a great day!” Turning to me, he says, “You have to complete a couple of forms, one for Texas and one for California, and then fax the wealth management department a notarized California Small Estate Affidavit.”
“Where might I find such a document?”
“Google it.”
I leave with a rage that seeps into the spaces between my bones and stays for the rest of the day and night.
This is how it is. I vacillate between bad days and days where I do a decent job of functioning in the real world. Despite the volcanic rage and profound sorrow that are now a part of my cellular makeup, I am very efficient. I take care of the things that need taking care of. I make jokes, post pictures of my kid online, attend parties, teach students, take daily walks pulling a little red wagon. I keep up with current events, have opinions, feel and express political outrage. I read the news, listen to This American Life, type emojis in text messages. I throw a housewarming party, direct another play, remember to give birthday gifts to my daughter’s teachers. I’m convincing in my role. But when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I’m washing my hands or brushing my teeth, I see the outline of a mask. I don’t look like myself anymore. Because underneath my skin, I’m miserable.
The dumb internet is partially to blame. I see your friends’ lives moving on online. Proposals, weddings, babies. Things for which you would have been there. Things you’ll never have the chance to do. These are the things that pile up inside of me.
And then, suddenly, it’s eleven thirty on a Sunday night, and I’m standing in the bathroom in my underwear and a threadbare T-shirt that Harris used to wear, screaming about how bad it hurts. It comes out messy and guttural. I say fuck a hundred times. I melt into Mike’s chest. I feel empty and hungover the next morning like I did when I woke up next to the toilet after my twenty-first birthday, when I drank too much tequila the night before and lost one of my favorite earrings in the subway.
This sort of explosion is becoming more rare as time passes, which is fortunate. It takes so much energy that there would be none left. Mostly, I’m learning to live with the feelings. It’s all very normal now. I have curly brown hair. My allergies act up after I drink red wine. I had a little brother for thirty years. Now he’s gone. When I do cry, it’s quietly with the door closed. I know how to breathe through the sobs so only silent tears pour down my face.
It’s not that I don’t want to feel the feelings. I don’t mind the feelings. I welcome them, in fact. I just don’t have anything left to say about them. You’re gone. You’re never coming back. And it sucks. And it hurts. And it will always hurt. And that’s just the way it is now.
24 Nine Months, Six Days
Holidays are drone strikes: calculated and deadly. On the first Thanksgiving without you, Mom, Dad, Mike, Iris, and I fly to Phoenix to be with my in-laws. Mike’s brother Jeff, his wife Hannah and their two girls, Sylvia and Judith, have all flown in from LA. So has my father-in-law, Steve. He and my mother-in-law, Ruth, divorced after Steve came out when Mike was thirteen years old, but they’re still best friends who unite for most holidays and special occasions. It’s very beautiful and inspiring and progressive and sort of like the TV show Transparent, minus the trans part. Ruth still lives in Scottsdale, where Mike’s brother Dave and his wife Jenna recently bought a gigantic house. This is where we’ll stay for the long weekend.
While I love them all, I quickly realize it’s acutely painful to see Mike’s brothers, their wives, and their children all under one roof. My nieces, whom I adore, remind me that I’ll never have nieces or nephews who share my DNA. My mother-in-law and father-in-law have three grandchildren, including Iris, with two more on the way. Mom and Dad just have one.
Out in the world on any average sort of day, it’s hard to hear people talking about their big families, multiple siblings, and the three, four, five, six, seven, eight grandchildren their parents have. It’s hard to see photos of sprawling families communing by trees or in front of fireplaces wearing outfits in matching colors—partially because matching color schemes are absurd, but mostly because my family lost one member but shrunk an entire generation. I don’t want to see anyone’s happy fucking family, especially on a holiday. A holiday is the worst: an entire day built around togetherness.
But Thanksgiving is easier than I expect it to be, in large part because Iris is extremely sick. Vomiting, fever, rash, congestion, cough, generalized irritability. She’s on her very worst behavior and leaving a trail of snotty tissues all over the house. I feel awful for her but realize in hindsight it’s an excellent distraction. There’s so much vomit to clean up, I have no energy left to feel sorry for myself.
It’s weird—no one really mentions you over the course of the weekend and not at all on the Big Day. This happens on regular days, too, but it feels extra shitty on a holiday. And there’s no green-bean casserole. You loved green-bean casserole. It was
