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You’re waiting inside. Not you, but you.
I owe you a goodbye.
If you were here, I’d be inside already, which . . . well, the weirdness of you talking me into your own funeral isn’t lost on me. You were always a pro at getting me to be brave—to take down the walls that could be taken down, at least. You can’t be faulted for my unbreakable compulsions.
At the door I can sense my parents wanting to reach out. I turn and find a couple of other new faces coming toward us. If I don’t know them, then they don’t know me, and they won’t know why it’s so hard for me to put my hand on this damn knob and turn it to go inside, because they don’t know our history. They might be friends of your parents or neighbors you spoke about but I never met.
The pressure is building, but no one says anything.
I’m pummeling myself to the ground, and I’m drowning without trying to surface, all at once.
I reach for the doorknob. I walk into a space of stale air and g
rief.
There’s a big cutout of your face at the entrance. Your parents chose that awkward photo from your junior-year class pictures, but not the one we agreed was best, the one that was going to be your author photo on your memoir: where your smile was a little on the shy side, and your blue eyes held a hint of mischief. Maybe it wasn’t the impression they wanted others to have of you. It’s completely lost on me why your parents went ahead and chose it for your funeral. But I won’t say anything. Who knows where Russell’s and Ellen’s heads are these days.
I approach your cutout with my parents shadowing me, offering condolences to God-knows-who. My eyes lock with yours, flat as they may be. I almost talk myself out of it, but I touch the picture, my fingerprints marking your glossy cheek. My fingers trail down to the bronzed card in the bottom center of the frame. I trace each letter:
theodore daniel mcintyre
february 10, 1998—november 13, 2016
“Griffin.”
I really don’t want to face Wade right now. I haven’t been speaking to him as much over the past couple of months, not since everything that went down between you two recently. He tried reaching out several times over the past week, of course, but I never answered the phone or the door. But I turn. Wade is wearing one of the ties you got him a couple of Christmases ago, and he’s picking at a scab on his elbow. He’s either avoiding my eyes or his contacts are throwing his attention elsewhere. I’m sure he’s feeling guilty for not talking to you when he had the chance.
“Sorry for your loss, Griffin,” Wade says.
Your former best friend gets that you’re my loss. That’s history right there. “You too,” I manage.
I scan the crowd. I’m not surprised the rain didn’t affect the huge turnout. I wonder how many of these people have laughed since you died. I’m sure they’ve smiled at something stupid, like old funny photos in their phones or episodes of some comedy they maybe watched to get your death off their minds. But I want to know if they have busted out laughing so hard their rib cage hurt. I haven’t. I’m not mad at any of them if they have. It sucks because I know I’ll be alone in my grief for a while. I just want to know when it’ll be possible to laugh again. And when it’ll be okay.
Wade’s gaze finally fixes on me. “You going to talk to Jackson?”
Even after all this time, his name still strikes a nerve with me. “It’s not a priority,” I say. I should shut up or walk away.
“I know it’s different, but he’s probably the only other person here who gets what you’re going through.”
“What they had isn’t the same,” I say in spite of myself, fighting back tears and screams. I look away again so Wade won’t try to comfort me. I see your grandfather holding himself up with his cane, your aunt Clara handing out packages of tissues she probably bought in bulk like everything else, your cousin knitting what looks like a scarf from here, but no sign of your parents. I get it together and ask Wade where they are.
“Russell went out for a smoke,” he says. “Been a while. He might be on his fourth by now. And Ellen is already sitting in the front with Denise. With Theo.”
She’s with your body, not you.
“I’ll go find Russell.”
“Before you go—”
I head for the door. My parents see me move and come for me as if I’m trying to get out of here for good. I stop when my mom asks me where I’m going, asks if I want to go with her to offer my condolences to Ellen. I don’t have it in me this second, though. I try to play dumb and focus on my surroundings instead. I find your uncle Ned in the crowd, reading from the Bible, and catch Aunt Clara busting out her own tissues as she cries with a neighbor I maybe recognize.
But my eyes return to the door in no time.
Your boyfriend is blocking the entrance. He’s staring directly at me.
HISTORY
Thursday, June 12th, 2014
