“That’s shocking,” I say. “Especially considering how well-rounded she seems now.” I didn’t want to give up my charade. I was supposed to be helping Zoey after all, not gossiping.
“Well, I’m surprised, to tell the truth. That was one of the biggest fits we’ve had at the school. I wouldn’t want something from so long ago to hurt her moving forward, especially if she’s turned it around.”
“Of course,” I say. Before I get off the phone, I ask, “What kind of animal was it?”
“A cat,” she answers.
Twenty-Six
Spring 2005
I’ve spent most of my adult life blaming Brian for the bad things that happened. I wish there was a way I could blame Dad’s death on him. But it was no one’s fault. He went to sleep one night and never woke up.
The easiness of his death made it hard for all of us to grieve. I was sitting in Algebra class when I was called over the intercom. When I arrived at the office, Brian was there, too. Still, I didn’t think anything of it. Someone dying was far removed from my mind; our grandparents had all died either before we were born or when we were toddlers. People in my life didn’t die, let alone my father.
Mom was locked in a prison of grief back at the house. That’s why Wanda, the school secretary, told us. She didn’t think it was right to send us home not knowing what gruesome news awaited there.
Her words snatched all the oxygen from my body. The ground below me disappeared and I fell to my knees. I still recall that sense of falling, as though my feet would never find steady ground. For the first time, I knew what it was like to be frozen. To watch seconds tick by and not acknowledge them. To feel like I was no longer part of the world whatsoever.
Slowly, the sensations returned. First, the coarse carpet under my knees. Then I sucked in shallow, hurried breaths. Finally, I felt a hand on my back. Brian’s hand. He remained standing over me, lightly touching my right shoulder blade.
“Della,” he said, his voice an echoing force pulling me back to reality. “Della, are you okay?”
I’d never seen concern in his eyes before. Wanda kneeled in front of me on the floor and held my hands. Her face carried all the grief Brian’s lacked. I was too young to go through this, she thought. It was the first time I’d ever received the victim look. Finally, the tears came, and I’m not sure when they stopped.
We learned later it was a brain aneurysm. Paramedics said we should be comforted by the fact he died peacefully. Our minister reiterated this sentiment, saying a serene death was his reward for living such a good life. In some ways, I agreed. Dad didn’t die violently. He didn’t suffer through a painful illness. But being allowed to live a little longer seemed like an equally beneficial reward. The suddenness of his death made it harder to accept.
That morning, I should have known something was off. Dad was always the first person in the kitchen, sitting upright by the breakfast bar with his coffee. I dashed through the kitchen, only pausing to grab a banana. I barely even registered his absence. I wish I had, although the paramedics assured me he was gone by that point. He’d died sometime during the night. I considered the irony, that I would feel the weight of that same absence every morning moving forward.
Brian drove me home. My Aunt Tilda greeted us at the door; Mom was already medicated and back in her bedroom. The house felt empty. It seemed larger, even. The warmth of the place was gone. I didn’t realize how often music played in the house. Dad’s music, whether he was strumming his guitar or playing records. It was background noise which I never appreciated until it was no longer there.
That night, I went to Brian’s room. His door was cracked. I made a light knock before pushing it open. He was under his covers, writing in a notebook. He met me with those accusatory eyes.
“Hey,” I said, not sure where to start.
“Hey.” He looked away from me and back at his notepad.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice girlish and desperate. I didn’t want to return to our quiet house. I’d rather talk to Brian than do that.
“I’m working on a list.”
“A list of what?” I asked.
He laid the notepad flat against his legs and shifted his torso to face me. “If you must know,” he said, “I’m working on a list of songs. For the funeral.”
“That’s nice, Brian,” I said, taking a step closer into the bedroom. “Can I see?”
He held out his notebook. I sat on the edge of his bed and glanced at the list. Each one was familiar. Each one was Dad. For the first time all day, I smiled. “These are perfect.”
“I know we can’t play all of them,” he said, taking back the paper.
“We’ll see what we can do,” I said. “Aunt Tilda will be here in the morning. She said she’d help us plan the funeral if Mom is, well, you know.”
“Okay,” he said. He was bored with me.
“Are you okay?” I knew Mom was a wreck. I was, too. As usual—even in a moment of tragic circumstance—I had no idea what Brian was thinking. He’d always been fond of Dad. Unlike Mom, he respected him. Their scuffle last fall had been uncharacteristic, but it hadn’t defined their relationship in the months that followed. I was happy, for Brian’s sake, they’d moved past it. I didn’t want his memories of Dad to be tainted.
“I don’t know,” Brian answered. It was the most honest he’d ever been. He didn’t know what he was feeling, if he was feeling it. He couldn’t verbalize his emotions. Grief, even to me, was indescribable.
