Page 17 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

“No, I didn’t know that.”

I flick off my record player. “He always sang her songs in the shower.”

“Huh.” He laughs.

I do too. Raymond was a great singer. Of course. “So, isn’t it ironic that the guy who coached baseball and worked out every day died of a lousy heart? Something he couldn’t even prevent. On Valentine’s Day, no less.”

After a few seconds, he agrees. “Like a fly in your Chardonnay.”

I feel the corner of my mouth quirk, and I stare down at the mess at my feet, the pictures of my now-deceased brother, his Springsteen T-shirt, and years’ worth of birthday cards I’d saved from him for some unknown reason. “I take it back,” I say, toeing one of the boards away so I can sit. “You’re good at this.”

“At what?” he asks, though it’s in a way I’m pretty sure he already knows.

“You’re good at your job.” He hums quietly in response, and I close my eyes at the sound, curling my arm around my bent legs to rest my forehead on my knees. “You make me feel better.”

It’s a while before he speaks. “Technically, I’m off the clock for my job, but never for you.”

This time, I’m the one who hums in response, and I can’t help the goose bumps that crawl up my skin when he says my name.

“Cass, I’m never on the clock for you. I hope you know that. I’m here whenever you need me.”

And I hold on to the light peeking up through the darkness in my chest, new grass rising through a crack in the cement.

CHAPTER 7

Even though I’d been to the Mancini Funeral Home already, coming here today is worse than walking into it for the first time. I’m burning up inside, sweating through Ray’s Bruce Springsteen T-shirt, even as my fingers are ice cold. My belly churns so much, I regret not putting on makeup this morning, in case my skin is green with nausea. And my heart…

I place a hand over my chest. My heart hammers an unhealthy rhythm against my palm.

Vince and Mr. Mancini are in the foyer waiting for us—Aunt Joanie, my grandparents, Mom, Dad, and me. Vince touches my elbow, his face solemn and despondent, and I almost, almost lose it, but I don’t. I can’t. I keep it together for the day ahead, for my brother, for my parents.

They take our coats and offer us water or coffee, which none of us accepts, then escort us into a room to the right. Vince had previously told me it was their biggest room, and they expect to have a large crowd today. From the number of people who’ve left me messages, I expect the same.

What I don’t expect is the casket. Intellectually, I knew it would be there. Emotionally, I’m not ready. Seeing it—him—takes my breath away. I steady myself with a hand on the chair next to me as I try to breathe, but it’s impossible with the way my chest is caving in. I gulp down air like I’ve run a race. These past couple of days, all of the announcements, sympathy notes, decisions about wood and felt, it’s been one long marathon culminating in this, and it’s worse than I thought. So much worse, and I’m not prepared.

Those tears I thought wouldn’t come suddenly rack my body. I wipe at my cheek, but it’s useless.

I’m having the opposite of an out-of-body experience; I’m trapped here. I can’t escape the taut skin stretched over my ribs that can barely contain my heart. Everything hurts. I want out of this situation, and I panic. Maybe I’m having a heart attack now, too.

I inhale through my nose, exhale out of my mouth over and over. I try to relieve the weight pushing me into the ground and focus on my surroundings. The walls are painted a light peach, a happy, vibrant color. The playlist I’d made is already on, and “Born to Run” filters in through hidden speakers. The memory boards are all up at different places around the room, among the rows and rows of chairs. And there, opposite me, is the dark mahogany coffin, the top lifted, displaying the lifeless body of my brother.

I go right to him.

I hear tortured whimpers behind me, and I know what my family is experiencing, but I can’t take my eyes off my brother to check on them, because in front of me is Raymond John St. George. With his wavy hair and uncharacteristically straight lips, he has his hands folded over his gray-and-blue Panthers baseball coaching shirt. I touch his fingers; they’re cool and hard. I touch his chest; it’s cool and hard. His ears, cheeks, and arms are the same, cool and hard.

This isn’t Ray, rather some weird, sewed-up, wax version, but it’s the only version that remains. Wherever he is now, I hope he can hear me.

“Hey, bro,” I say, my voice barely audible even to myself. “What’d you do this for?”

He doesn’t answer.

“You’re leaving me a real shitshow, ya know,” I whisper and lean closer to him. “Mom’s gone off the deep end, and I haven’t seen Dad in so long, I don’t remember what he looks like.”

He doesn’t laugh at my joke.

“I’m wearing your Bruce concert T-shirt,” I tell him, tugging on it and then my black skirt. Suddenly my clothes are itchy against my skin.

“This really sucks, you know. Really, really sucks.” I fix the collar of his shirt as my whole face begins to hurt from the tension running through my features. “I don’t know how to handle all of this. If you’re trying to play a trick on me, I give up. You win.”

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