Day after day, leading up to the funeral, I tried to re-conjure a visitation. I would go into that storage locker tingling with expectation, dangling my misery like a bass fisherman trying to seduce a lunker out from under a sunken log.
I tried my best to wallow in my gloom, I really did. But not a sprig of root ever came to visit, no matter how much I begged and prayed. It knew I wanted it and my desires were toxic. The faintest spark of hope was enough to keep it away.
I didn’t even care about the damned Reapers. They never entered the equation. The way Karla had gone about her business like they were raccoons knocking over her garbage cans—maybe that emboldened me.
The project insisted I skip work all that week. They paid me leave even though, as a part-timer, I didn’t qualify. I should have been grateful, but having nothing to do only aggravated my restlessness.
In the daytime, I basically wandered, catching cat naps on the patio furniture of abandoned houses I knew, showering under lawn sprinklers, raiding gardens for cukes and zukes between my twice daily runs to the Burger King.
There weren’t many logistics to organize. Mom had pre-arranged for a minimal funeral, followed by a cremation. There would be no wake, but some of our old neighbors were hosting a little post-ceremony get-together at their house—a sad little party for folks that knew her.
Uncle Ed and his family were staying behind in Ohio this time. He apologized profusely. He was so damned busy, he said, and with the two deaths so close together, it was just impossible for them to attend. I told him I understood even though I didn’t. This was Darlene—his only sister, his only sibling.
On Thursday, we finally held her pathetic little funeral. Mom had wanted it humble, and she had certainly gotten her wish. Some of dad’s buddies, a few friends from work and some families from the home school network showed up, but that was all. Turned out, mom was almost as big of a recluse as me.
A Unitarian minister came to the funeral home and got us to share some stories about Mom and participate in some free-form praying. Marianne was there, and so was Jenny. I could barely bring myself to glance at them, never mind talk.
After the funeral our old neighbors, the Trudeaus, hosted a little memorial luncheon. I went a little nuts, pigging out on all the dishes to pass that people had brought. It had been ages since I had seen so much free food in one place. And it was so nice to be in air conditioning for a change.
Marianne cornered me in the kitchen at one point, her eyes so earnest and desperate to help me. I wish I knew how to let her, but I was turned so inward, it just wasn’t possible. There was no room in my head or my heart for anyone real. It really was too bad. She seemed like such a good soul.
I ended up conking out on the Trudeau’s couch. When I woke up, everyone was gone. I had a pillow propped under my head and a throw draped over me.
It was twilight and already dinner time. The Trudeau’s invited me to spend the night, but I told them I had plans to stay with friends. Mrs. Trudeau made me take a couple of roast beef sandwiches, an orange and some cookies.
I trudged back to the Handi-Stor, all wired and miserable. The turbulence in my skull was intolerable. I couldn’t calm it down. I had the sense that it would never go away unless I did something major. This was unsustainable.
Of course, there were drastic, i.e. permanent, means of escape, but I wasn’t quite ready for that yet. But maybe leaving Ft. Pierce would help. There was no reason for me to stick around here. Maybe a change of scenery would shake things up.
Ohio seemed like the most logical place to go. Uncle Ed still lived in Berea, the suburb of Cleveland where I had been born. I would be going back to my roots, so to speak. Maybe Ohio would save me, if nothing else would.
