Silk

by Heidi McLaughlin

  “How was it?”

  “I still can’t believe she’s gone.” He takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.

  “I know.” I do.

  “Have you eaten anything?” He puts his glasses back on and focuses on me.

  “I did.”

  “Good, good.”

  I pick at the nail polish on one of my fingers. I can’t even remember the last time I painted my nails, but the polish has glitter in it, so I might need a sandblaster to get it all off.

  “What happens next?”

  He closes his eyes as he spits out a verbal checklist. “The funeral home will call us about her ashes. We need to plan her memorial, but she already told us what she wanted. She has a will we have to handle. I’m really not sure what else.”

  A chip of nail polish falls on the carpet. “Can I help?”

  “With what, sweetheart?”

  “Anything.”

  He nods. “Of course.” He sits down next to me, tucking me into his chest. “Of course.”

  I don’t blink away the tears stinging my eyes this time. I let them flow freely down my cheeks, comforted by the smell of peppermint and Old Spice.

  For lunch, my dad heats up a can of chicken noodle soup. It feels strange to be eating soup during the summer, but it’s nice that my dad wants to take care of me. Having made enough for two, he carries a bowl up to my mom.

  ***

  Ally’s obituary is in the paper today. Before she was accepted into the trial, she had written it herself when things looked bad. She knew what she wanted, even going as far as specifying people send donations to the American Cancer Society in lieu of flowers.

  People still send cards and flowers.

  Her memorial is going to be on Saturday, and she wanted me to read a poem.

  I’m going with my mom to the store today to get a new dress. I need something more conservative than any of the black dresses I currently have. Buying new clothes for a memorial is weird. I’d rather never buy a new dress again and have Ally back instead.

  My mom and I grab our handbags and head out. My dad has been taking care of most things since she died. It’s a big step for my mom to go out today.

  I drive, trying to make small talk with her on the way. She smiles when she would normally laugh, and she nods or shakes her head when she would normally speak when Ally was alive. It’s still progress.

  My mom slowly walks with me into the department store. After I have an armful of black dresses she sits in a chair by the dressing room. I don’t even take the time to show her each dress. I settle on a simple boatneck, cap-sleeve, knee-length cotton dress. I start to pay, but my mom stops me and buys the dress.

  She’s still quiet as we leave the store, but once we pass the doors and walk into the parking lot, she links her arm through mine.

  While we were gone, my dad went to the funeral home to collect Ally’s ashes. The lined box holding them is sitting on the coffee table when we get home.

  My mom and I both hesitate in the doorway of the living room before walking in. She moves first, approaching the table, reaching her hand out in front of her to trace the rim of the box. Coiling her fingers into a fist, she draws her arm to her chest and hugs herself before hurrying upstairs to her room. That’s what she does now when she cries. She wants to shield her grief from my dad and me, but we both know.

  I approach the table, kneeling in front of it. With my hands, I make a circle around the box without touching it. The box is six inches tall, three inches long, and two inches wide by my estimate. All that is left of Ally is in a little box.

  If I open the lid and drag my fingers through her ashes, will I feel closer to her soul?

  My dad walks into the room. “Find a dress?”

  Pulling my hands into my lap, I place one on top of the other and nod.

  “How did your mom do?”

  “Good. She was quiet but good. When she saw”—I nod toward the box—”she went upstairs.”

  He rubs his lips together, like he’s evening out ChapStick. “I’ll go check on her.” He pauses in the doorway. “Are you doing okay?”

  “It’s weird to think she’s inside this and that…that all of her fits. Is it heavy?”

  “You could pick—”

  I cut him off. “I can’t, Dad.”

  He nods. “It is heavier than it looks.” Then, he goes upstairs to my mom.

  I stand, pausing to let my eyes linger once more on the box before I collect my bag from the foyer, and go upstairs to my room.

  My dad closed the door to Ally’s room a couple of days ago. I stare at the door as I pass it. It’s almost worse now that it’s closed. It makes it easier for me to pretend she’s still here.

