Until, against my leg, I feel a vibration.
It’s his pocket, I realize. I pull my face away. “I think you have a phone call,” I say, breathless.
“Ignore it,” he replies, pulling me back in.
But I can’t. “Just see who it is.”
Begrudgingly, he pulls the phone out of his pocket. He looks, but hedoesn’t have to, because we both know exactly who would be calling at this precise moment. He silences the call, sending it to voicemail.
“It’s her,” I say.
His nod is slight.
“I gotta go,” I decide. “I’m sorry.”
This time, he lets me.
Chapter 34
JetBlue has rules about ashes.
They need to be transported by hand, as a carry-on item, for one thing. They have to be in a clear container; that’s a TSA thing. And you have to declare them and show a death certificate.
I learned all of this two days later.
By that time, I was heavily medicated, thanks to the kindness of Diego and Edwin. When discussing payment plans for my mother’s options, I had a panic attack. The weight of everything that had occurred was catching up to me. I hadn’t eaten anything all day except for a cracker or two, I struggled to catch my breath, and I looked faint. So, Diego, instead of calling 911, decided to contact Edwin. He returned to the funeral home with a sandwich and a trial prescription of Klonopin. I reluctantly ate half of the sandwich but gladly took the drugs to temporarily treat the anxiety and get me through the rest of my time in Aruba.
It was all a blur. I went back to the Marriott. They gave me a room on the ground floor. It was simple, just a standard hotel room with a limited view of the pool patio, nothing like the fourth floor suite Mom and I had enjoyed all week. I was grateful for the room’s simplicity; I wouldn’t be able to handle anything more than basic amenities. Our luggage was delivered there. Diego informed me that the cremation would take place the nextday, and then the ashes would be ready for pickup the morning of January 4. Which meant the earliest flight I could get back to New York was the twelve o’clock flight.
I went through the motions like a zombie. I had nothing appropriate to wear for the cremation service, but the manager from the Marriott, whose name I learned was Alphonse, sent me to the Ralph Lauren store in the Renaissance Mall, and there I was able to find two pairs of black pants, one more casual than the other, and two black tops to accompany them. I also bought a wide-brimmed, floppy black hat and a pair of oversized black sunglasses, because I was in mourning, and I’d be damned before I’d disrespect my mother even further by wearing some cutesy little sundress and hang out by the pool.
No, other than my time at the funeral home and at the mall, I stayed in my room right up until the service on January 3. I ordered room service for meals, sticking to small things that I could stomach, just biding my time until I could bring my mother home.
Bad news travels fast, but still, in the afternoon on the 3rd, I was surprised when my mother’s little funeral service was attended by people other than me. Diego was there, obviously, but so was Edwin, and Alphonse as well. And, perhaps the biggest surprise of all: Hugo, who brought a small bouquet of orange flowers and placed them on top of her coffin. He came up to me, held both of my hands in his own, and said, “Tu madre era una mujer especial.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but I thanked him. “She really liked you.”
“Special lady,” he replied.
He stood in the back of the room for the rest of the service and quietly slipped out of the room when Diego concluded the service.
I remained seated the entire time. Diego’s words, which were in English for my benefit, were a patchwork, piecemeal compilation of bitsof information he gleaned from me during our conversation. It didn’t do her justice, but my intention was to give her a proper memorial service once we returned to New York anyway, so I didn’t fault him for it.
After the ceremony, Alphonse drove me back to the Marriott—a gesture I was most grateful for.
The following morning, I dressed in my more casual all-black outfit, put on the sizable hat and the sunglasses, and went to retrieve my mother’s ashes from Aurora Funeral Home. I asked the taxi to wait for me there, as the next stop would be the airport. He kindly obliged.
I guess the lady at the JetBlue counter took pity on me, because when I explained my circumstances, she checked my bags for free, upgraded me to first class, and gave me a pass for access to the International VIP Lounge. I made my way through the various checkpoints, with my mother in a clear bag stuffed inside of what reminded me of a Chinese takeout container for a quart of soup. I carried the ashes in my purse. I was reminded of our evening at the Chinese food restaurant a week prior, where her life forces were so huge that her heavenly voice and sparkling charisma had random strangers eating free food off our table. Just thinking about it made me feel sick.
In the VIP Lounge, I gratefully accepted the free wine they offered, despite having never been much of a wine drinker. I needed something. I hid under my hat and stared at the television through my dark sunglasses, hoping that if I just kept the world around me dark, I could disappear into it, and this nightmare would come to an end.
When it was time to board, first-class passengers went first, so I entered the plane without any kind of wait. I had the very first seat on the aircraft, next to the window. I was offered more alcohol before the coach passengers got on, and I gladly accepted it. I just wanted to sleep, although the wine was definitely starting to hit me, making me feel a little loopy. I fished through my bag, around my mother’s ashes and underneath them, until Ilocated her hacky sack. The feel of it in my hand created instant comfort in my body, like muscle memory existed for this thing I hadn’t needed since I was a little kid. I looked out the window as the passengers filed in. The flight attendant handed me two airplane bottles of rum, along with a plastic glass filled with ice, just as a guy who closely resembled Beckett walked past. But that wasn’t possible, because Beckett left two days prior, and this guy’s head was shaved. So, I chalked it up to the sunglasses and the alcohol, noting that it wasn’t very nice of the universe to play tricks on a grieving woman.
As the plane took off, I squeezed the hacky sack, praying to my mom and to God that I could just sleep through the flight and make it home safely.
Sometimes, prayers are answered. This, thankfully, was one of those times.
When the flight landed, I took out my cell phone and turned off airplane mode, and messages began rolling in. A zillion text messages from a group chat at work wished everyone a happy New Year, a new pizzeria somehow got my number and texted some coupon codes, and there were three new voicemails. I dialed in to the voicemail box while the plane was being situated at the gate, unsure of how I would feel hearing Beckett’s voice on the other end of my phone.
