The first message was an appointment reminder for a cleaning at the dentist I’d already missed. The second was from my principal at work. And the third was from Mr. Ludwig. It wasn’t like me to not show up at school without calling, he said. He expressed concern and asked that I get back in touch with him as soon as possible.
I deleted the voicemail, realizing there was nothing from Beckett: No phone call. No text messages.
Nothing at all.
I was just a booty call. A vacation fling.
I was wrong about everything.
It was a punch in the gut, and it hurt something awful.
I deserve that,I thought.
I blocked Beckett’s number and slid my phone back into my purse, wondering why he even gave me his number in the first place if all he was looking for was a fuck buddy. I hugged the ash-filled purse to my chest and deplaned, feeling emptier and more alone than I ever had in my entire life.
I managed to go through the motions at JFK Airport. I retrieved our bags. Got in a cab. Shlepped everything into the apartment. I placed Mom’s luggage in her bedroom and closed the door.
The week that followed was the worst. I had to inform everyone of what had happened, starting with my school—where I hadn’t even called out of work the prior two days. Thankfully, the administration was merciful. To be fair, they were actually heartbroken. Especially Mr. Ludwig, who shared the bond of having spent that day in the hospital with me following Mom’s heart attack.
My father said he was really sorry to hear about my mom, but he didn’t offer to come to New York or help with logistics or anything like that.
I became a pro at funeral services. It wasn’t all that hard, really. I went to Fox Funeral Home because it was on the outer perimeter of Forest Hills Gardens, an area that my mom was very fond of, with its old money, cobblestone streets, and charming Tudor-style homes. I explained that really, all I needed was a proper urn, and that I’d like to have a service for her. They expeditiously agreed, and I paid Forest Hills Gardens prices for the prettiest urn they had, which was made of mother-of-pearl and could be engraved. I chose to personalize it with her name, her dates of birth and death, and the chorus from her breakout song, “Love Is a Melody”:
It’s the ballad of a soul
It’s the tune that makes you whole
It’s the verse
Unrehearsed
Of a hymn you can’t control
It’s the anthem in the night
It’s the song that just feels right
It’s fidelity
Your love… Your love is a melody
The day came, and pretty much the entire faculty of Forest Hills High School came to the service, along with some neighborhood friends and distant relatives. My people came, too, of course. Evan sat next to me the entire time, guarding me as if it was a literary event instead of a funeral. Jax paid her respects, and the New York publicity team from Cabaret came out as well, which I hadn’t anticipated. Dad sent an arrangement of flowers and so did other members of the band she’d been part of many moons ago.
The expectation was that I would write a proper eulogy, and because writing has always been my therapy, I tried my best to put into words what she meant to me. The thing was, she was more than just my mother. She was my best friend, and in the entire English language, there weren’t the right words to adequately describe a love that big.
Grace is the attribute that lets you be less than you’d like but still be enough. I believe my mother was the one who delivered me grace that day. I heard her voice in our apartment when I was getting dressed. Clear as day, just humming a song. There was no mistaking the sound; it was definitely her.
“Mom?” I asked.
“I’m right here, Pretty Girl.”
“You are?” I was so confused. My doctor had moved me from Klonopin to Lexapro, but I hadn’t heard anything about side effects including auditory hallucinations.
“I’m always here, sweetheart.”
“Oh,” I said, and she went back to humming. I assumed I was losing it, so I put on music to drown out the sound.
Later that night, after the service, I heard it again.
