I remember when Cousin Bobby didn’t show up for Thanksgiving this year. I kept waiting for him to get out of the car, and he didn’t. Even after Aunt Janice told Mom that he wasn’t coming, that his band was on tour, I kept looking out the window and waiting for him. Things were going really wrong and I didn’t know if I was going to make it. I wanted to tell him that, that I didn’t know if I could make it. I was going to tell him that I was becoming invisible. I was going to tell him about Karen.
That night Mom called his cell phone from her bedroom and whisper-yelled that I was crushed. That I looked up to him and, damn it, how could he just not show up? I listened from her bedroom door, wanting to scream at her to shut up.
Aunt Janice and Mom start moving up the driveway, and a head of wavy, matted hair pops out of the car. Bobby looks wrecked. He squints up at us and waves his hand. Dad waves back. I don’t.
Bobby ducks back down in the car for a second and comes back up wearing a worn baseball hat.
“Donnie, I am so sorry. So sorry.” My aunt leaning toward me, breathing into my neck, I lean around so I can see Bobby getting out of the car. “Oh! Donnie . . .” She pulls me in between her boobs and holds me there, rocking me back and forth. She’s short so she has to pull me down in order to jam my head in there, and now my ass is sticking out and shaking back and forth as she rocks me. I can’t breathe because between the hood of my jacket and her boobs, I’m all sealed in.
“Jesus, Ma, let the kid up for air.”
She lets go and I pull back, gasping air into my lungs and taking off my hood.
Bobby is standing by the front steps, hugging first Mom and then Dad, all the time looking at me. He reaches out his hand for mine and when I do the same, he yanks me close and puts me in a headlock. I push him off me so hard that he falls on his ass and slides a little on the icy driveway. I can see Mom’s mouth shout “Donnie!” and Aunt Janice’s mouth just falls open. Amanda looks away. Dad and Uncle Dan are both coming at me. I want to circle Bobby, bounce on my feet like fighters do when they’re waiting for the guy they just knocked down to get up so they can knock him down again. But Dad’s got me, my arms pinned by my side.
“Ready for me that time, huh, kid?” Bobby’s scrambling back up, his palm is scraped a little, and his stupid cap fell off. He’s balding on top. Ha. He pulls his cap back on.
“Yeah, I guess,” I say. Dad lets go of my arms, and for a second there’s this awkwardness with everyone looking at each other and then down at the ground. And then Dad says, “You remember me telling you about Amanda. Karen’s best friend. Came all the way from Chicago.”
“Yes, of course,” Aunt Janice says, and pulls Amanda into a hug. “Diane told me what a help you’ve been.”
I’ve still got my eyes set on Bobby, who’s got his eyes on Amanda. Everybody starts to go up the front steps, and Bobby turns to follow. He stops when he sees I’m not moving, and he looks at me.
“Me and Donnie are going into town to buy some ice cream,” he says to Aunt Janice, the last to go in the house. She nods without turning around. Mom pokes her head back out the door. “He’s sick, Bobby. Don’t stay out too long.”
“Man, roll down your window,” Bobby says, already rolling his down. The car smells like my aunt, her too-sweet perfume and something sharper and more acrid. The cold air stabs into my ears.
“Where’s the ice cream?” Bobby asks, yanking the wheel all the way to the left and U-turning in the middle of our street. I’m not going to tell him where the ice cream is. Let him drive around till he finds it. Maybe he’ll get pulled over. Pulled over and arrested for being a prick.
“I’ll find it. Sorry, man, I forgot about your ears.” He pushes a button on his car door, and my window rolls up. He does his too. I lean back into the seat and let him drive in a direction heading nowhere near ice cream.
“When you were a little kid, you came over to our house, remember that? We went swimming in the pool at the park, and Mom forgot to put those plugs in your ears. You had to go to the doctor and get drops. Remember that?”
I want to not answer him, but the silence is so heavy I give a flat-voiced, “Yeah.” Then I remember that day. “Your mom had to sit on me to get the drops in my ear.”