  Chapter 3

  Our house is full of people for Ally’s memorial. Chairs are set up in our backyard, all facing a table with Ally’s urn and a blown-up photo of her from before she was sick.

  Sometimes, I forget people other than my mom, dad, and I loved her. Before she got sick, she worked as a teacher for a local preschool. Teachers, parents, friends, and former neighbors come to pay their last respects.

  In my new black dress, I hang back from everyone. I do not want their condolences or their excuses as to why they stopped visiting Ally toward the end.

  Her pastor, my mom, and I are each going to say something. Her pastor speaks first. He talks about heaven and how death is not really permanent, that she is all around us in our memories of her. When my mom speaks, my dad stands with her, a tender hand resting on her shoulder for support. Though her voice breaks from time to time and she pauses to wipe her eyes more than once, she manages to do it. She tells stories about their childhood and funny things Ally loved. I have to wipe my eyes when she talks about Ally being with her when I was born. How she had always wished Ally would one day have children of her own.

  I nervously straighten my dress when it’s my turn to speak. Ally’s poem is in my hand. I see Dr. Julian sitting in the second row. I glare at him. I still need someone to blame for her death. I am personally on the fence about the whole is-there-a-god question, so I choose to blame him.

  I cling to the physical representation of her words, written in her hand, the paper now flimsy from my anxious hands. Before I begin speaking, I rest my hand on top of her urn, hoping she can give me strength.

  My voice shakes, but I speak her words, “I’ve loved my life, but now I sleep, like the setting sun, gentle at its close. This battle lost though I have won. The beauty all around me breathes on. To the ones I cherished, I live on within you. Spend each day with laughter and love. I was tired. I’m now at peace.”

  After speaking, it is harder for me to hang back. People seek me out to tell me I spoke well or that when they knew my aunt, she always bragged about me. They want me to know how much she loved me. I resent having strangers try to tell me how much my aunt loved me. If they really knew Ally, they would know she told me herself.

  I politely nod and smile until all the guests leave. My dad carries her urn back inside, putting it on the mantel. My mom, emotionally exhausted, goes upstairs to lie down. I stay in the backyard, swinging slowly on the tree swing.

  What now? I’m not sure what I should do next. It feels like I’m on hold. If I want to enroll for the fall semester, I have to do it soon. I might have already missed the cutoff. I don’t know if that’s what I want anymore. I look up into the tree, my toe tips dragging through the grass.

  Long ago, my dream was to go to Yale. I wanted an adventure, and New Haven, Connecticut felt so far away from Sacramento. So much has changed since then. Now, the idea of being so far from home scares me.

  I look down at the ground as the feeling of vertigo comes over me, the sway of the swing aggravating it. I lean forward, reaching out with my hands, until I am on my hands and knees in the grass in front of the swing. I pant until the dizzy feeling passes before I stand back up and head inside, brushing dirt from my knees.

  My dad is on the phone. H
e walks from one room to another as he speaks. I hear bits of his conversation.

  “Of course. Monday. Good.” He walks by, still talking. “I don’t...” He trails off. “Read it.”

  I sit in the living room, flipping absentmindedly through a cooking magazine. When he hangs up, he comes and sits at his desk.

  “That was our lawyer. He’s coming Monday to read Ally’s will.”

  I look up. “Her will?”

  He nods.

  “But I thought...it’s not like there’s anything left.”

  He shrugs. “I’m not sure, sweetie. I don’t have a copy of her will.”

  ***

  No one makes dinner that night. My dad and I just nibble on leftovers from the memorial. My mom stays upstairs, and my dad takes her a plate.

  When he comes back downstairs, I ask him how she is.

  “It’s been a rough day. Ask me tomorrow.”

  He turns on the TV. There’s a marathon of The Big Bang Theory on. I laugh at something Sheldon says, and I immediately feel guilty. Ally has been gone for less than a week. How is it even possible for me to laugh?

