Breathers (27 page)

The dead don't belong with the living.

As I study the remains of my parents, the initial cold shock of disbelief at what I've done gives way to a flash of hot guilt that makes me wonder if there was any way to avoid this. If maybe I might have overreacted. Still, I have to admit that I'm impressed by my efficient use of shelf space. I never would have thought you could fit two adult bodies into an Amana bottom freezer and still have room for leftovers from Thanksgiving dinner. But that doesn't mean I don't feel like I've made a mistake.

The longer I stare at my parents, the more I wonder if I should have put their extremities in the vegetable crisper.

In the wash of light from inside the refrigerator, I see flour tortillas and a package of wheat bread mixed in with the contents of the freezer on the floor. I open up the tortillas and start chewing on one as I stare into the refrigerator, at the headless torsos of my parents, trying to figure out what I'm going to do, and before I realize what's happening, I'm thinking about having a midnight snack.

Maybe it's because I'm hungry. Maybe it's because I've tasted Breather. Maybe it's because their heads are in the freezer and that makes it easier to disassociate their bodies from their identities. But the thought of barbecued ribs almost starts me salivating.

Still, it's a bit of a dilemma. In spite of their failings and the fact that they were willing to sell off their son to settle a ten-thousand-dollar debt, they were my parents. And I feel like I've kind of failed them by killing them and stuffing them into the refrigerator. But now that it's done, I can't help but think about how they would taste with a little Bull's Eye barbecue sauce.

The UA handbook doesn't exactly cover this type of scenario. And there aren't any role models for the undead to
follow. Hollywood zombies don't tend to exhibit any sentimentality when eating friends or loved ones. And I've never seen a hungry, reanimated corpse in a movie stop to consider the consequences of its actions.

If I were a religious creature, the decision might be more difficult to make. And even though I don't believe in a heaven, hell would be spending the rest of my existence in a zombie zoo. So as far as I'm concerned, I've escaped hell. And since I've already dismembered my parents and put their body parts in Ziploc bags, I don't see how eating them can make things any worse.

After all, I am a zombie.

The first thing I need to figure out is how to cook Breather. Is it like beef? Like chicken? Or is it more like pork? Or kangaroo? Or ostrich? And what parts are the best to eat?

In my mother's cookbook, under the section titled Meat, it says you can learn the difference between the tender and less tender cuts by remembering that exercise and age are what toughen meat. The most frequently exercised parts—the legs, neck, shoulder, rump, and flank—will be far tougher than the seldom exercised rib and loin.

I'm guessing that Breathers are more like cows than pigs or other farm or game animals. Cows are a lot bigger, obviously, but at least all of the parts sound the same.

The chuck primal cut runs from the neck to the fifth rib and includes the shoulder blade and upper arm. The shoulder blade portion includes blade roasts and steaks, cross cuts, mock tender cuts, and of course, neck. The upper arm half includes the arm roast, cross-rib roast, boneless shoulder roast, and the short ribs.

I decide to go with the ribs. Number one, it's what I'm craving. Number two, the loin portions of both of my parents would need to be defrosted. And number three, if I don't
eat my mother and father's torsos soon, I'll end up having spoilage. And rotting human flesh doesn't smell like normal leftovers.

If you've never spent several hours in a closed room with half a dozen living corpses in various states of decay, then you probably wouldn't understand.

Putting my mother's torso into the refrigerator was apparently easier than getting it out. In retrospect, it would have been a good idea to leave at least one of her arms to use as a handle, but since I didn't have the foresight, I have to settle for using a two-pronged barbecue fork and a pair of tongs.

According to the cookbook, meat cut from the ribs is ideally cooked with high heat methods such as broiling, roasting, and grilling. Broiling seems like the easiest choice to me, so I turn on the oven and pull out the broiling pan, and then spray it down with some Pam to make sure my mother doesn't stick to it.

I look at my mother, sitting on the large wood cutting block on the kitchen counter, then grab the butcher knife and stand over her dismembered torso, trying to figure out where to start and if I should at least honor her with some kind of ceremony or ritual. Before I can make the first cut, I hear the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs from the wine cellar and turn around in time to see Rita appear in the open doorway.

“What's for dinner?” she asks.

ita and I are sitting at the kitchen table, eating by candlelight. More than half of the candles are gone, as is most of the 1978 Mondavi Cabernet Imperial Reserve. According to my father's ledger, this one is valued at $300.

When I didn't show up for the December World Death Tour at Holy Cross Cemetery, Rita and the others were concerned, so after she returned home, Rita snuck out and came over to see if I was okay. I would have enjoyed eating my parents alone, but having someone to share it with makes the experience that much more special.

