Things That Grow

by Meredith Goldstein

  We weren’t there when she died, but the hospital people assured us that she was probably sleeping when it happened. Seth and I rushed to the hospital and spent an hour staring at her dead body, which looked remarkably like her alive body. Like she might just wake up. Her short white hair framed her head with wild curls. She still had a little bit of blush lipstick on; she’d applied some earlier in the day to “feel like a person again.” Her eyes were closed, and her long lashes had a touch of mascara. A book rested on her nightstand: Dorothy Parker’s Laments for the Living.

  “Well, that’s on the nose,” I whispered.

  “It’s perfect.” Seth took my hand and squeezed it. “I’m gonna call Becca,” he said then, and left the room to call my mom.

  My instinct, in the moment, was to call Grandma Sheryl. Because when something bad or confusing happened, she was the person who explained it or took care of it. I imagined her talking me through it.

  “What am I supposed to do now?” I asked her dead body.

  I knew that, always the English teacher, she would say, “Sometimes the worst experiences make the best stories. Notice the details. Write them down. Also, go eat something. Make it protein.”

  I tried to notice as many of the details as I could. Grandma’s still-perfect red-painted nails. The strange, fluorescent lighting in the hospital room that made her lips look that much rosier against her pale skin.

  I wondered if she died with her eyes closed, or if someone closed them the way they do with dead people on TV.

  Then Seth returned from his call, looking like he’d cried a lot more, and this time he was joined by a social worker who ushered us into a “family room” that had couches. The social worker, who held a clipboard, asked if we knew what we wanted to do with the body, and I said, “Reanimate it,” which earned me a smile from Seth.

  “Do you know if she had a will—or funeral instructions?” the social worker asked.

  “Yes,” Seth said. “There’s a will in the safe with the important papers.”

  “Why don’t you take a look at her instructions and give us a call tomorrow morning so we can start arrangements,” she said. “We can keep her here, so there’s no rush right now.”

  We walked like zombies out of the hospital, and then Seth called my mom a second time. He told her the immediate plan, and then I spoke to her for two seconds.

  “Sweetheart,” Mom said, crying, “I’m going to get there as soon as I can. Bill and I are talking about driving up. I think it might be good to have a car there. Better than flying and having to rent a car at the airport.”

  Of course she’d bring Bill, her latest boyfriend.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, trying to give her the hint that instead of thinking about every single transportation option, she should probably just show up.

  “Or maybe we could rent a car here in Maryland,” she said. “My car’s been rattling.”

  I heard a muffled male voice in the background. Bill weighing in.

  “Lori, just sit tight. I’ll be there soon. I love you, honey.”

  “I know,” I told her.

  When we got home, Seth called Ethan, and I crawled into Grandma’s bed and texted Chris to let him know I was home. The last time I’d messaged him was to tell him we were on our way to the hospital because Grandma had gone into cardiac arrest. Then I’d put my phone away, so I’d missed a bunch of his messages.

  “You okay?”

  “What’s happening now?”

  “Check in when you can.”

  “Lori, are you sleeping?”

  I didn’t know what to write back so many awful hours later.

  “She’s dead,” I finally responded.

  My phone suggested I use the skull emoji when I typed the word dead, which caused me to let out a hysterical cackle. I added it to the message and hit send.

  “I’m so sorry, Lori,” Chris wrote back almost immediately, and I wondered if he’d stayed awake this whole time, waiting to hear from me. “You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

  “Sure,” I wrote back. “Going to sleep now.”

  I leaned into Grandma’s pillow, which smelled like lavender-scented dryer sheets. Then, for hours, I tried to keep my eyes closed.

  * * *

  It was early morning when Uncle Seth and I reunited in the kitchen. He wore a New School sweatshirt and skinny jeans, and he’d pulled out a box of Honey Nut Cheerios, my main form of sustenance.

