Page 85 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

“I can’t believe you didn’t keep it,” Mom says, coming up behind me. She takes it from my hand and runs her fingers over the rainbow on its belly. “You loved this thing.” She smiles to herself then gently pushes it back into my hands. “Maybe you can give it to your child when you have one.”

I start to laugh but stop because of the love and hope that cross her features. I never imagined myself as a mom—I never imagined a lot of things that have happened—but life’s thrown me a curve ball before, and it might again. I give Cheer Bear a squeeze and set it down to grab the bin on top of the pile in the closet. Mom sits on the floor, a box on one side of her, a bag on the other. “This is for things we want to donate,” she instructs, patting the box. “And this is for trash,” she says, holding out the bag.

“What if we want to keep something?”

“Put it in a separate pile, but you need to take whatever you want home today.”

I open the small bin to find it’s filled with school assignments, art projects made out of noodles or clay, a notebook of stories I wrote as a kid, and other mindless things. Everything from it except the notebook of my scribbles goes in the trash, and I open another one, this one toys. We chitchat while inspecting each item, deciding whether to donate or trash them.

“I made reservations for Christmas dinner.”

I glance up to my mom. “Oh?”

“Your grandmother doesn’t like the idea of going out, but what else are we going to do? I’m certainly not going to cook anything.”

Her voice is so much surer than it’s been since February. She’s gained some of her no-nonsense attitude back. I used to bristle at it, but now I’m glad for it. My mother had always been a type A problem-solver, but after Ray died, she lost all of that. She couldn’t problem-solve her way out of her son dying. I don’t think it’s all back yet, and maybe it won’t ever be, but she’s happy now. As happy as she can be.

I think divorcing Dad has a lot to do with it. And, in some sick way, it’s good. It’s forced her to wake up. Dad didn’t fight with her over assets. It’s been mostly painless. I suppose after burying a child, divorce might be like a walk in the park. She’ll be moving in to a small condo close to one of her friends and a short drive to Nana and Pop’s apartment, and I’m happy for her.

I pull down another box, this one of Raymond’s trophies and knickknacks. “The girls might like to have these,” I say, holding up two small derby cars from when he was a Boy Scout. “Do you want any of this stuff?”

Mom’s eyes water as she shakes her head, and I push the whole box next to the trash bag. It’s a shame to throw it all away, but there is no value in it for other people. “We have our memories,” I tell my mother. “That’s what’s important.”

She agrees with a slight nod and brushes her hand over the gold figurine on top of a skinny baseball trophy.

I open another box to find it filled with our old baby stuff, little booties, thin blankets, finger- and footprints from the hospital. Watching Mom gingerly touch each item breaks my heart all over again, and I have to turn away to keep from crying. I open another box.

We work like this for another hour until the closet is empty and sorted. With both of us here, it’s not too terrible deciding which of Ray’s stuff is important enough to keep and which old Blink-182 CD could be thrown out. When we finish, we carry the piles downstairs and the two full bags of trash out to the bins next to the house.

“Thanks for helping,” Mom says as we stand by my car.

“Of course. Do you want me to give Dad’s stuff to him?” I ask, referring to a small pile, including Ray’s framed high school diploma and a few pictures.

She props her hands on her hips. “You’re going to see him?”

“Well, I was thinking of it, yeah.” The idea of following through has my stomach in knots, but I’ve been over and over it with Maryanne. If I want some kind of closure, I need to talk to him too.

Mom’s shoulders rise with a deep breath, and she softens. “I guess if you’re going, you might as well…” She hands the pile to me then hugs me and kisses my cheek before pulling back sharply. “What in the world are you washing your clothes with?”

I pull my sweatshirt up to my nose. “Huh?”

“It smells like…an animal or something.”

“Oh, that,” I say with a grin. “I went to a shelter to go pet some animals today.”

“What?” She practically convulses in horror.

“I went to a shelter to play with the animals. They need love too, you know.”

She wrinkles her nose.

“I’m considering adopting a cat. His owner moved and couldn’t keep him.”

“Oh, Cassandra.” She braces her hand on her throat in horror.

I lift a shoulder. “His name’s George, and I thought it was destiny…George St. George.”

She makes a sound in the back of her throat like she’s allergic to even the thought of George.

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