Page 16 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

First stop on the journey was St. Cecilia’s, where my parents got married. The three kids on bicycles must have been the advance team, because by the time we pulled up to the church Father Connelly was standing outside, along with two of the younger priests, and some of the staff from the rectory. There were hugs, kisses, and blessings, and then off we went again.

The convoy proceeded along High Street at a leisurely pace—about twenty miles an hour. Mom, who’d had her thrill ride for the day, didn’t complain.

“Next stop, Main Street,” Lizzie said.

She was wrong. The procession hung a left on MacDougal, a two-lane thoroughfare that skirts the business district and is peppered with gas stations, fast-food outlets, chain drugstores, car dealerships, and not much else.

“What the hell is here?” Lizzie said.

I had no idea. And then one of the motorcycle cops stopped traffic, and the entourage crossed the road and turned into a strip mall.

“Holy shit,” I said, looking at the Chinese restaurant nestled between a Staples and the Sew Rite fabric store. “Dragon Heart.”

Lizzie gave me a blank stare.

“It’s where Mom and Dad were having dinner when her water broke, and she went into labor with me. They never got to finish dinner, so Mr. and Mrs. Lum delivered it to the hospital the day after I was born.”

A white-haired Chinese couple was outside waiting for us. Mrs. Lum had a silver tray with an assortment of appetizers on it. Dad popped a dumpling in his mouth. Mom took a mini egg roll, thanked the Lums profusely, and held on to it. I was sure she’d pass it to Dad as soon as we were out of sight.

“Next stop hasgotto be Main Street,” Lizzie said.

It was. And from the reception we got, our three young town criers had done their job well. It was as if all of Heartstone had dropped what they were doing so they could make way for the lady in the pink nightgown. Cars pulled over and honked their horns as we rode by. People shouted from windows, and almost everyone at the outdoor cafés that lined the block stood up and gave us a standing ovation.

We drove past the firehouse, where a dozen firefighters hooted and saluted as their electronic message board flashedHFD loves Kate McCormick.

And then we turned onto Pine Street, where the sidewalk in front of McCormick’s was packed with customers, waiters, and kitchen staff. In the middle of them all was Grandpa Mike, arms high, a flag in each hand—one red, white, and blue; the other green, white, and orange.

Loud pipes howled as twenty of Dad’s biker buddies roared out of the parking lot to join the celebration, and the caravan, which had started out with a single motorcycle and a chase car and was now a joyous mob, wended its way to Crystal Avenue, where the whole neighborhood was there to welcome us home.

Someone set off a string of firecrackers, which may have been for Mom, or it might just have been some kid getting a jump on the Fourth of July. People who knew our family well called out her name, pumped their fists in the air, and many of them—big, strapping men included—dabbed at their eyes.

Our police escort stopped just past our house, and the cops got out of their cars and off their bikes as Dad pulled into the driveway.

He lifted Mom off the Harley and turned her to the crowd. She looked exhausted, but exhilarated. She waved, threw kisses, said thank you over and over, and finally, Dad carried her inside the house and upstairs to her bed.

She kissed us all, told us she loved us, went to sleep, and never woke up.

TEN

My mother had done her research on the downside of dying at home. A week before she passed, she sat down with the three of us and gave us our marching orders.

“Rule number one,” she said with the same sense of urgency she’d had when we were kids, and she taught us about stranger danger. “Once I’m gone, donot—repeat, do not—call 911. A lot of people do, thinking that the cops will help them transport the body. But what happens is that the first ones to arrive are the paramedics. They’re on a mission—save lives. So even though I’m dead as a mackerel, they will start pounding on my chest and cracking my ribs...”

“The hell they will,” Dad said, jumping in.

“Let me finish. Pounding my chest and cracking my ribs, which will quickly escalate into a fistfight with my husband.That’swhen the cops will show up.”

Dad acquiesced. “So, you want us to call the funeral home first.”

“No. First call Dr. Byrne. He and I discussed this. The law says you need a physician to sign off on the cause of death. He’ll come right over and fill out the paperwork. Otherwise, the state of New York will ship me off to the morgue for an autopsy to figure out what killed me. Whatever you do, please do not let them cut me up.”

“What if we get an offer from a medical school willing to pay big bucks for a fresh cadaver?” Lizzie said, her face completely deadpan.

Mom clapped her hands and shrieked with laughter. “Oh God, I am so going to miss this shit.”

“How do you think I feel?” Lizzie said. “I’m losing my best audience. Maggie barelyunderstandsmost of my cryptic banter.”

I was jealous of my sister’s innate ability to deal with death so matter-of-factly, but I loved her for how effortlessly she could keep Mom smiling during those final days.

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