“I know!” He’s laughing now. “You kicked her in the chin too. That was great.”
I remember the feeling of my aunt’s face against my heel. How I was so mad at her I wished I’d done it on purpose.
I wish I hadn’t said anything just now, I wish I hadn’t made him laugh. I wish I’d just sat here silent, making him feel uncomfortable. But now the silence is bothering me, pressing down on me. It’s a relief to be mad at him, to feel something that’s not about Karen. I don’t want him to think we’re okay now, though; I don’t want him to think we’re okay and then ask about Karen.
“Bobby?
“Yeah?” He turns his head so I’m looking him right in the eyes.
“I think you’re an asshole.”
He turns back to watch the road and looks like he’s considering what I said. Finally he nods his head and says, “Okay.”
I keep staring at him. He glances at me again. “You have more you want to say to me?”
I shake my head. Bobby nods, pulls the wheel sharply to the right, and pulls the car over.
“Get out of the car.” He’s already got his door open when he says it, and he slams it shut behind him before I can answer. My heart’s racing, and for a second I think he’s going to make me walk home. Or maybe he’s going to walk home and make me drive the car home. Or maybe he’s going to kick my ass and then make me walk home. I watch him walk around the front of the car, and I get that giddy feeling you get when adults lose their shit. When he yanks open my door, I look up at him and try not to laugh. He’s obviously making some sort of statement, something he thinks is really, really important for poor freaked-out Donnie. I’m not impressed at all.
“Get out.” He’s leaning into the car, his face right next to mine. His words are measured, hard. “Don’t think that I won’t drag you out of there by your tie. Get out of the car.”
I get out of the car. But slowly, and as mean as you can be getting out of a car. I hope we fight, I hope he tries to throw me to the ground so I can flip him hard onto his back. I put up my fists. He laughs.
“I don’t want to fight you, Donnie.”
Yeah, right. He wants to drag me out of the car by my tie so we can make a snow fort by the side of the road. I keep my fists up.
“Why’d you want me to get out of the car, then?”
“Because I want to talk to you,” he takes a step forward and I bounce back, raising my fists. He laughs again. I punch him in the chin.
“Dude!” he yells. “That hurt!”
“So, talk! Don’t laugh at me!” I yell back. “Talk to me if you want to talk!”
I hate that I don’t scare him.
He holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m not laughing. I just . . . I would never beat you up!” He laughs again.
“Stop laughing!” I get him in the chin again. This time it’s harder and it makes him fall back a step. I raise my fist and he almost trips over himself trying to jump away. It’s funny, so I laugh.
“I’ll stop laughing if you stop hitting me.” He rubs his chin. I laugh again. A big laugh, a laugh that sounds like HA HA HA HA! I laugh and I point at him rubbing his chin.
“Do you feel better?” he asks.
I stop laughing and consider. Yes. Yes, I do feel better. I nod my head and gasp out, “Don’t think that I won’t drag you out of there by your tie!”
Bobby shrugs. “I wanted you out of the car. It worked, didn’t it?” I let him sling his arm over my shoulders. I let him pull me into him. I let him hold me there. I know what this is. This is the point when I laugh till I cry. I miss my sister. If this were a movie, she would throw popcorn at the screen and whisper to me, “How original.” Bobby smells like cigarettes and fabric softener. My la
ughter’s just a giggle now, and it’s like when you know you’re going to throw up and you keep thinking “This is it, I’m about to barf.” The first sob’s just a sputter out of my mouth. Then the rest comes in spurts, gasps. I hear it inside my head, the sounds of it echoing off my skull. There’s nothing except for that sound and the cold against my face. I stop sort of suddenly and try to force more out but just make a low groan, and it sounds false. I think I’m embarrassed, but I’m not sure. Bobby’s arm is getting heavy on my shoulders, and I can feel my fever working it’s way up again. I sniff, not knowing how to pull away.
“Know what, Donnie?”
I turn to him; he’s looking at me.
“I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what to say to you. There’s nothing I can say to you.” His dark eyes are pleading with me; I have no idea what to say to him.
