Page 10 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

My shellfish allergy never killed me.

Ray didn’t even have an allergy.

And I hate him for dying all over again. I hate him because I love him.

The whirl of emotion steals my breath, and I bend over, dropping my head between my knees. It’s a while before I’m not so dizzy, and I head upstairs, finding flowers and baskets clogging up every corner of the house. Aunt Joanie’s paging through some celebrity gossip magazine on the sofa in the living room, and I sit next to her. She offers me a doleful smile and pets my hair, answering a question I don’t ask.

“Your mom is sleeping. Your dad is out,” she says pointedly. “And Nana’s at church lighting candles.” She sighs, and I rest my head on her shoulder. The two of us were always kindred spirits. “Did you eat today?” she asks.

I nod, lying, afraid if I speak the words, she’ll figure me out. I don’t have an appetite lately.

“How did it go this morning with the funeral director?”

Sitting upright, I shrug. “Okay… I picked a program with, like, a watercolor of a sky and rainbow, and we made a schedule for the service.” I pause, gnawing at my bottom lip as I recall the way my dad acted, stonewalling Mr. Mancini, passing everything off to me. I want to talk to Joanie about it, but it’s too much like tattletale-ing, so I don’t. “I actually know them, or one of them, I mean. Vince was in Ray’s grade. They used to be really good friends.”

“Oh yeah?” She glances at me before flipping a page in the magazine, and I nod, staring up at the corner of the ceiling, picturing a different time.

“He was the catcher.”

“Who? Raymond?”

“No, Vince. I remember he and Ray had this handshake they did before games.” I smile at the memory. “Sometimes he’d come over and hang out, and he’d always ask me what new book I was reading. Some of Ray’s other friends were…you know how high school boys are, but not Vince.” I exhale deeply, back to the present. “Guess he works for his dad now.” I brush my bangs—the bangs my mother hates—to the side and look over to Aunt Joanie, who has her lips pursed. One single wrinkle between her eyebrows.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says after a beat, her questioning mouth and wrinkle gone.

“I still have to go there to pick the casket and stuff.” I pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt over my hands and cross my arms as exhaustion slackens my body. I relax against the pillows. “It was too much for me to do it all at once.”

She closes the magazine and rubs my knee gently. “You shouldn’t have to do all this by yourself.”

“Well, Mom isn’t…” I trail off. She isn’t in the land of the living either. “And Dad hasn’t been around.” I imagine losing a child might be the worst thing a person can go through, so I can’t blame my parents for their reactions to my brother’s death.

Can I?

Aunt Joanie’s eyes well up, and I close my own eyes, not willing to succumb to the pain of it all. I lean my head back on the couch, although before I can get too comfortable, the house phone rings. I always teased my mother for having a house phone, but I guess it serves a purpose when people die.

“Sit there. I’ll answer it,” Joanie says and stands to cross the room. I pull my feet up under me and roll sideways into the fetal position as my aunt tells the person on the other line, “It’s fine with me, but you’ll have to stay in a hotel… Uh-huh, call me. I’ll give you my cell phone number.”

She’s pacing barefoot back and forth along the gray-and-cream patterned rug, and her long hair is up in a ponytail. She still looks good, even though I assume she’s gotten no rest being here, sleeping next to my mom upstairs. I’d heard her tell my mom she’ll stay here as long as she needs it, but I can’t imagine it’s true. She’s some bigwig in the medical network, something about marketing and outreach. I was never real interested in her job, more her makeup and wardrobe. Joanie’s the one who turned me on to my signature Russian Red lipstick and liquid eyeliner.

As upset as I am that it’s Aunt Joanie who sits down and pulls my feet into her lap, I try to be understanding of why my own mother can’t be bothered to check on me. I understand that her son is gone, but he’s not her only baby. I’m her baby too. And I need my mom, no matter what our relationship lacks in the friendship department.

“That was your aunt Barbara,” Joanie says, referring to my dad’s sister. “She and David will be coming down tomorrow.”

David is my father’s estranged brother, and my gut clenches at the possibility of family drama.

More drama. Exactly what we need.

Aunt Joanie rubs my feet. “I’ll take care of them. You take care of you.”

I clear my throat of the few pebbles there and turn on the television, hoping to shut my mind off for a few hours, and find the Game Show Network. Press Your Luck is on. It’s not Price is Right, but it’ll do.

I close my eyes and sleep. Not quite soundly, but not fitfully either. Because of a warm embrace there, a surrounding mix of amber and green. And, somehow, in my dreamland, I know it’ll be okay.

CHAPTER 4

Death makes people really popular. It also makes a lot of people argue and miraculously lose weight. In the forty-eight hours since I found out my brother died, my clothes are already loose on me.

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