Just a Normal Tuesday

by Kim Turrisi

For the bodies, I suppose. That makes sense. Jen alone in some freezer, like a box of Popsicles, does not. My mom reaches for my hand and pats it.

  “Good morning. Sam Barnes.” A gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a funeral-black suit and a starched white shirt, extends his hand. Dad gets up to shake it. The pity in Mr. Barnes’s eyes drills through my body. Does he dress like this for everyone or is this reserved for the most extreme tragedies? A suicide suit. It gets more absurd with each passing minute.

  “John Sheehan. This is my wife, Marie, and our daughter Kai.”

  My father’s tone is flat and studied like he’s meeting a client for the first time.

  “I’m so very sorry for your loss,” Mr. Barnes says.

  Not as sorry as I am, I think. He never even met my sister. All the niceties make me sick. Mr. Barnes leads us into his office. The Kleenex boxes and mints are multiplying like rabbits. “I’ve spoken to the priest and understand that he’ll be officiating the mass at St. Patrick’s.”

  “What? How do I get on the family email distribution list?” I snap.

  “Kai, please.” Mom jumps down my throat.

  “Mass? You have got to be kidding me.” I keep pounding.

  “It’s what she wanted.”

  “She has a name. And when did she say that?”

  “Not now,” Dad growls.

  Hell if I’m backing down on this. “I want to know.”

  Mom pinches the fatty part of my arm like she used to do in church when I had a tantrum. I refuse to make a sound even though it hurts like hell. She murmurs, “My letter stated her wishes. She was clear so we’re doing it.”

  That zips my trap. But when did Jen become religious? We haven’t gone to St. Patrick’s for years unless you count Christmas Eve and an occasional Easter.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes, this has been difficult for all of us,” Mom apologizes.

  “Difficult? That’s the understatement of the century.” My world has turned upside down and they’re acting so polite. So ordinary. So fake.

  “Can you please calm down?”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down, my sister is dead!” I shout. I just completely lose it. I am myself and a shrieking maniac all at the same time.

  Mr. Barnes says this is part of it, it’s perfectly all right. Yes, now the funeral director is weighing in on my behavior.

  My mother takes my shoulders with her hands. “Kai, let’s just agree to get through this as best we can.” There’s a note of desperation in her voice that I totally understand.

  I won’t meet anybody’s eyes.

  “I just miss her,” I squeak.

  “We all do,” Dad says earnestly. “But we have to do this.”

  I bite back another wave of anger because he’s right. No one is serving up any alternatives. The end.

  “The caskets are in the back room. We can go there now and have a look,” Mr. Barnes continues in his monotone voice.

  “Kai, you can wait here if you’d like,” Dad offers, softer.

  But I don’t trust them to make the right decision.

  There’s something eerie about walking into a room filled wall to wall with caskets, and suddenly I have the nervous giggles. You know when the fear is too much to endure? Mom clears her throat, and Dad raises his eyebrows in my direction. The two of them amble over to a dark cherrywood coffin that reminds me of the one my grandpa Sheehan was buried in two years ago.

  “Totally wrong” drops out of my mouth.

  “I’m happy to answer any questions,” offers Mr. Barnes.

  “What’s the difference between them?” Mom’s face is stiff, like she’s trying not to break down.

  “The standard casket is made of the thinnest metal, a twenty gauge. The interior is a very thin crepe with no padding,” Mr. Barnes fires off. Then on cue: “To be completely transparent with you, the standard casket does not have a rubber gasket to seal from outside elements.”

  My father jumps in quickly. “We don’t want that one.”

  Mr. Barnes points at another option with a lot more enthusiasm. “This one is stainless steel, much nicer finish and there’s a gasket to seal it tightly. And there’s extra padding to cushion your loved one for eternity. It’s about nine hundred dollars or so more.”

  So for another thousand bucks we keep out the bugs and Florida’s torrential rains. This douche is upselling my parents right now. And they’re falling for it because, really, what else are they going to do for their dead twenty-two-year-old daughter? I feel the dry heaves inching their way into my throat but I swallow hard. If Jen were here, she’d want me to keep it together. Any time I was freaking out about something she would say, You got this, little sister. I swear I can hear her voice.

