I pulled on a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt. My mother hated the fact that I wore sweat pants and a t-shirt as pajamas, but there was no way in heck I was going to wear some girly nightgown. No way. She used to buy me one for Christmas every year, but that stopped a couple of years ago when I got to high school.
I turned out the overhead light and crawled into bed even though it was still kind of early. I pulled my plain boring blue comforter all the way up to my neck and wriggled down into my nest of flannel sheets. What else could I do? Sit around and talk with them downstairs about Grandma? No, I’d had enough of that at the wake. I decided that I wasn’t going to have a wake when I died. I’d have to let someone know that, though, wouldn’t I? How did you go about doing something like that? Did you sit down with your children and tell them how you wanted to be buried and stuff? Did you tell them what you wanted to wear in the coffin?
I felt my chest tighten up again. Did Grandma sit down with Dad at some point and tell him how she wanted to be dressed? Did she know we were going to have the wake at Washington’s Funeral Home? Did she see me crying in the bathroom? Did she see Rebecca help me? Does she know I’m gay now? Now that she’s in heaven, can she see everything?
This time last week, Grandma was alive and here in the house. She died on Sunday. Would the twenty-fifth of October become one of those dates that would make me cry out of control every year?
I wondered about the last thing Grandma had to eat. I couldn’t remember what we had for dinner that night. Spaghetti maybe? I couldn’t remember much except the sudden commotion downstairs that jarred me from the newspaper article I’d been writing about global warming. I leaped out of my chair at the shrillness in my mother’s voice asking Grandma over and over, “Are you all right, Mildred? Are you all right?”
I knew Grandma wasn’t all right because I heard Dad call 911. Missy wasn’t home. She was in Plattsburgh. I crept down the stairs and saw my grandmother on the floor of the living room with her eyes closed and her hands clutching her chest. I couldn’t make sense of it. I watched my mom kneel down as if in slow motion and lean her ear over Grandma’s mouth. Reality came crashing in when I recognized this from those films they made us watch in Health class in ninth grade. Horror filled my veins as Mom tilted Grandma’s head back to give her CPR. I found myself on the bottom stair, even though I didn’t remember moving. Dad took over the CPR while Mom leaned back and clutched both hands to her chest. At first, I thought she was having a heart attack, but then I realized she was just panicked.
When I heard the sirens, I found a purpose. I rushed over and opened up the front door. Flinging on the outside light, I called back, “Mom, I’ll tell them where to come.”
Mom nodded her head, and I fled out the front door. I couldn’t watch anymore. I knew my mom and dad were doing all they could for her. Later, after the ambulance took her and Dad away, Mom told me that Grandma probably had a heart attack. The doctor down at Grasse River Hospital said the same thing later, that my grandmother died of a sudden heart attack.
I got jittery and tense all over again as I remembered that awful night, so I clenched my jaw tight and willed myself not to cry. When I heard Missy’s steps in the hallway, I rolled onto my side and faced the wall.
HIGH COTTON CANDY clouds drifted across the brilliant blue sky. Funeral weather should be cold and rainy not bright and sunny. Sunny skies made you want to fly kites or go swimming in the Grasse River, except for the fact that it was forty degrees. It definitely didn’t feel like a funeral day as we walked into Washington’s Funeral Home.
Rebecca was probably at school, but that didn’t stop me from looking for her during the service. Her parents, along with Rebecca’s older brother Reggie, kept events running smoothly. Reggie had the same regal look of authority as his dad, and would probably take over the family business when Mr. and Mrs. Washington retired. It looked that way, anyway. Mr. Washington was a distinguished looking man with a touch of gray in his sideburns and temples. Mrs. Washington was as beautiful as Rebecca. Her skin was a bit darker then her husband’s and she kept her hair pulled back into a tight bun low on her neck. She even had a chopstick in it to hold everything in place. Missy would know what that hair style was called, but to me she looked elegant. I could see where Rebecca got her amazing looks.