I shrug and move away. He opens up my door and I slide into the car. Before he closes it, I say, “It’s better if you don’t say anything. I won’t say anything either. We’ll just drive home.”
38
When Bobby and I get back to the house, everyone’s in the living room looking at the clock, ready to get to the funeral parlor. We don’t take off our jackets, because as soon as we walk in, everyone stands up and puts theirs on.
Dad pulls me into the kitchen to give me my medicine and to tell me if I don’t feel up to it, I don’t have to go. I say, “I want to go,” and it makes him cry a little.
In the living room Mom is saying, “Bobby, why don’t you take Donnie and Amanda in my car and we’ll ride with your mom.”
Amanda sits in the back, even though I can tell Bobby wants her to sit up front. I hate them both and wonder if they’d let me ride on the roof rack. I get in the front seat as Bobby’s asking Amanda if she lives in Chicago. I turn the radio on before Amanda can answer. Bobby switches it off.
“Right outside.”
“I live in Chicago,” he says, knocking my hand away from the radio dial.
“Oh, really? I thought you went to college. You drop out?” Amanda keeps looking at me in the side-view mirror. I scowl at her.
“No. I’m taking a semester off. My band’s in Chicago. You should come see us.”
“Mind if I bury my best friend first?” I like her answer, so I lock eyes with her in the mirror and nod. She nods back.
“Jeesh. Don’t come, then. You wouldn’t like it anyway.”
“Hey,” Amanda says, clearly not impressed with Bobby, “were you the one that gave her mom the pot?”
I stare at Bobby. What’s she talking about?
“Yeah. It wasn’t mine, though,” he says.
“Like I care,” Amanda says, looking out the window.
“Did it help?” Bobby asks.
“No.”
“Oh. I thought her mom . . . I thought she gave it to you . . .”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
Amanda answers in a flat voice, “Right before I moved, when Karen and I were still . . . your mom got pot from Bobby and gave it to me so Karen and I could get high and she’d get the munchies.”
“That’s messed up,” I say.
“So, what happened?” Bobby asks.
Amanda shakes her head. “So Karen and I went for a walk, I lit up, took a hit, and offered it to her. She looked at me like I’d insulted her. She said, ‘I’ll get the munchies,’ and turned around and went home. I failed my drug test and wasn’t allowed on the soccer team at my new school.”
“It was good shit, though, right?” Bobby asks with a crooked smile.
Amanda and I both glare at him.
“I have some now if you want . . .” he says, reaching into the pocket of his coat.
“I’m trying to get back on the soccer team, you prick. And we’re going to a funeral.”
“All right, all right,” he says, cringing. “What about you, Donnie?”
Amanda smacks Bobby on the back of his head. “He’s on medication, asshole!”
“Jesus,” Bobby says.
I climb over the front seat and sit in back with Amanda. She puts her arm around me and pulls me next to her, the way Karen used to. We give Bobby the hairy eyeball the whole way to the funeral parlor.
“Oh, shit,” Amanda whispers when we get there. The parking lot is packed and it’s flooded with kids from the high school.
“Let us out in front and park the car,” Amanda says. Bobby rolls his eyes but pulls over.
The first thing we see is a sign with Karen’s name on it that says FUNERAL 11:00 A.M. I’m about to kick it over, but Amanda leads me in the direction the little white stick-on arrow on the sign is pointing. We enter a long room split down the middle by a black-carpeted aisle, with rows and rows of chairs on either side, all filled with people. Mom and Dad are in the front row. There’s a casket at the end of the aisle. My sister’s in there. I think we both see it at the same time, because as soon as I start to cry, I can hear Amanda crying next to me. She’s got my arm entwined in hers and she’s got me cinched to her side as we walk down the aisle. All the faces turn to look at us and most cry harder than they already were. They whisper “That’s her brother” and “Is that Amanda?” Maddie from the lake is here and we pause next to her seat so she can squeeze our hands and mumble something I can’t understand. I’m glad she is here. Bean’s and Chris’s moms are here too. They don’t look me in the eye, they look at Amanda instead. Our principal is here and so is the one from the junior high school, and some teachers too. I could look at these faces all day long. Because if I look at their faces, then I’m not looking at what’s in front of us.