  I adjust my invisible armor.

  “What about this one?” I point to a metal casket that has a slight sheen of pinkish purple to it, with a plum-colored shiny fabric inside and a nice fluffy pillow.

  “That’s one of our premium caskets. It comes with a triple-reinforced concrete exterior vault that houses the casket. The lid is finished with ninety-nine pounds of non-rusting bronze. It’s specially designed to prevent water seepage.”

  He’s a pro, like a used-car salesman. He always has a comeback. An answer for any doubt. Seal the deal.

  My parents look like deer caught in headlights. It’s all so much.

  “Purple is her favorite color,” I remind my parents. “The plum pillow … she loved all her pillows.” Seeing the resolve on my face, they agree.

  “Let’s do this one.” Hearing my father’s voice I realize he can’t withstand much more of this absurdity either. Right now I’m caught up in a moment of love for my parents. It might be worse to lose a daughter than a sister.

  Might.

  We follow Mr. Barnes back to his office like lemmings marching off a cliff. Mom leans in to Dad. “How much did he say that was? I stopped listening.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s the last thing we are ever going to give our child.”

  I have to turn away.

  Dad sits himself down in front of the funeral director’s imposing desk while Mr. Barnes ushers my mom and me over to several binders filled with customizable remembrance cards and psalms.

  “These will be handed out to each of your guests upon arrival at the church,” he announces, like we’re prepping for a party.

  Choosing just the perfect card with just the right message becomes my mission, like the casket. It’s imperative we get it correct. Words mean everything to Jen. Meant. There’s no margin for error. But the binders are full of crap.

  “Look at these, they’re just terrible,” I point out. “Jesus. Mom,” I say, grabbing her hand. “This one is velvet, like, feel it. Gross, who would use this?” Not gonna lie, this one makes me chuckle. Even Jen would laugh. Not my Mom, though.

  “It’s just a card, Kai.” My mom is near the end of her rope. But I can’t give up. I won’t.

  “It’s more than that to me. Words, cards. They were our thing.” I’m begging.

  I keep flipping the pages. “Birds. Seashells. Tacky. No thank you. “Why is everything a religious reference?” I ask. I read aloud to drive my point home. “‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away …’ Well, no shit, but we aren’t using this one.”

  “Kai, your mouth,” Mom scolds.

  “The twenty-third psalm. ‘The Lord blah blah.’ Seriously?”

  Mom interrupts me. “I like that one.”

  “No. It’s better than the others but I think they’re all so dramatic, too much. You know?”

  “I just want this to be over.” My mom’s voice is frozen.

  My head is pounding like there’s a jackhammer trapped in my skull. I need an aspirin, and I think there’s one in my bag. A miracle. And then another: when I reach into the bag, my hand finds a card.
From Jen. I yank it out and almost smile. “Mom?”

  I reveal a postcard Jen sent me from Dublin, with an Irish blessing on the front. I’ve kept it in my purse since the day it came in the mail.

  May the road rise up to meet you.

  May the wind be always at your back.

  May the sun shine warm upon your face,

  And the rains fall soft upon your fields.

  And until we meet again,

  May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

  Mom sniffs. I reach for her. “This is it. Jen would like this one. Jen loved Ireland. When she was in Dublin, she was in a pub and The Script played an impromptu set. Like there were maybe twenty-five people there. She said being there felt how magic might feel.”

  It was a bucket-list moment for her to see them and U2 in Ireland. She never thought it would happen. They’re on my list, too.

  Mom nods. “Maybe use purple ink to highlight it?”

  “Genius, Mom. Instead of her photo on the front — she would hate all that attention — let’s use a picture of the beach. She loved the water,” I suggest.

  “How about the one hanging in her bedroom? The picture she took of the black sand in Maui from our vacation.”

  Finally we’re on the same page. The deep breath I inhale is for both of us.

