38 A Week Before
February 2015
My brother and I had our last phone conversation eight days before he died. It was the last time I would ever hear his voice in real time. Had I known, I would have stayed on the phone with him forever. Or at least for much longer than I did. The conversation was so brief and insignificant.
He called to hash out an angsty Facebook status I’d just posted about the unsolicited feedback I often get in public about Iris’s hearing aids.
Some answers to some common questions posed by strangers upon noticing Iris’s hearing aids:
“What’s wrong with her ears?” Nothing is wrong with her ears. Her ears are perfect—unlike you. You are a rude asshole.
“Can she hear?” Yes, you fool. She’s wearing hearing aids. That is the point. Do you think this is a fashion statement I am making?
“Does she have to wear those forever?” Yep. Every single waking hour of every single day for the rest of her life. There is no cure for hearing loss. It is a permanent condition. And it has taken me lots of time, tears, and hard work to finally come to a place of acceptance about all that. But thanks for kicking that dust up for me. It’s really something I wanted to dig into—again—with you.
A few minutes later, the phone rang and Harris Wittels showed up on the caller ID. No matter what I was doing, I always picked up the phone when I saw his name.
“Man, you went HAM on Facebook,” he said when I answered.
“What is a ham?”
“Hard as a motherfucker?” He said it judgmentally, like I should know this.
“Well, people are fucking idiots.”
“Yeah, but they mean well. They’re just trying to connect with you and understand it—they just don’t know what to say. No one ever knows what to say about anything.”
And just like that, I was disarmed. He really was the only one who could tell me to calm the fuck down in a way that felt loving and nonthreatening. He was the one who could talk me off a ledge because he’d seen me stand on so many ledges so many times before. Siblings know you from the beginning. They know how you react to pain, setbacks, disappointment, hurt, and sadness. They know how to say the thing that will cut right through all the bullshit and diffuse the situation. Or, conversely, the thing that will exacerbate the situation, if that’s the goal. Like the thing Harris always used to do in the car where he would put his finger a millimeter away from my arm and say, “I’m not touching you, I’m not touching you,” and I would want to rip the finger right off of his hand.
Who will be able to fill that space now?
On February 13, Harris texted: More vids please [of Iris]. I’ve watched the new ones a thousand times. I sensed a sort of desperation. It was as if he was saying, I need this. I need a reason. I need a thing to make me keep going or I’m not going to make it.
Why didn’t I say something?
The last video I sent him was the one of Iris walking for the first time. It was two days before he died. When I recovered his phone from the coroner’s office, I saw a picture of Iris on his lock screen.
39 Eleven Months, Three Weeks, Six Days
A few days before the anniversary of your death, I wake up with the realization that I need to buy a yahrzeit candle. In Judaism, it’s the memorial candle that’s lit every year on the anniversary of a loved one’s death. I search Amazon and read reviews. I can’t fathom having the time or energy to write a review on anything, but reviewing a yahrzeit candle feels especially odd. Nevertheless, I read them. People seem to favor one that comes in a blue tin because it’s cheaper. Jews. I think about that one joke you always used to tell about Jews. You’d come out onstage and confidently exclaim in this sort of sing-songy voice, “Jews love money!” Then you’d hold for a beat and say, “I can say that because…I hate Jews.”
I buy a six-pack (of candles) as well as an electric one that you plug into an outlet. I don’t know why I would need both, but I want to be prepared.
I feel nauseous again. I breathe deeply to calm the sick inside my body. I’m having what feels like an extended, slow-motion panic attack over several days. Is this a thing? I try to pack my lunch but feel queasy looking in the fridge at all the food. I sit on the couch and put my feet up. I close my eyes. Iris is dancing around the room in her polka-dot rain boots, holding her mermaid doll. Mike is in the background asking if I want an ice pack. I respond to neither.
I look up at the bookshelves. On the top shelf is this 11-inch by 17-inch poster that’s mounted on foam board. It’s a blown-up Apples to Apples playing card that reads Harris Wittels: 1984–American actor, comedian, writer, and musician. Known for authoring Humblebrag: The Art of False Modesty; Also possesses a deep, unwavering affection for Phish. No death date was listed. You used to love playing Apples to Apples. I wonder when this was made and why. I wonder so much about the origins of all your shit. Two shelves over is the framed photo of you in your Maui baseball cap that’s now also on your headstone. Also on the top shelf is an 8-inch by 10-inch painting on canvas by a fan of your character Harris, the animal control guy, from Parks and Rec. Four shelves down is a black-and-white Wittels family photo that we took at Ganny’s eighty-ninth birthday party, where you’re awkwardly touching my shoulder and Mom and I are mid-cackle. Next to that is a small photo of us