  “Want some?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, and dug my hands into the box as he held it for me. The Cheerios were so dry on my tongue that I opened th e refrigerator and drank some orange juice straight from the carton.

  “Sorry,” I responded. “I don’t have the energy to be hygienic today.”

  “First rule of shiva,” Seth said, “you can drink from the carton.”

  “I thought the first rule of shiva was not to talk about shiva,” I said, and then burped.

  Seth laughed and then got quiet. “I’m going to go in and look at the paperwork,” he said, and based on the way he eyed the door to Grandma’s room, I could tell that he was freaked out about going in there. Or maybe he was scared to look at the will.

  “Do you have any idea what it says?” I asked.

  Seth ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Only that it’s a will and that she had named me as medical proxy.”

  “I know that part,” I said. “Grandma told me once to call you if anything happened to her, like if I walked into the house and found her unconscious.”

  “That’s morbid,” Seth said, his eyebrows raised.

  “Well, a year ago my guidance counselor told Grandma that kids who live with older grandparents, like, as guardians, should have some sort of instruction, just in case they drop dead,” I explained. “This one kid, Blake Hartley, he lives with his grandpa, who’s like ninety-two. Blake is fully trained in CPR.”

  “How many kids at your school live with their grandparents?” Seth asked.

  “A bunch. Mostly it’s kids who live with their parents and grandparents, but I can think of, like, ten kids in my class who live with just their grandma or grandpa.”

  “Interesting,” Seth said, and we both took deep breaths.

  “Well, let’s do it,” I said. Seth followed me into Grandma’s room and opened her closet, where she kept her small safe of important papers.

  I slid the safe out onto the carpet. It reminded me of a tiny metal suitcase, like what you’d put a bomb in if you were a villain in an action movie. Then we both sat crossed-legged on the pale blue carpeted floor as I used the combination, Dorothy Parker’s birthday (8-22-93), to open it. Some arrangement of 8-22-93 was Grandma’s password for everything.

  “Oh my god,” I said, looking at the numbers.

  “What?” Seth asked, panicked.

  “She died on Dorothy Parker’s birthday. Eight twenty-two.”

  “Oh my god!” Seth’s eyes pooled with tears. “Of course she did!”

  Our knees touched as we clasped hands. Then he let go and wiped his eyes.

  I started to laugh then, not because Grandma died on her favorite author’s birthday, but because Seth was unknowingly sitting in front of about twenty-five photos of his own face. Grandma Sheryl’s bedroom walls were covered in framed pictures of all of us—me, my mom, Seth—but the ones that surrounded Seth now were a series of his own school photos from kindergarten through high school.

  Even as a toddler, Seth looked cool and confident, always flashing a relaxed grin at the camera. My mom’s row of photos, on the other hand, are so embarrassing. It’s like she tried a new style every year, and in every picture her bangs are higher, as if she put her finger in an electrical socket.

  “Do you think she planned it somehow? That she wanted to die on Dorothy Parker’s birthday?” Seth asked, the question bringing me back to reality. “That would be so on-brand for her.”

  “I don’t think she planned to die right now,” I said, sha
king my head at all of Seth’s faces. “I mean, we had plans to be with Mom in D.C. for Labor Day weekend. She was right in the middle of a book. She’d never want to die in the middle of reading a book. Also, she wouldn’t want to leave us.”

  “Right,” Seth agreed. “I guess I just want this to make sense in a way that it can’t, you know?”

  I nodded because I understood. It would be comforting to think that Grandma Sheryl was capable of orchestrating her own exit from the world. She was so good at planning everything else. But she didn’t want this.

  Seth pushed aside files labeled LORI’S BIRTH CERTIFICATE, INSURANCE DOCUMENTS, MEDICARE CHANGES, PENSION, and ESPRESSO MAKER WARRANTY and found the one labeled WILL. I watched Seth, fearful that if he opened it too quickly, a bat might fly out.

  He opened the folder, and I moved behind him so I could read too.

