Page 6 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

I have trouble breathing. The cement is back. This time, it fills up my rib cage, sticking to my bones and muscles. I fear I’ll snap in half with every breath as I thumb through the posts. Word has traveled fast.

I don’t know how time continuums work, but I think I’ve slipped into one. I’ve stopped moving, but the world hasn’t stopped spinning, and I’ve somehow fallen backward. I relive last night over and over with every word I read in the article, with every picture and status posted about my brother, RIPs and lyrics from his favorite Bruce Springsteen songs. People I haven’t heard from in years are tagging me in their heartfelt condolences, as if they know me, as if they know my brother.

Knew.

Knew my brother.

They don’t. I’m the only one who knew his stupid grin covered his insecurities about not being the best at everything, that he was absolutely terrified of spiders, and his Mr. Perfect thing was all an act.

I hate every one of them on my social media.

My head aches, and I lay my temple down on the table. It cools my forehead. I close my eyes; maybe it’s all a dream. I hope to fall asleep and wake up to a day Ray is still alive.

But then my phone vibrates with reality, Shayna’s name on the screen. I can count on my hands the number of times we’ve spoken on the phone, and I consider not answering because I don’t want to talk about what I know we will.

Instead, I cradle my head in my hand and answer with a shaky, “Hello?”

“I’ve been up all night,” she says in place of a greeting.

“Me too.”

“The police officer said they went to your house last night too.” Her voice shakes on the last syllable.

“Mm-hmm.”

“I can’t believe RJ is gone.”

Her use of the nickname makes me cringe. It’s so impersonal, especially at a moment like this. His family—me, Mom, and Dad—calls him Ray or Raymond. His friends, and his legions of fans, call him RJ. He much preferred that name, too cool for a name like Raymond.

“When he didn’t come home last night, I figured he was off with that girl he’s been sleeping with.”

This catches my attention. “You know about her?”

“Of course I know.” She sniffs. “I’m not stupid, and your brother isn’t as slick as he thinks he is.”

I slouch in my chair, afraid to say anything, and we lapse into silence.

So many questions with no answers.

“What am I going to tell the girls?” Shayna asks after a while.

The girls, Lara and Lucy, my twin four-year-old nieces, two miniature versions of Shayna with big blond curls and my brother’s brown eyes. My brown eyes. I’ve never been close to them, but thinking about their futures without their dad makes my heart sink. They don’t deserve this. Neither does Shayna.

“What am I going to tell everyone? What are they going to think?” Shayna asks, falling apart. We have nothing in common, save one thing: Raymond. I don’t know how to comfort her. We’re not friends, but speaking with her is different now. Like we’re both in some kind of club…even though I’d really rather not have this kind of sisterhood with her. “The last time we spoke, it was a fight,” she confesses quietly. “I don’t even remember what it was about.”

“I’m sure he didn’t care,” I say after a long pause.

She huffs. “You don’t know what this is like for me.”

She’s right. I have no idea what she’s going through, and I bite the inside of my lip to the point of pain to allow myself that much, at least. In the face of so much loss experienced by my parents and Shayna, I can’t compare mine to theirs. He was my brother and friend, who gave me nothing other than a couple of black-and-blue marks and more laughs than I can remember. There is nothing left unsaid or incomplete between us. I can’t be upset about the life I won’t have with him anymore, not like they can. I have no claim to him like mother or wife. I’m only his sister.

“What do we do for the funeral?” I ask. “Did you guys, um, have plans or something? Some people from a funeral home are coming over today. Can you be here?”

“God, Cass.” Those two words are not unfamiliar to me and are usually accompanied by an eye roll. She snorts in that superior way—even now, in the middle of this mess—as if I’m not saying the right things.

I know I’m not.

“We didn’t have plans…for that. And I can’t,” she says with a sniffle. “I can’t be there. I have no one to watch the girls, and I have to explain this to them somehow. I’m already overwhelmed.” That last sentence is barely audible. “I won’t be any help to you today, but you can handle it, right?”

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