“When?”
“We’re thinking Monday.”
“Monday? As in the day after tomorrow? Nice of you all to consult me. You all decide to kill Mom last night and then go to sleep like everything’s normal? Carole sneaks off to work and sends you over to give me the news? Not cool! This is disrespectful to me. Why can’t you see it?”
I rip open a blister on the back of my hand from a hive I’ve been itching at repeatedly. It stings like hell, and I run toward home in a sprint. Silent tears fall down my cheeks. Dad runs to catch up with me.
“Simon!” he huffs, out of breath. I ignore him and continue to walk home. Once back in the apartment, I pick up Sammy and pace back and forth, holding him while the alien twists, turns, and kicks inside. Dad sits alone at the kitchen table and starts writing something. I couldn’t care less what he is doing, so I take Sammy, go to my room, and lock the door. I curl up in bed and cry myself to sleep.
Aknock on the door startles me awake. I’m disoriented and now I’m not sure there was a knock on the door. Did I dream this? Maybe this was all a bad dream? A nightmare. But another knock comes along with Dad’s voice saying, “Simon, your phone has been ringing on and off for an hour. You left it in the living room. I thought I should finally answer it for you.”
I get out of bed and unlock my door. Dad is standing in the hallway holding out my phone to me.
“It’s someone named PJ. He said he is very worried about you. He also said he is at the hospital, and he is wondering why you’re not there. I don’t understand. Were you supposed to meet someone at the hospital?”
Fuck! How could I forget? It’s Saturday; of course PJ would be coming to the hospital to be with me today. I try to grab my phone from Dad, but he holds it out of reach over his head.
“Hold on, mister. Who is PJ and why is he at the hospital with your mother?”
I glare at him, certain he sees hate and anger in my eyes, but I don’t care. He lowers the phone dejectedly, and I snatch it out of his hand.
“He’s my boyfriend,” I retort. “Is that okay with you?”
I slam the door shut and lock it behind me.
28
A Rainy Monday, on a Cold November Night
Poetically, it’s raining when Mom dies. I expect the end to be dramatic or scary, but it comes with the gentle tapping of rain on the windows when she leaves us. I’m dozing on and off in the chair next to her bed when Carole rouses me with a teary, “She’s gone.” The hall outside Mom’s room is crowded. The nurses had lined up a miscellany of hospital chairs in the hallway earlier in the day, and now each one is filled with the worried faces of friends and family.
During the day, everyone took turns saying goodbye to Mom: Dad, Carole, PJ, Mags, Neel, Aunt Sarah, and Uncle Brian were the first to pay their respects. Laurel and Bill, Carole’s parents, flew in from Portland and haven’t left Carole’s side since. Two of Mom’s oldest friends, Bob and Alice, who I haven’t seen for years, came by for an hour to say goodbye. The big excitement of the day came when Betty, Mom’s boss, showed up in the afternoon to pay her respects. Dad had to drag Carole away to the cafeteria. She nearly lost her shit when Betty appeared in the doorway. Carole blames her for Mom’s accident, and I swear she looked like she wanted to rip Betty’s face off. I’ve never heard Carole scream like that before. It was guttural and heart wrenching. I’m smart enough to know it’s not Betty’s fault that Mom fell asleep at the wheel, but I also understand Carole’s anger toward Betty for working Mom to the point of exhaustion.
Now, here’s the weird thing. I haven’t cried since Saturday. I’ve gone numb inside, and my eyes are bone dry. Why am I not crying? My mom is gone. Forever. Everyone else, even one of the nurses, is bawling their eyes out. Yet here I stand staring at the floor. The alien has been acting strange too. It is still inside me, but dormant. It doesn’t scratch, kick, or bite, but I sense it is waiting for something. I shiver thinking about what it could be. PJ sees me shake and comes over to take my hand. He puts his head on my shoulder, and his tears wet my shirt sleeve. Dad looks over at us, a vacant stare obscuring any clue as to what he is thinking. He lost his ex-wife who divorced him because she was a lesbian. Now, his only son is gay too. Does he blame Mom that I turned out this way? Does he care? Did he know? Is he staring at us because he deems it inappropriate that PJ is here in the room with my dead mother?
Dad and I haven’t spoken since I slammed the door on him two days ago after telling him, in a fit of anger, that PJ is my boyfriend. He quietly left the apartment that afternoon, and I haven’t seen or heard from him again until today.
Is tonight the night when it all goes down? Maybe it’s all been leading up to this one night. A rainy Monday on a cold November at 11:22 p.m. sharp. The alien will finally burst out of me, and I will die on the very same day as my mother.
29
The Pain on Our Faces
11:23 p.m.
I’m still alive, but Mom is not.
So, maybe I’m not alive either.
Tonight, 11:22 came and went with its usual fanfare. I don’t know what sinister plans this alien has for me or when it will finally decide to burst forth and kill me, but I know it is coming soon. I feel it. For now, it bides its time and waits for the perfect moment to strike. Or who knows, maybe it is giving me a bit of a respite to grieve and bury my mother in peace.
In Jewish culture, burials occur as soon as possible. It has something to do with preserving the integrity of the body, but I don’t know why. I had a bar mitzvah, but we’re not the most religious family, and I spent more time daydreaming in Hebrew school than learning. Mostly, I follow these traditions out of respect for Mom, Dad, and Carole’s parents. So, a traditional Jewish funeral it will be, and it takes place tomorrow.
The morning of the funeral is cold and rainy. Really? God, universe, or whatever, could you be more clichéd? How about a crisp fall day to break the stereotype? No? I look up to the sky and let the rain fall on my face before I put up my umbrella and walk with Carole from our car to where everyone is gathering under a tent by the gravesite.
“What an honor to be a pallbearer for your mother,” whispers Carol’s mom in my ear.
But I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to feel the weight of her coffin as we carry it from the hearse to the burial site. I want to be left alone to grieve in my own way. I want to sit quietly by myself in the back of the tent. Is it too much to ask to be left in peace? I don’t want to speak, and I don’t want anyone to speak to me. But, being the only son, there are expectations of me, and everyone approaches me with their condolences. There is nothing I can do about it. If only PJ could hold my hand, I would feel so much better. But no, I have to sit in the front row between Carole and Dad while PJ stands at the back getting rained on. The worst part of the funeral comes at the end. It is customary to shovel dirt onto the casket after it is lowered into the ground. Everyone who attends the funeral takes a turn. You scoop a shovelful of dirt from the mound next to the grave and toss it on the coffin. The Rabbi explains that we are to put two shovelfuls of dirt on the coffin.
