Page 8 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

Mr. Mancini stands and introduces himself, including, “Our sons played baseball together in high school.”

“Right, yes, sorry,” Dad says, although he still seems clueless as to who they are. My parents weren’t exactly the type to know our friends or our friends’ parents.

When Mr. Mancini begins to summarize everything we talked about, my dad holds his hand up. “I’m sure you’ve got it under control. Let me know what the bottom line is.”

I roll my eyes. The bottom line is I need help planning how to bury your son, I don’t say.

“I was about to ask when you can come in to finalize the last couple decisions about the casket and such.”

My dad scrubs at his chin. “My week is pretty full, I’m sure you understand. I’ll leave it to my wife and daughter.”

“Dad, I think?—”

He shakes his head and brushes by me on the way to the kitchen, leaving me slack-jawed. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes as my skin flushes hot.

“I’m going to leave my card here. You call me when you’re ready, after you’ve talked to your mom. We’ll figure the rest out later.”

I silently agree to Mr. Mancini’s calm and tender-voiced instructions, my hands still covering my face. A few seconds pass before I stand up from the table, opening my eyes. Mr. Mancini is gone, but Vince is still here, next to me.

“Okay?” he asks, his hands in his coat pockets. When I shrug, his head bobs up and down. “Yeah, it sucks. Every time, it sucks, but this one hurts a bit more. He was my good buddy.”

I can’t begin to process my own grief, and witnessing someone else’s, like Vince’s watery eyes, showers me with guilt. Like I’m doing a bad job of having a dead brother.

He walks with me to the front door, saying, “I know this is hard, but I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

It’s meant to be kind, but his offer bubbles up a pathetic whine in me. I can’t do any of this. I don’t want to do any of this. I’m sad, angry, and a tragic mess. “I just want everything to go back the way it was.”

“I understand that,” he says, as a car rumbles outside. I glance out of the window, where Mr. Mancini is in an old Chevy, one of those cars that is more boat than automobile. Vince bumps his elbow into mine. “My card’s on the table too. I wrote my cell number on it.”

He gives my arm a squeeze before he opens the door, and a long-ago memory infiltrates my mind. One of him squeezing my arm in the same way, but as we stood outside of the auditorium during the homecoming dance. He was on the court, and I had my heart broken by a boy I can barely remember anymore. Vince told me I looked pretty in my dress and to keep my chin up. Then he walked off with Britney Benson.

It was the last dance I ever attended at school.

Now, I follow him outside. “No hearse?”

“Huh?” He turns, and I gesture with my chin toward his father’s car.

“Don’t you undertakers all drive hearses?”

The corner of his mouth hooks up in a familiar way that makes me thaw for the first time in what feels like years. “I really prefer funeral director, and we only take the hearse out for special occasions.”

“Like first dates and birthdays?”

“Exactly.”

I smile, setting aside the fact that he basically held my hand as I discussed my brother’s obituary. Vince is almost exactly as I remember him—and nothing like I’d expect a guy who hangs out with dead people to be. Then he waves and hops in the big boat of a car that isn’t a hearse, and I head back inside to the house haunted by my brother.

FEBRUARY 15

I never thought I would ever have to write these words, much less think them, but Raymond St. George @SaintR.J.George passed away last night. It was sudden, and we’re still unaware of the cause, but what we do know is how much we will miss him. I know how much everyone loved my brother from all of the well wishes and posts about him, and even though I won’t be able to respond to all, I am reading them. For those of you asking, I’ll be posting more information about the funeral as I have it.

My family is stumbling to take our first steps without Ray, and I’m not sure how long it will be before our brokenness heals, if ever. This is all so unreal, a bad dream I’m waiting to wake up from. I’ve been pinching myself, but the reality is, Ray’s gone, and it’s almost too much to bear. I’d love to have something poetic to say about the fragility of life or about appreciating Raymond for his existence, but I’m far too petty for that. We were supposed to go to trivia Thursday night, and I’m angry about it. I’ve lost my brother and playmate, constant friend and sometimes foe. He was my light, and I was his shadow. And I’m lost without him.

If you’re the praying type, my family will take them. If you have good energy, send it our way. We will need all the support we can get in the coming days. Thank you for the peace and love.

#Grief #RaymondStGeorge

CHAPTER 3

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