Page 5 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

My closest friend from college lives across the country in Oregon, and we haven’t spoken in a while, so I don’t have anyone to force me to eat or rub my back. I’m not great with keeping up relationships, especially those from my hometown. Raymond says I don’t let anyone get close because I’m afraid to show them my real self. I think he’s projecting.

Was projecting.

Was.

Stomaching the gut-wrenching pain is hard enough, but trying to learn the grammar of death is cruel and unusual punishment. I’d rather throw out the English language entirely than try to learn this new version.

Dad eventually shows up, and my earlier disappointment of his leaving morphs to relief now that he’s here. We’re all present and accounted for—the three of us, at least. He hugs Mom for almost a minute. I know because I time it from my seat on the floor in the corner of the living room.

No one bothers me.

I watch the flurry of action like a movie, some people I know, some I don’t. All of them whispering or crying about how terrible this is, how heartbroken they are for my parents.

This is terrible. This is heartbreaking. For me too.

My only sibling is gone. My older brother and first friend has died. And it’s as if a piece of me is dead too, but I don’t dare say this out loud. I’m almost afraid to think it because being Raymond’s sister is so deeply ingrained in the person I am. What am I without that title? Without him?

I slip away to my room in the basement, once more taking some time to admire the pictures on the wall. Raymond in all these photos, with his perfectly aligned teeth, golden skin, and just-this-side-of-wild sandy hair, oozes charm. But there aren’t any more pictures to be taken. This is all that is left of him.

CHAPTER 2

After a sleepless night of walking laps around the living room and kitchen—and checking on my mom in my parents’ bed and my dad in the office—I shower and change into fresh clothes before the sun is even up. I open the front door, watching the sky above our suburban neighborhood bleed from black to yellow to, eventually, a bright, sunny blue. A new day. A new life.

I hate it. I want my old life. I’d take hurricanes and tornadoes every day if it meant I could have Raymond back.

Listening for any movement from my parents, I force myself to eat half a piece of toast, though it may as well be dirt in my mouth.

Finally, my father stalks into the kitchen, acknowledging me for the first time since yesterday morning. His brown eyes, the ones my brother and I share, are red-rimmed, but he’s dressed for work.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“I’ve got a lot to do, a lot to handle with death, paperwork that needs to be completed,” he says matter-of-factly, like he’s talking about one of his business transactions and not Raymond. “Why did the police come here last night?”

The question is harsh, more of an accusation.

I shrug.

“Why would this address be listed, with your mother as his emergency contact and not Shayna?”

I scratch at a divot in the kitchen table. I know why Shayna wasn’t my brother’s emergency contact. But I don’t think I should tell. Even now, after his death.

Ray had divorce papers drawn up. He and Shayna had been separated for the last couple of months, and he’d been sleeping in the basement. He’d even been in a relationship with another woman. And I had to keep it a secret until he found the right time to tell everyone.

My father raises his eyebrows, waiting for an answer, but I won’t tell him the truth. I have no particular reason to be my brother’s secret-keeper anymore. It just feels wrong to say anything.

“I don’t know,” I lie.

Dad breathes out deeply and runs his hand over his neck. “I’m going to the bank and then to run some errands.”

“Seriously?” I clench my fists. “Do you have to?”

“Yes, Cassandra. I’m Raymond’s father. I need to take care of some things.”

Like my relationship with my mother, my relationship with my father is strained, but not in the same way. My mom hoped I’d be different, more outgoing, wear more pastel, be more ladylike. She pushed me, while my father avoided me. He had his son, his firstborn, so I was of no use to him, I supposed. We’re oil and water, and he doesn’t know what to do with me and my Jesus was a Socialist T-shirt.

He pockets his keys and is out the door before I can even ask him to stay, and once again, I’m alone. I check my phone. My social media is lit up with notifications.

It’s not even eight o’clock in the morning, the workday hasn’t begun, but the local newspaper has run an article on the death of the beloved middle school teacher and high school baseball coach, Raymond St. George.

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