During the service, I barely listened to the minister. We weren’t a church kind of family, and none of us knew him, so I felt okay not listening. When I did listen, it only made me cry, and since I was trapped in the front row, I couldn’t sneak out if I lost control. To take my mind elsewhere, I thought about Rebecca and her family. Did they live upstairs? That would be creepy. I’d have to ask Rebecca some time. I almost smiled when a warehouse of things to ask Rebecca filled my mind.
Occasionally, the minister’s words penetrated my tough outer shell, and I felt myself getting weepy again. I didn’t want a repeat performance of my hysterics from the night before, so I scratched myself raw on the inside of my forearm. My head almost believed that the physical pain was more important than the emotional pain. Almost.
This time I didn’t mind so much when all those people told me that my grandma was “in a better place,” or they were “sorry for my loss.” I didn’t mind because that meant the service was o-v-e-r. I didn’t even mind when Mrs. Bordeaux gave me another one of her smothering hugs.
The pallbearers surrounded the casket, lifted it gently, and then inched toward the hearse. Missy was one of the pallbearers, but I was glad I didn’t have to be one because I probably would’ve started crying again and dropped my side on Dad’s foot or something.
Mr. Washington’s cousin, a policeman, turned on the flashing red lights and sirens on his motorcycle and led the hearse and the whole procession through town to the cemetery. All the cars turned on their headlights, and we got to run the red lights. That was kind of cool—a little parade for Grandma.
I had been to the Greystone cemetery once before when we went there for Grandpa’s funeral. He had died in January, and they stored him in this outdoor mausoleum place because they couldn’t put him in the frozen ground yet. They buried him in the spring, but never told us when, so thank goodness I didn’t have to witness that. The ground wasn’t frozen today, though, and as we pulled up to the burial site, the first thing I saw was the deep dark hole waiting to be filled.
I got out of the backseat of the car and waited for my mom to get out of the front passenger side. We didn’t talk. I wouldn’t have been able to because tears choked my throat closed again. I looked everywhere except at the deep hole in the ground waiting for Grandma.
Missy walked toward the hearse with my dad. Uncle Joe, my dad’s younger brother, began pulling out the bright blue casket. My dad went to the other side. Missy grabbed the gold handle next to Dad, while the other pallbearers grabbed their respective handles. I could tell the casket was heavy by the way they carefully picked their way over the grass. Mr. Washington gave them soft but precise instructions for placing the casket on the metal structure over the open grave. Mrs. Washington directed the rest of us to the rows of white chairs. I wanted to stand in the back, so no one could see me cry, but Mrs. Washington ushered me to the front row, the family row, next to my mom.
The metal structure had this big turn crank with gears used to lower Grandma into the ground. I tried to think of the whole thing with a journalist’s eye, but reality kept crashing in because this was way too personal. My grandmother was in that stupid wooden box, and they were going to turn that stupid crank and lower her into the ground. There was no way I was going to throw dirt on her casket. No way. I didn’t care if it was tradition or something. My mouth turned into a frown all on its own. My eyes filled with tears, and I couldn’t breathe. I looked down at my uncomfortable shoes and ignored my sister when she sat next to me. I squeezed my eyes shut as the tears spilled over. I didn’t wipe at them because then everyone would know I was crying. Missy knew because she grabbed my hand. I couldn’t look at her.
&nb
sp; The minister addressed the crowd. I thought we were done with him, but apparently, we weren’t. He started talking again about Sister Mildred and her return to God. I might have lost it if Rebecca hadn’t suddenly appeared behind him out of nowhere. She stood with her family off to the side. Her look of compassion would have tipped me over into hysterical land if not for the fact that she mouthed the word “breathe” to me. She took a deep breath of her own as if to show me what to do. I took a breath and held it for a second. The mud in my brain receded a little. I wasn’t going to blow at that moment.
