Lenny, Keegan’s father, offered to have their limo pick me up this morning, but I opted out. I don’t want to show up an hour early to greet people. I don’t want to stand in a receiving line, hugging the necks of strangers, or worse, shaking the hands of silent accusers. I’m not a part of the family; I was Keegan’s lifelong girlfriend, that’s it.
I take my oversized black tweed clutch from the tufted cushion-top of the entryway storage bench. The checklist of what I need to bring with me is flashing through my head, and I have everything I need except for one item.
My heels click against the hollow-sounding Pergo wood floor, echoing loudly between the walls as I make my way into the kitchen. I slide open the silverware drawer and reach behind the compartmentalized containment of utensils, retrieving the silver flask Keegan received for being a groomsman at Lenny’s wedding a few years ago. Lenny had his initials engraved onto the side:K A L.I run my fingertips over the coarse etching, feeling numb. It was the worst gift he could have received, but his dad didn’t know Keegan had a problem. I hid Keegan’s issues from his Dad, stepmom, and brother, but I suspect they might have known. After all, he inherited his problem with alcohol from his mother. It was in her genes, and she graciously handed down to him preceding her untimely death. Losing his precious wife to alcoholism should have been enough of a reason to think of a different gift than a flask for Keegan, but Lenny doesn’t feel too deeply about that kind of stuff.
Since I didn’t share Keegan’s secrets with everyone, his suicide looks like it was due to unhappiness. There’s an invisible finger pointing at me, one I can sense through every phone call I’ve endured this past week. It wasn’t me who made Keegan unhappy. It was Keegan who made himself sad.
I just lit the match.
I told him we, as a couple, would be over when he was all better.
I didn’t give him a choice.
The paper bag I set down on the counter last night is still sitting in front of the microwave, waiting for consumption. To notice the liquor bottles that stare at me from every direction is part of the process—a way to numb the pain. This lie is what I force myself to believe while staring at the blinking green numbers on the microwave, remembering I never reset the clock after the power flickered last week. Keegan would have usually taken care of that despite his lack of participating in upkeep around here.
I remove the Old Crow Reserve from the brown bag and twist the top, waiting to hear the snap of the seal. The scent of spiced pear drifts out of the bottle, tickling the inside of my nose. I twist the cap off the flask and fill it with the amber liquid from the bottle.
I seal the flask and slip it into my clutch, leaving little room for my phone and keys.
For a moment, my mind fixates on the whiskey and masks my thoughts of the funeral.
I lock up the apartment and head down the back stairwell toward the residential parking spaces.
“This is how you would have handled this situation, right, Keegan?”
I press my thumb against the key-fob, unlocking Keegan’s black Dodge Ram. I don’t want these memories sitting in my beloved Jeep after today. Plus, I’m selling Keegan’s truck next week, so it’s only fair to give it one last ride.
I slide onto the soft, worn upholstery, inhaling the remnants of his old sun-dulled air freshener that still mildly fills the interior with the smell of coconut. The dangling palm tree attached to the rear-view mirror catches my attention as I try to recall how long ago he bought it and why he chose that scent when he refused to eat anything that contained coconut.
The rubber coating on the steering wheel burns my hand as I take grip before craning my neck to the side in search of the keyhole to the ignition. Keegan didn’t let me drive his truck. He often told me I was too cute and petite to be driving around in a “big honkin’ thing like this.” “Well, I can drive your truck now, Keegan. You can’t stop me, can you?”
I turn the key in the ignition, pull the gear down into reverse, and feel the rumble beneath me as I back out of the spot the truck has been sitting in for over a week. The tires squeal from the short rainstorm we had followed by several hot, dry days.
I wonder what people will think when I show up in Keegan’s truck. Will they feel sorry for me? Will they agree with my decision? Or will they think I’m disrespectful?
It turns out the answer is: none of the above—because it looks like I might be the last one to pull onto the lot, covered by loose rocks, adjacent to the funeral home. The small parking area is full, which means there are many people inside who are wondering why Keegan’s life was so bad that he chose death.
I adjust the mirror before stepping out of the truck, staring straight into the reflection of my eyes. “This is not your fault, August.” The lifeless look behind my pale half-lidded stare isn’t believable.
With a long blink, I slip my sunglasses down from my forehead and cover my eyes. I close the mirror and slide out of the truck, pressing the key fob as I head to the front doors of the white cottage style house with black doors and glass-stained windows.
I take a deep breath through my nose, and the door flies open in front of me, revealing a sobbing middle-aged woman dressed in black from head to toe, running from the funeral home as if it was on fire.
I don’t recognize her.
As I walk through the slowly closing door, I pull my sunglasses off and hang them off the side of my clutch. People chat softly throughout the lobby while a few walk in and out of the room to the left. The silence is deafening. Each guest hangs their head low, appearing forlorn while blotting tissues against their puffy eyes. They hold each other tightly in their moment of grief—grief for something they don’t understand. I follow the crowd walking through the doors on the left, spotting the open casket at the head of the room. I’ve only seen two dead bodies in my life, my grandmother and Keegan’s mom. They both died the same year, within two months of each other. It was only about ten years ago. My grandmother was ninety-four—she lived a good, long life. Keegan’s mom, though, she was fifty-three, drunk, and had it out with an old oak tree. The trunk of that sturdy tree won the fight.
Chairs are set in rows of four, perfectly placed as if measured for accuracy. I’m not sure who wants to stare at a dead body, but I assume the chairs are for those who want to say a word or offer a prayer. Childhood pictures line the table beside the casket, but there aren’t current photos because I did not contribute or provide assistance in planning for this occasion.
Not that one of them thought to reach out to me.
A guest book with a pen, a basket for cards, and several arrangements of yellow and white flowers bleed to the edge of the table.
My steps fall short and shallow as I make my way toward Keegan for the last time. I considered our moments in the bathroom before the paramedics arrived to be the last time I would encounter him, but I hadn’t thought about the funeral at that moment.
The mortician covered his face with makeup, something he would find humorous. It looks natural enough that no one would comment on seeing such a sight on a corpse, but I spent years studying his face, and this immortal body looks nothing like the man I once loved.
His family has him wearing a shirt he loved years ago and a pair of slacks I don’t recognize. Keegan once told me he’d like to be buried in a fleece onesie so he could forever, “Rest comfortably in peace.” It was a joke, especially since I wasn’t thinking about his decision impacting the near future.