  I excuse myself and go upstairs to my room. I pause when I pass Ally’s room. Instead of continuing on to my room, I gingerly open her door and walk inside, closing it behind me. I rest there for a spell with my back pressed against the door and my hand still on the knob.

  With the exception of the bare bed, it still looks and smells the same. Ally loved the smell of vanilla. There are candles and scent sprays on top of her dresser. Her favorite cardigan hangs from the corner of her headboard.

  Feeling a chill, I pluck it from its perch and put it on. I curl up on her bed and cry. Slowly, I begin talking to Ally as if she were there. I’m careful not to speak too loudly because I don’t want anyone to hear me.

  I tell her how angry I am at Dr. Julian and how uncertain I am with what I should do with my life. I bathe, I dress, I feed myself, and I talk with my parents on a daily basis. I have no desire to do anything more than that. Will I always feel this way? I feel guilt from not knowing what to do about school. I know I’m currently incapable of absorbing anything school-related.

  I can imagine myself never leaving our house again. I get that it seems extreme and probably not normal. It still doesn’t seem real. I spent the last six years certain that she was going to get better. Then, the day the doctor told us otherwise, she died.

  I had no time to mentally prepare for the difference. I’m sure people who have lost their loved ones in an unexpected way feel the same way, only not. They are just living their lives like normal until it happens, and then it’s a shock to their systems.

  I have forgotten what normal is. I do not know how to live anymore in a world where Ally isn’t fighting.

  At some point, I drift off only to awake in a dark room, unable to remember where I am. Since my room faces the street, there is always a trickle of light that makes its way past the seams of my wooden blinds. There is no filtered glow from our lamppost in Ally’s room.

  I’m cold, my legs are bare, and Ally’s cardigan—while on the long side—does not make a good blanket. I go to my own room and change into sweats and a T-shirt, pulling Ally’s cardigan back on before I crawl into bed. The glow from the lamppost is a comforting nightlight to aid my return to sleep.

  I’m uncomfortably warm when I wake up, still wearing Ally’s cardigan. I shrug it off only to then feel chilled, and I put it back on, hugging myself. I’ve slept in. It’s past ten.

  On my way to the stairs, I peek in my parents’ room, wanting to see if my mom has gotten out of bed. Seeing the bed is empty and made, I head toward the kitchen. I pass the living and dining rooms on the way. Both are empty. Now in an equally empty kitchen, I wonder where my parents are. It’s then that I hear voices from our back deck.

  “She needs to go back to school.” My dad seems annoyed.

  I pause at the back door now that I know they’re talking about me.

  “We need to give her time.”

  “I think it would be good for her to get out of this house.”

  What? Now, I’m moving?

  “So soon?”

  “Claire, think about it. If she had gone away to school, she would have already graduated and would probably be living on her own right now.”

  I know he’s right, but I am about to have a panic attack from just thinking about leaving now.

  “What if I’m not ready for her to go?”

  I don’t need to see her right now to know she’s crying. My father is comforting her now.

  I only hear, “Shh…shh.”

  I feel guilty for eavesdropping, and I hurry to make a plate of leftover fruit and cheese for breakfast. I take it outside to join them.

  My mom waves my dad away and tries to act like she wasn’t just crying. He gently squeezes my arm as I walk past before he walks farther out into the backyard and inspects one of his birdhouses.

  “You slept in.” She remarks.

  I nod. “Yesterday was…”

  She puts her elbows on the table and places her chin on top of her hands. Her hair is long enough that she has it pulled back in a ponytail. A breeze makes my hair swirl around my head and sometimes into my mouth as I try to eat.

  “I know, sweetie.”

  “How are you doing?”

  She gives me a tight smile, lowering one of her hands to pat my forearm. It’s then that she notices I’m wearing Ally’s cardigan. Her fingertips ghost over the weave. She pulls her hand back and wipes her eyes before standing. Then, she wipes her hands on her pants.