The look of relief on Rebecca’s face sent my heart soaring. Through my bleary eyes, I could still tell that she was beautiful. She wore black pants—Missy would have called them slacks, I guess—and an orange shirt. Okay, blouse. Her brown sweater matched her dark skin, too. She had such smooth skin. At least it looked smooth from here. The urge to touch Rebecca’s cheek became overwhelming. My heart began beating faster, and my hands got sweaty. I hoped Missy wouldn’t notice, but she’d think it was from the funeral, anyway.
I took another deep breath and apologized to my grandma again. Missy squeezed my hand. She must have thought I was crying. Actually, I was just trying to get my priorities straight.
After an eternity, the minister finished his speech, sermon, or whatever, and then Mr. Washington thanked us all for coming and informed the crowd that they would lower the casket once everyone had gone home. I loved Mr. Washington at that moment.
As Missy and I walked back to the car, I tried to find Rebecca without making it look obvious. I stopped and mumbled something to Missy about having to tie my shoe. Missy kept walking toward the car when I knelt down. I picked my head up and gulped when I saw Rebecca heading right for me with a bouquet of carnations in her arms. I jumped up leaving my shoelace undone. I smoothed my hair back and then felt like an idiot.
Rebecca handed the flower arrangement to me. “These are the last of them.”
I took the colorful flowers. “Carnations were my grandma’s favorite.”
“Really?"
I nodded.
She smiled at me in that sympathetic way that made my stomach clench. I knew I should say something, but I couldn’t get my brain in gear, so I looked at my shoes while the silence between us grew to awkward proportions.
Rebecca spoke first. “Well, I guess I’ll see you at school.” She turned to go.
“Okay.” I choked out, but then my brain finally engaged, and I called after her, “Rebecca?”
She turned. “Yeah?”
“Can I get the French notes from you tomorrow?”
“Oui, naturellement.”
“Merci beaucoup. Oh, and thanks for the breathing lessons, too.”
Her eyes lit up like the fourth of July. “No problem, Devon. I’ve had a little experience.” She gestured toward the hearse.
“Yeah, I guess you have.”
“I have to finish up here, but I’ll see you in French tomorrow, okay?”
The rest of the world disappeared at that moment and through my grief, I allowed myself a moment of selfishness to drink in her soft brown eyes. They were smiling at me—okay, maybe from sympathy, but still—her eyes were smiling at me.
I swallowed hard. “Oui, oui, mademoiselle. À demain.” See you tomorrow, for sure. French had just become my favorite class. There was no way I was going to ask my mom if I could stay home because out of the shadow of my Grandma’s death a tiny flame had ignited in my heart.
Chapter Two
Back At School
THE WORDS ON the computer screen swam in front of my eyes. Even though I had gone to bed right after the funeral, I didn’t sleep much, and now I could hardly keep my eyes open. I looked out the classroom window over the top of my computer onto the drizzly cold October Friday.
In the reflection of the window, I watched Mrs. Gibson, my journalism teacher, lean over Mike Reynolds’ shoulder and point at something on his computer screen. Apparently, Mike didn’t know how to structure a newspaper article. The long chain from Mrs. Gibson’s bifocals rested on his shoulder as she reminded him patiently, in her impatient way, about putting the attention grabbing details right in the first paragraph. She told him not to give away the whole farm in the first paragraph, but just enough to hook the reader. Evidently, Mrs. Gibson was in another one of her moods where her students couldn’t do anything right.
Both Mike and I had taken Journalism I the year before as sophomores, and we knew how to structure an article. As boys’ sports editor how could Mike not know how to put a story together? I smiled to myself because with his short blonde crew cut, he looked like a little boy getting scolded.
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
I liked Mike, but not in that way. I think he liked me, too, but in that way. A lot of girls would probably go for his lean runner’s body, but not me. After all, I hadn’t been straight since eighth grade, and I probably wasn’t even straight then, I just hadn’t figured it out yet.
All the journalism courses were geared toward producing the bimonthly student newspaper—the Grasse River High School Gazette. The September/October issue had just come out, and we were currently working on the November/ December issue. Of course, my article on the environment was late since it had been due two days ago, the day of Grandma’s wake.