  The first page was a lot of printed names, dates, and addresses. Then there was a typed message: “Assets and accounts to be split between Ms. Seltzer’s son, Seth, and her daughter, Rebecca. Bequests: Rebecca shall receive all of Ms. Seltzer’s jewelry, and Seth shall receive her collection of books.”

  Seth nodded through tears, and I felt a little bit of jealousy that he would get her library.

  “You can take some of them,” he said, reading my mind again.

  “The Stephen King,” we both said at the same time, and then laughed.

  Seth isn’t a fan of Stephen King, but I love him. My favorite is Christine.

  The next page of the will looked even more important. It was called “Letter of Instruction” and had a lot of Grandma’s handwriting on it.

  Seth and I leaned in closer.

  “I do not want a funeral!” Grandma Sheryl had written in her compact cursive script. “I would like to be cremated and placed near things that grow.”

  I stopped breathing for a second and read it again. Seth ran his fingers over his mother’s words.

  “‘Things that grow.’ I guess that’s no surprise,” he said with a smile, his eyes moving to the dozens of plants around her bedroom.

  Then we noticed the asterisk at the end of the last sentence.

  “* see reverse side.”

  On the back, where there was more space to write, the instructions continued.

  “My dears,” it said, and I whimpered.

  “I would like to be placed in a lovely garden. I’ve listed four options below. Please do not get yourself in trouble as you scatter; I’ve been told the process requires permits, but if you are discreet, no one will interrupt. I’m grateful and love you all . . . And pick an appropriate reading, please.”

  I wiped my eyes with my dress collar, streaking the white fabric with my dark eyeliner. Seeing Grandma’s handwriting had shaken me, reminding me of her body in that hospital bed and the fact that all this was real. I imagined how the instructions would sound in her voice, and then I realized I’d never hear her voice again.

  Had I saved any of her voicemails?

  “I don’t know most of these places,” Seth said, running a finger down the list of gardens Grandma Sheryl had chosen for her remains.

  Seth looked up to find me sobbing, and then he joined me.

  Crying is like yawning, I guess; if one person does it, it catches on.

  “I can’t believe my mother is dead and that I’m supposed to cremate her and deposit her in a fucking garden,” Seth said, speaking to the ceiling. “Where the hell is Becca?”

  “Probably sitting on her bed reading some self-help book about what to do when a loved one dies—instead of actually doing anything you’re supposed to do when a loved one dies.”

  “Fuck!” Seth shouted to no one.

  “Is Ethan on his way?” I asked.

  “I told him to wait until I knew our plan.”

  In that moment, despite the lines around his eyes and his graying hair, Seth looked like a child. Feeling like I should be more of a help, I took a deep breath and considered next steps. I needed to be his partner in this.

  “She wants to be cremated, so let’s cremate. I’m going to look up cremation places,” I told him, pushing myself up from the floor.

  “Lor, wait. The cremation thing seems like the adult task. I’ll find a place that does it. There are other things you can do to help. And Becca will get here eventually and can take on some of the logistics.”

  “The cremation part is the thing I want to do. Look at me,” I told him, motioning to my black leggings, my purple hair, and the vintage dress I bought because it reminded me of what a possessed doll would wear in a horror movie. “I write stories about zombies and ghosts. My eyeliner is threatening and severe. I am all in for finding out about cremation. What I don’t want to have to do is call the Feldbergs and Cousin Helen. That’s on you.”

  “Fair,” Uncle Seth said, and then he fell backward onto the carpet, muttering, “Ugh, the fucking Feldbergs.”

  * * *

  In my room, holding my phone above me, my arms outstretched with my back on the bed, I googled the temple where Grandma and I spent the High Holy Days every year, and I called the main number.

  “Boker tov,” a woman answered.

  “You too!” I said, hoping that was the right response. “My name is Lori Seltzer. My grandmother and I come to your temple for Yom Kippur every year. Anyway, my grandma—she just passed away. I’m wondering . . . where do your members go for cremation?”