“Donnie,” Amanda whispers, tugging on my arm. I look in front of me and see that we are standing in front of the casket. Everyone’s gone quiet, watching us. They think I’m going to say good-bye to her with all of their eyes on me. I stay standing still. Amanda reaches out the hand that’s not squeezing mine and lays it on the casket. She closes her eyes and lowers her head. The fear that I’ll regret not touching that smooth wood, that I’m missing some connection to Karen that I’ll never have again, sends me lurching forward till both my palms and the right side of my face are resting on the casket. I think, Come back, come back, come back. I feel hands on my shoulders and know they are my dad’s. He doesn’t pull me away. He stands up there with me for a long time, until I feel myself lifting my face, and then a moment later my hands, from the casket.
Here is the funeral: People get up and say we are sad and she was a good girl and a good person and she is at peace now and she is in heaven and we are sad now but should get over it and here is a song that she used to love and she is missed by her family and her friends and listen to this poem read by one of her old classmates and she was so full of life and remember this funny thing she used to do and there’s the laughter through tears and I’m sweating in Dad’s suit and Amanda’s still got my arm and they say Karen is at peace, at peace, at peace.
When it’s over, people stand up slowly. I hear some sniffles followed by relieved sighs. Those are the people who got closure from the funeral. Other people are still crying, not getting up from their chairs, sobbing into tissues and being comforted by someone who rubs their back and looks around the room for a way out. Some people turn off their tears like a faucet, grateful the funeral’s over so they can stop squeezing water out of their eyes. Other people stand up but still have tears streaming down their faces and don’t even try to stop them. That’s us: my family, and Amanda. The group hug is accidental. We all reach for someone at the same time. There’s some overlap, and we all end up pressed into each other—Dad’s shoulder in my ear, Mom’s smooth hand on my face, Amanda’s hip bone in my stomach. Hands squeeze my suit jacket and pull me in closer. We have tied ourselves. It’s right then that I wonder what is going to happen to my family. What are we going to do?
I hear somebody behind us whisper, “They’re such a close family.” The knot goes slack and we are pulled apart.
There’s a line o
f people waiting to give us hugs on their way into the other room. In the other room are deli platters, coffee, and doughnuts. Snacks. Karen would think that was funny. Here’s how it works:
THEM
ME
Stand in front of me looking into my eyes
Try not to look away
Say, “Oh, Donnie.”
Nod my head. Yes, that’s my name
Pull me into a hug
Tap my palms on their back three times and then pull away
Say, “I am so sorry”
Say, “Thank you”
Look at Mom and say, “Oh, Diane”
Look at Mom and then at the new person standing in front of me saying, “Oh, Donnie”
After nine hugs I sidestep behind Mom and slip out of the room. I squirm away from the hands wanting to pull me close, and walk down the hall. Karen would know how to get out of this. There’s a door leading outside that’s propped open with an empty can of soda. I walk out.
“Put the can back,” Bobby says, hiding whatever it is he’s smoking behind his back. I put the soda can back.
It’s freezing out. My coat’s inside. Bobby takes off his hat and pulls it onto my head and down low over my ears. He eyes me for a second, then takes a drag off the joint and holds the smoke in his mouth for a second.
“Your friend thinks I’m a first-class asshole.”
“Yeah.”
“You know, I wouldn’t have given your mom the stuff if I didn’t think it would help. I don’t want you to think . . . I really liked your sister. She was a good kid, man.”
I nod and wish he would go inside. He holds the joint out to me and says, “First time’s free.”
I consider it.
“It’ll take the edge off. You can float through the day, not even be here. They can’t touch you.”
“What are you doing?” Amanda says, pushing open the door. “Did you get him high?” she asks Bobby, and then turns to me. “Did he get you high?”
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