I tried, once again, to focus on the words on my computer screen. My dad’s company, Alum Castings, was one of the biggest employers in this part of northern New York, and they had begun a series of environmental projects. One of the projects—the one I was trying to write about—proposed to replant thousands of black ash trees in the wetlands. This was the same article I’d been working on the Sunday Grandma died. No wonder I couldn’t finish it. I closed my eyes and gave up with a sigh.
I opened my eyes when I heard Mrs. Gibson approaching. My fingers hit the keyboard, and I started typing about the benefits of the Black Ash tree on the Northern New York environment. I’d go back and fix it later, but I had to look busy. Mrs. Gibson stood right behind me as my fingers typed away furiously.
“Devon,” she said in her shrill voice, “I see you’re busy, but let me interrupt you for a second.”
“Okay.” I kept my eyes on the screen for a moment more and finished my made up sentence. I hit the period on the keyboard hard as if to finish an important thought and then swiveled in my chair to give her my full attention.
“I know you’ve been out for a few days—sorry for your loss—and I’ll let you settle in today, but on Monday we need to talk about your future with the newspaper. Okay?”
My future? What did she mean by that? I simply said, “Okay.”
“Okay,” she repeated and headed to her next victim.
I had never been late with an article before. In fact, I usually turned them in early. How could she question my future with the newspaper? Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mike watching me. His closed-lipped smile and sympathetic puppy dog eyes were more than I could take at that moment, so I turned away and rubbed the bridge of my nose. I wanted to go home, but knew I couldn’t because I had to survive long enough to make it to my eighth period French class. That’s where Rebecca would be.
THE DRIZZLING RAIN had pretty much stopped by lunchtime, so Gail and I commandeered one of the six round lunch tables under the overhang outside. Seniors were allowed to leave campus for lunch, so by default the cafeteria courtyard became the juniors’ unofficial domain. The fenced in area constantly reminded us of our lower status, but I didn’t care. Hanging out there made us feel like the top dogs of the school for a while.
I had already tackled the semi-long line and gotten my usual turkey sandwich and fruit cup. Most of the other kids got french fries or chips, but greasy food never sat well on my stomach, so I always tried for something healthier. Missy would have approved because ditching the greasy stuff helped keep my acne under control.
Gail sat down next to me and opened her brown bag lunch. Gail Marsters had been my best friend ever since the fourth
grade when we were in Mrs. Johnson’s class together. Old Mrs. Johnson assigned us as reading partners and ever since then we’d been as thick as thieves. At least that’s how my mom referred to us. In middle school, Gail weighed all of ninety pounds, so I used to think I was fat at a hundred and ten. Missy helped me understand that Gail and I had different body types, but I took up jogging just to be sure. Running always made me feel good. Gail and I practically shared the same kind of hair, too. Plain old brown and shoulder length, but Gail managed to make her hair look good with barrettes and clips and bands and curling irons. I couldn’t be bothered with that stuff, except when I went running. That’s when I’d throw a rubber band around my hair or put on my Plattsburgh Cardinals baseball hat.
Gail pulled out a sandwich from her paper bag and sighed.
I looked over. Peanut butter and jelly. “Did your brother make the lunches again?”
“Pfft,” she spat. “I can’t wait until it’s my turn. Oh well. Trade?”
“No way. Maybe when you have tuna fish or roast beef.” I smiled at her, and she smiled back in that best friend sort of way. The smile that said we were in this together, through thick and thin.
Gail held my gaze a bit longer than usual. Uh oh, something was up. Before I could ask where her boyfriend Travis was, she asked me softly, “So how’d it go yesterday?”
Yesterday. The funeral. It came flooding back so fast that my heart broke all over again before I could stop it. I closed my eyes and looked away. Before I let myself get too choked up, I muttered, “It went okay, as far as those things go.”
“Yeah, I know.” She rubbed my back over my jean jacket. “I’m sorry I couldn’t go. I wanted to be there, you know that, right? My mom wanted me in school.” She continued to rub my jean jacket.
Quite an Undertaking: Devon's Story Page 2