  The woman on the line was silent for long seconds.

  “Lori, can I speak to one of your parents?”

  “She’s not here right now,” I said, annoyed by her assumption that my parents were around and that there were two of them. “I’m just trying to help my family by getting some information about cremation services.”

  “I understand, sweetie. It’s just that we don’t do cremations.”

  “I know you don’t do the actual cremations, like, in your temple,” I said, “but can you recommend a place where we can go to get it done?”

  “No, sweetie. What I mean is that Beth El doesn’t recommend cremation services, because Jews don’t cremate,” she whispered into the phone. “It’s not something we’re supposed to do.”

  “Oh,” I said. This was news to me. “Why?”

  “It’s against the rules,” she said.

  “Whose rules?”

  “Well . . . the Talmud’s, I guess.”

  “Oh. That’s good to know.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so flip,” she continued, “but most Jewish people believe that we are forbidden to defile the body, and that includes cremation. That’s why many Jews don’t get tattoos and piercings—because many Jewish cemeteries don’t allow them.”

  “Right,” I said, running my fingers over the three small silver studs in my right ear.

  “There’s also the matter of the Holocaust,” the woman continued.

  “The Holocaust?” I whispered. That is how Grandma always said “the Holocaust”—in a very loud whisper.

  “Yes. You see, many Jewish people object to the idea of cremation because of the bodies burned en masse during the Holocaust.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling stupid. This woman had every reason to be offended by my phone call. I wondered if Grandma Sheryl had known any of this.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

  “It’s okay, honey. If you’d like to come in, I’m sure Rabbi Grossman would be happy to sit down with you and your parents and talk about your options. But you should come today. The burial should happen Sunday. It’s Friday now, so we’ll need to set this up before we begin Shabbat.”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “My grandma was really clear that she wants to be cremated; I just have to find a place to do it. I’m sorry if that’s horrible and offensive and makes us bad Jews.”

  Silence.

  I cleared my throat. “Um, I hate to ask, but do you know who does cremate? Like who else I could call?”

  “Christians,” the woman responded, h
er tone flat. “Cremation is something Christian people do.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, and then thanked her before hanging up.

  I considered walking down the street to talk to Chris’s mom—she would be able to tell me everything about how Christian people cremate—but I knew that if I did, she’d feel responsible for helping me through the process, and she’s always doing too much for everyone.

  That’s when I thought of Walsh’s Funeral Home, which I’d passed seven thousand times on the way to the thrift store that always has good Halloween costumes and vintages sunglasses. I remembered the big shamrock on the Walsh’s sign, and the message underneath: AFFORDABLE BURIAL AND CREMATION SERVICES FOR YOUR FAMILY.

  I called Walsh’s, and after a man answered with a friendly hello, I blurted my questions. “Do you guys do cremation? Can Jewish people use your services? Do you have availability to cremate my grandma?”

  “Well, yes. To all of that,” he answered. “I’m James Walsh. Happy to help you. Would you like to stop by this afternoon?”

  And that’s how we got here.

  * * *

  Mr. Walsh flips the catalogue from the doves to the next page, which is all about the service we came for. The page is titled “Dust to Dust.”

  “These days, the majority of our business is cremation, as opposed to a more traditional burial,” Mr. Walsh says. “People are very interested in limiting their carbon footprint. They want to be respectful of the space they take up in the world, even after death.”

  Mr. Walsh’s eyes are huge and bright as he tells us this, and I smile because he loves his job. Good for him.

  “We do the service off-site, in a crematorium in Chelmsford,” he continues, “and we can have it completed within the next two days. We’ll coordinate with the hospital morgue, so you won’t have to worry about transporting the body.”

  He clears his throat.

  “What we should talk about today is storage. There are many options for the disbursement of cremains, so let’s take a look, and I can show you—”

  My head pops up, as does Uncle Seth’s.

  “The cremains?” we say at the same time.