The Trouble Is

Chapter 38: Visitation

It's been almost a week since the accident. I've not really gone anywhere or done anything other than hang out here with Doug. East has stopped in a few times, delivering Taco Bell and playing catch with Doug. The funeral is tomorrow.

They have some kind of thing at the funeral home tonight. They call it visitation, which is totally confusing. How can you visit with a dead person? Or maybe you are supposed to visit with other people. I'm pretty sure that's it. Mom says that people will be able to see Katie and say their goodbyes. It sounds horrible and doesn't even seem rational. She's not there!, I want to scream. How can you say goodbye to someone who's already gone?

I sit on the floor by my bed, head against the footboard, and hear my parents talking about whether I should go. Doug and I are playing board games. I don't have the energy to get up or to even yell at my parents, so I text them.

     <I'm not going.>

     <I'm staying here with Doug.>

And of course, Mom and Skip can't just text back; they have to come have a face-to-face conversation. I hate this. I see nothing but worry on their faces. Skip asks Doug to go play in his room for a bit. Mom gives Skip that little hand signal down low, indicating that she will take lead.

"Honey," she says in that awkwardly even voice she's been using all week, "we understand that you might not want to go talk to your friends or even Katie's family. That's understandable. But what are your thoughts on the funeral service tomorrow? Do you think you can handle that?"

I don't know where she's going with this. If I say no, will she pressure me to go to this crazy visitation? It won't really matter, I guess. I'm not going tonight.

My lack of an answer is the best answer I can give. She thinks about this for a few minutes, looking at me with that look that most mothers seem to have when wishing for ESP.

"What if you sit this part out?" she asks. She gave in quickly. That ESP thing must be working for her.

"Dad and I will go tonight, and then we will all go to the funeral tomorrow," she adds.

I tell her that it sounds good to me. My mind hangs up a little bit at the thought of tomorrow. I wonder if there's some magic juju that avoidance provides. If I "sit this part out," will I be able to curl up with a blanket and a cocoon of ignorance, postponing my grief for a day? Will tonight pass without the unending flow of tears? Will my heart feel whole for this one night? I don't think it's going to make one bit of difference if I go tonight or even if I go tomorrow. I think that my heart will always be what it is in this moment—shattered and afraid.

Doug runs back into the room at full blast, snaking through the door around our parents. He dive-bombs onto my bed face first, coming to a slide, then pulling himself up so he is standing with his hands on my head. He leans down and gently kisses my head. It feels nice, like a benediction.

"I'll stay with you, Ann," he whispers. "We can meditate."

Meditating with Doug sounds perfect. I won't have to speak at all.

"OK," I say.

Mom and Skip head out, and Doug and I wrap up our marathon game night. Doug reaches into his little-boy cargo shorts and pulls out a small spray container. A few squirts later, the room smells lightly of sandalwood and we are seated on the little rug by my bed. Doug sits cross-legged across from me and gently touches my legs, indicating that I should get situated. He briefly leans over and taps my lower back as a reminder to sit up straight. YouTube can teach a kid a lot, I think. I briefly wonder whether this is a good thing, and then I breathe it in and let my mind go.

Afterward, we both curl up in my bed. Neither one of us bothers with changing into pajamas. Doug sings himself to sleep while holding his hair between his thumb and index finger, rubbing back and forth, back and forth. I think about the new IKEA catalog under my bed but know that I am too exhausted to find new ways to structure the world around me.

Finally, the day is done.