In addition to the ribs—which Rita dressed up with a homemade sauce using lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce, and Dijon mustard that really brought out the natural flavor of my mother—we steamed an artichoke and some rice, then turned down the lights and lit the candles. I put on some Billie Holiday to make the meal complete.

When we finally sat down to eat, I thought I might hesitate at the thought of eating my mother. Oedipal complexes aside, it's just not something you ever think about when you start to plan out your future. But my mother's ribs were delicious. Except that doesn't do them justice. While the preserved
Breather that Ray gave us was salubrious and tasty, freshly cooked Breather is ambrosial. It's the difference between alba-core tuna salad and a freshly caught, seared ahi steak.

“Do you want any more ribs?” asks Rita.

I shake my head. Although there wasn't much meat on them, I can't eat another bite. I know that in the movies, zombies devour limbs and buckets of internal organs and can't seem to get enough. But that's just more Hollywood propaganda. Breathers are as rich and filling as a double chocolate soufflé. Granted, they're more savory than sweet, but it doesn't take much Breather meat to fill you up. Instead of craving more, you just want to loosen your belt and sit on the couch and watch Letterman.

I bet Hollywood zombies all end up with stomachaches.

Once we've finished our meal, I clear the dishes while Rita puts the leftovers into the refrigerator. As I stand at the sink and watch Rita pack my mother's barbecued ribs into a plastic Rubbermaid container, I'm overwhelmed with images of my parents, with memories of them that rush through my mind. Birthdays and holidays and graduations. My wedding and the birth of my daughter. Random snapshot moments shared with my parents who are now dead and stored in the Amana bottom freezer.

The last memory is of my mother, helping me apply foundation across my stitches.

Before I realize what's happening, I'm doubled over on the floor sobbing. Rita is behind me an instant later, her arms around me, her cheek next to mine. She doesn't say anything but just holds me, offering the comfort of her embrace. The slow, infrequent beating of her heart against my back soothes me, reminds me that my own heart stopped beating nearly five months ago and that those memories of my parents were from a life that has not only passed me by but has forsaken
me. And I realize that the grief flowing out of me is not so much for the lives of my parents but for the life that I once shared with them, for the memories they gave me, and for the future memories that died when my Passat slammed into that redwood tree.

On top of the grief and regret, I realize that eventually someone's going to notice my parents are missing. Which means I'm up the proverbial stream without a paddle. Or a boat, for that matter. I can't take back what I've done and I can't expect to get away with it.

This is not a Disney movie.

I have no fairy godmother.

My life is not a do-over.

Except, in a way, it is. I died and was reborn. Not in a Jesus Christ sort of way, but then it's kind of hard to follow up the son of God, if you believe in that sort of thing. But like JC and all the born-again Christians, I've been given a second chance at life. True, Christ never officially rejoined the ranks of the living and I'm technically undead, so even if my heart starts beating and the blood starts pumping through my veins again, I don't think I'll reach Breather status. But I have another opportunity here and I can't capitalize on it by sitting on the kitchen floor and crying.

Gradually, the sobs taper off and I sit up. I burp once, tasting my mother in the back of my throat, but it doesn't set off another emotional release or make me want to vomit. I killed and ate my mother. Part of her, anyway. And that's something I just have to accept. It's part of who I am now and I can't do anything to change it. It is what it is.

I think that should be the new proclamation Helen puts up on the chalkboard at the next meeting:

IT IS WHAT IT IS.

While most of Helen's quotes are well-intentioned inspirations

I AM A SURVIVOR.

YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

FIND YOUR PURPOSE. they don't offer the freedom of imperfection and the immunity from stigmatization of IT IS WHAT IT IS. After all, I can't change who or what I am any more than I can develop mammary glands and start breast-feeding.

And just like that, the catharsis from the release of grief is replaced by the liberat ion of accepting my situation, of accepting what I've become.

I am a zombie. One of the undead.

I am most definitely not alone.

And I believe I've found my purpose.

As if in response to my revelation, a flash of light fills the morning sky, followed by a boom of thunder. Moments later, it starts to rain.

Rita apparently senses the change in my mood and shifts around until she's in front of me. “Feeling better?”

I nod. I also believe I've come up with a way to buy some time regarding my parents. But the first thing I need to do is find out how much of a mess I made when I killed them.

here's not as much blood as I expected. And most of that is in the bathtub. Apparently, an artery or two got a little out of control and sprayed across the tiled shower walls, but for the most part, the evidence of my parents’ demise is an easy cleanup. Rita uses bleach and Lysol to cleanse and disinfect, then she takes a shower to give it that lived-in feeling.