Page 74 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

“Well, good luck.”

When I start to leave, he raises his hand to stop me. “You should come to one of our games.”

The invitation has me rocking back on my heels. I can’t imagine it would matter if I’m there, but the sweet sentiment makes my eyes water. I can’t say no to the kid, so I only smile.

It’s amazing to me how I can go from being fine with my brother being dead one minute to eating a giant cinnamon roll in my car by myself the next. Intellectually, I know there’s no right way to grieve—I read that in a pamphlet—but this is extra pitiful. I imagine how I might look from the outside, smeared eyeliner, hair in my face, and icing on my chin.

A mess.

I’ve been listening to Bruce Springsteen more and more lately, finding the soul in the music Ray always went on about, and I fire up “Tougher Than the Rest.” With the windows down, I take the long way home as The Boss keeps me company. I sing along to “Downbound Train” and then scream into the wind “Born to Run.”

It releases the tension in my body. I don’t care the guy in the car next to me gives me a funny look; I keep it up. Ray used to do the same thing, and I found it endlessly embarrassing, but he’d chuckle and sing-yell even louder. Doing it now helps. Like the lyrics of the song, I am wild and free, and maybe that’s why my brother liked to do it.

It’s a call to life.

And it grants me a little bit of peace, a way to be closer to my brother, who no longer exists on this plane.

Maybe we can find each other again in some in-between place, where only music lives.

That thought makes me smile, but as I pull into my parents’ driveway, the same peace that filled me up with tranquility seeps out, steam rising on a cold day.

Dad’s car is parked out front. It’s odd because it’s a weekday, and I haven’t seen him in over a month. I open the front door, dropping my overnight bag in the entry. I’d planned to repack some clothes to take to Vince’s, but I can’t shake the foreboding pit in my belly.

Stalking toward the kitchen, I backtrack, noticing an unfamiliar figure in a uniform out of the corner of my eye in the dining room. I choke on a breath, flashbacks of that night flipping through my memory. My skin prickles with fear as I lean against the wall, out of sight. The officer in the sheriff’s uniform says something quietly to my mother, who’s sitting at the table, eyes distant, then passes me with a terse nod to leave.

“I’m sorry,” Dad says, from somewhere I can’t see. I tilt my head around the wall, and there he is, in the corner with wrinkled clothes and familiar red face. He doesn’t look drunk, though.

Mom fingers the edge of a thin packet of papers, unresponsive to my father.

“You can’t be surprised.”

She doesn’t respond.

“It’s like you’re living in a different world, and I’m unhappy.”

My heart rate spikes as I connect the dots.

“I—we don’t have to live like this anymore. I won’t even fight over the house or?—”

“What’s going on?” I ask, stepping forward, even though I already know.

Dad spins toward me, his face going slack. “Hi, Cassandra.” He rubs his hands on his work pants, and I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him so nervous. “I… Uh…”

“You’re divorcing Mom?”

She still hasn’t acknowledged anything else but the papers under her hand.

“Listen, I?—”

“You thought it was necessary to have the sheriff bring the papers?” I interject, disgusted.

“Cassandra,” he starts in the patronizing tone I’m used to. “You don’t understand what?—”

“Don’t tell me I don’t understand!”

“Cassandra,” my mom says in nothing more than a whisper, “please keep your voice down.”

Her dead eyes set me off again, this time at her.

---