  I hesitate, before asking, “Is it okay?”

  Her tight smile is now more a grimace. She nods quickly, leaving her plate on the table, and she hurries inside. I glance over at my dad to see he was watching us.

  “Everything okay?” he asks, walking back over.

  I roll my lips between my teeth, pushing them together.

  “Aubrey?”

  “I’m wearing Ally’s sweater, Dad.”

  His shoulders sag. He pulls off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “I’m going—”

  “It’s okay, Dad.” I know he’s going to go check on her.

  We have spent the last six years with a common goal—helping Ally get better. Now that she’s gone, I’m not sure any of us know what to do.

  Do I go back to school? I’m not sure if I want to go back. So much feels pointless now. What hurts the most is the person who always gave me the best advice is gone.

  When I overheard my mom say she isn’t ready for me to leave, I felt my own agreement. I’m not ready to leave either.

  There isn’t a way to reclaim my college experience. I don’t see myself being a senior living in a dorm. I also cannot picture myself in an off-campus apartment either.

  I look down at my plate. The slices of cheese have warmed. I wrinkle my nose. Unless it’s queso or fondue, I do not like warm cheese. I push away from the table. I’m done eating, but I’m not ready to go inside yet. I walk out into the middle of the yard and sink down, Indian-style.

  After a moment, I lie back in the grass, closing my eyes. When I feel a shadow pass over me, I blink my eyes open. A large cloud has moved in front of the sun. The cloud is more gray than white. Its bottom is an even darker gray. I wonder if it will rain. The idea is a pleasant one. A sprinkle, not a downpour. It makes me think of an expression or saying I’ve heard. Something about rain at a memorial or funeral means God is crying. It sounds romantic—the concept that God would share in our grief.

  I know it’s bullshit though because there wasn’t a cloud in the sky during Ally’s memorial. People say things that aren’t true to make themselves feel better. It’s a lie though, and all it does is make people desperate to latch on to something in a time like this.

  So, before I dismiss the idea as being stupid, I waste the time, thinking, Wow, it didn’t rain. That must mean God doesn’t care about Ally.

  That is even worse for me since I’m not even sure I beli
eve in God. These expressions mean nothing. They serve no purpose. Rain is rain, no matter when it falls. When the cloud passes, I stand and make my way back inside, collecting my plate on the way.

  After putting it in the dishwasher, I take a lap around the first floor. No sign of Mom or Dad. Knowing that wearing Ally’s cardigan sent my mother back to bed crushes me. I take it off, rolling it into a ball in my hands, and I walk upstairs.

  Once I’m in my room, I put it in the back of my closet, covering it with an old sleeping bag. It bothers me that a sweater that gives me comfort can cause my mom pain. I want to feel closer to Ally, but hurting my mom is the last thing I want to do.

  Ally would have known what to do. She had this way of knowing exactly what to say in any situation. I only seem to make things worse, no matter how hard I try.

  I don’t want to be sad all the time. That isn’t going to change anything. That won’t bring her back. I just don’t know what to do otherwise. Deciding that talking to my dad might be a good start, I take a shower and pull on some sweats before heading back downstairs.

  My dad is in the kitchen, condensing the leftovers from the memorial into fewer containers. I stand next to him and start stacking the empty trays, so they’ll take up less space in the recycling bin.

  “How’s Mom?” I ask once I’m out of trays.

  He takes a deep breath. “She’s doing the best she can. It’ll just take her some time.”

  “I feel like I’m making it worse for her.”

  He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I think you remind her of her.”

  I nod. It makes sense. Ally and I always looked like we could be sisters. Same height, build, same auburn hair, and hazel eyes. My mom must have seen her ghost every time she looked at me. I quickly brush away a tear, not wanting him to see me cry.

  “I just don’t know what to do, Dad.”

  “In what way, sweetie?”

  “I feel like I need to be doing something. I just don’t know what. I missed fall enrollment, but I’m not even sure I want to go back to school. I just don’t know what to do.”