  Mr. Barnes discusses the final arrangements as Dad autographs the never-ending paperwork for Jen’s new home.

  “The casket will be closed for the service as you requested. But you will have an opportunity to say goodbye privately beforehand. Would you like the casket open or closed for that?”

  Dad turns to us.

  “Closed,” Mom jumps in.

  “I have to see her to say goodbye,” I plead.

  He and my mom start the eyeball speak. Their own private nonverbal language.

  “Please.” I sniffle.

  My mom takes my hand and nods at my father.

  “Open,” Dad says, gulping down his misery.

  * * *

  All the hours, all the days blend together. Baskets, flowers, food, they all keep coming. An endless swarm of heartache. Dad sips Johnnie Blue while Mom parks herself at the table reading the cards from each and every arrangement, crying some more. “‘We’re so sorry for your loss. The Boones,’” Mom reads, and closes the card before adding, “I sold them their condo.”

  “‘May God be with you during this trying time. We are here for you. The Samuels.’” Mom reads my mind: “One of your father’s clients.”

  “This one’s for you, Kai.” She slides the card across the table to me.

  “‘We’re so sorry about your sister. Hang in there. Love, the yearbook staff.’” I well up.

  “What are we supposed to do with all of this?” I ask.

  Mom stares blankly at me before she pushes aside the mound of condolence cards, stands quickly with a purpose. She starts setting up what looks like command central. She flings open her laptop, props her iPad upright in its bright blue neoprene case and takes out a legal-size notepad that I see is filled with notes: DVD of pictures on loop: yes. Taco bar?: yes. Carnitas or chicken: maybe both? Good God, she even has a Bluetooth headset on like she’s an air-traffic controller.

  “When can we go to Jen’s apartment? We need her outfit. No black.”

  “Later tonight or tomorrow. I’ve got a conference call with the caterers in a few minutes.” She sorts through her endless lists of lists.

  “Caterers?”

  “After the service we’re having a celebration of Jen’s life.”

  “Can’t it just be us? Why does it have to be a thing?”

  “Kai, don’t be ridiculous. Between your father’s firm and my business, not to mention all of Jen’s friends, we’ll have at least a hundred and fifty guests.”

  “It’s not a party,” I point out.

  The shrill of the landline muffles my request. Yes, we actually have one, along with three cordless phones Dad bought at Best Buy when we moved in. He does random things like that all the time. Between us we have at least six phones in this house. Like with his mail quirk, Dad’s convinced someone may need to reach us and every cell tower in South Florida will be down at that very important moment. Hence the landline.

  She trades her headset for a handheld phone.

  My dad looks over, quiets his voice. “She has to do this, Kai. She doesn’t know what else to do.”

  “I don’t think tacos with a bunch of strangers is going to help.”

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. She’s going to produce a full-on event. A three-ring circus of mourners shoveling food down their throats and sucking down booze while my sister is twenty minutes away.

  Alone.

  Six feet underground.

  Chapter 5

  Still no answers. Not even when my mother and I scoured Jen’s apartment at my insistence. Instead, what I found were all of her cookbooks neatly stacked on the granite counter just like the T-shirts in her closet, only not color coordinated. When my eyes landed on the drain board next to the sink, I spotted the birthday gift I gave my sister two years ago. Jen drank her coffee every day from that mug. Part of her morning ritual. I held it close to my heart like that might help; it didn’t but I took the cup home anyway. At least the inscription gave me a sliver of joy: MY SISTER HAS AN AWESOME SISTER … TRUE STORY.

  I started collecting souvenirs, not finding clues or answers.

  Not even when we painstakingly selected the outfit she would be buried in. In fact, that whole scenario was a gargantuan clusterfuck. The selection of clothing items we stockpiled from her apartment strewn across the sofa in our family room for our perusal. Short dresses, long dresses, jeans, dressy pants, skirts, a blazer, an olive-green military-style jacket, high heels in various heights, Chucks, you name it. The ritual of death I could really do without. Every detail required undivided attention and led to an argument. Mom and I patrolled the couch testing different outfits while my dad nursed his scotch and looked on in silence, hoping to avoid getting caught in the cross fire of our heated funeral-wear exchanges.

  “The dress she wore for her graduation party, she looked so beautiful,” Mom suggests, pointing to a teal satiny strapless dress.

  “Too dressy,” I fire back.

  “What about the paisley shift dress? She loved that,” Mom tosses out, trying.

  “Jen was more classic casual. I know she loved her dresses, but jeans and anything from her Madewell collection is what we should go with. And her Chucks, for sure. All of her favorites.”

  “I’m not burying my child in jeans,” Mom says, all offended. She’s getting hot-under-the-collar agitated and so am I. Dad is taking a dive headfirst into his bottle of Johnnie Walker, while Mom and I battle over the finalists for the What’s Jen Going to Be Buried In? contest.

  “It’s not about you,” I hit back.

  “She isn’t wearing jeans!” Mom yells.

  “Why the hell not?”

  One battle after another until my father makes the humongous mistake of weighing in himself.

  “It doesn’t matter, she’s dead.”

  Let’s just say that goes over as one would expect. I completely lose my shit. I mean the kind of losing it where a table gets turned over and unspeakable words are spoken to my parents. The melee sends me storming upstairs punctuating every step with a stomp that echoes all the way up to the landing and retreating into the comfort of a bottle of vodka I swiped and a giant bowl of Blue Dream in my pot pipe.

  * * *

  My throat is bone-dry. I guzzle a long drink from the water fountain outside the passageway of St. Patrick’s. A distorted face looks back at me as I screw up my nose, making a face at myself in the reflection of the aluminum bowl. My mouth is filled with the metallic tang of water fountain H2O.

  I pause outside the chapel where my sister lies
in a metal coffin, the best that money can buy. I’ve stalled as much as humanly possible. It was my idea to see her one last time.

  I open my clutch and snap my emergency Xanax in half. I put it under my tongue and steel myself to say a final farewell to my only sibling.

  My trembling hand reaches for the maroon velvet curtain behind the pulpit, pulling it open to let myself in. It’s all very regal, other than the coffin holding court center stage. I catch a glimpse of my sister’s hair and my anxiety level skyrockets through the roof. My parents are in the pew directly in front of the coffin.

  Selecting an outfit for each of us wasn’t any easier than selecting one for her; there’s no real protocol for death clothing other than black and she was pretty clear about that. We each made shades of purple part of our wardrobe along with requisite sunglasses. I carefully chose a dark grape pencil skirt and light pink sleeveless top. Mom went a bit more classic and refined in an eggplant dress with Tory Burch sandals. Dad went with a dark violet-print tie he picked up yesterday at Hugo Boss to complement his navy suit. How bizarre is that? Shopping for a funeral tie like he doesn’t have dozens hanging on the tie rack in his closet.

  Not a shred of black in sight unless you count my heart, but no one can really see that. “She looks beautiful,” Mom says to Dad. It echoes in here. He hands her a tissue. Dad sees me approaching the dais.

  “Kai, do you want me to go up there with you?”

  “No, I want to be alone with her and recite it.”

  It’s not every day you see a loved one lying peacefully in a coffin. Her makeup and hair are spot-on. The outfit is perfection. Her shiny chestnut hair, not a strand out of place, touching the collar of her boyfriend blazer ever so slightly. Gone is the blue tint to her skin, replaced with a natural tan. Not like a spray-on orange tan, but a light makeup applied to her face, the kind that could pass for the color in your cheeks after a day at the beach. Nothing phony about it. Mr. Barnes and his prep team nailed their hideous task.

  I remind myself that this is what she wanted. She wanted to die. It’s a mantra in my head. Her choice. Her choice. Her choice. I notice Mom’s diamond necklace around her neck, lying perfectly against Jen’s neck. My sister loved that thing. She used to say, I get that when you die, teasing our mom. It’s a simple diamond heart on a silver chain. Simple and beautiful like Jen. I bend so close to her.