Authors: Ellen Hopkins
It looked like … Mom. But …
He stands suddenly, takes
hold of Shelby’s hand. She gifts
him with her loveliest smile,
draws one long, shallow breath.
On the exhale, she is gone.
“No.” But I don’t have to check
her pulse to know her heart
has finally given up. And yet
I repeat, “No.” Christian
gathers me in before I can fall.
Together, we weep for our
angel, freed to soar at last.
The noise of our tears brings
others—Mom. Andrea. Shane.
But only the one who holds me
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can claim an equal share of grief.
I AM SOON GRATEFUL
For the others, who handle
the many, varied details
of death. The big decisions
were made days ago. But until
the funeral director comes
to collect Shelby’s remains,
I won’t let go of her hand.
It’s warm, still. And as it cools,
I want to keep it nestled in
the warmth of my own.
I’m vaguely aware of people
talking. Maybe even to me.
What does it matter? No
amount of talk can bring her
back. Am I selfish? I must be.
Shelby can run now. She can
fly. And if Christian is right,
and his mother came to get
her, she is with those who
love her. I didn’t see anyone.
But in his certainty, a small
amount of comfort. Except
her hand has grown cool, despite
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the warmth of mine. How can
her summer departure be
so steeped in cold?
DEPARTURE
It is subtle—this leaning
away from what is central
to our being. We move
in circles, day after
day,
do not notice how inches,
miles, light-years have slipped
between us, eroded
the pinnacle of our seasons.
One day we awaken,
cold
between the sheets, shiver
off our dreams, stiffen
against the dark shell
of morning. Frozen
sighs
on window glass mottle
the pallid creep of light
within their intricate
patterning, deliver first
a warning,
and now we feel the tipping.
With a blond nod
of apples and a blush
of peppers, red on the vine,
summer
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departs
in the smoke
of autumn embers.
Andrea
EMBERS
Of childhood. That’s what remain
of Shelby’s short time on this earth.
Up from the cinders rises the phoenix of love, damaged beyond salvation.
Was her mission to help her parents find their way back to each other?
For what purpose? And whose hand
guided her way? Too soon to speak
of these things, as she lies, beautiful in white and peace, her casket open for viewing before she is lowered into the hollow dug in the clean high-desert sand. One day, my own child will be buried too. Please let me go first, Lord. How can Missy stand it? I would be freaking out.
But she’s cool, as if she absorbed the cold 837/881
she kept ranting about when they carried Shelby away. Internalized it. As if it froze her pain. Ice-dammed it up inside her.
Will it thaw the same way—a single drip, chipping away; become a steady drip, wearing away; become a rivulet, eroding away the walls she has constructed
to hold back the sorrow? I’ve seen no sign, except the single burst of grief when Shelby passed away five days ago.
Labor Day, the very day Dad helped torch the giant Burning Man out on the Black Rock playa. Appropriate, somehow. Especially with Missy going on about a bonfire to keep her Shelby warm. She even asked about cremation. But Chris wouldn’t hear of it.
He has been her rock. And he has made the difficult decisions. Today, while we remember Shelby through our eulogies, and witness the lowering, her bedroom 838/881
will be cleared of every stick of furniture.
Bedding and curtains will be discarded.
Her clothing will be folded and boxed, along with Barney and Dora, and placed on her closet shelves. Next week, walls will be painted, carpeting replaced.
EVERY TRACE
Of Shelby, removed or put away.
At first, Chris wanted all her clothes, toys, and CDs carted off. It was
Dad who talked him out of it.
Women grieve differently than
men. They need tactile reminders
to hold their memories. One day
she’ll want to touch a piece of Shelby.
Dad, the philosopher—a rare view.
If I picture him, I mostly see an aging longhair, tripping around the woods or sitting at the table, drinking strong coffee. I also remember him flirting with women not my mother. Feeling
them up, in fact, and arguing with Mom about what that meant. Yelling. Storming.
But just this summer, as if through whole new lenses, I have watched
him welcome his gay grandson’s
boyfriend into our usually closed fold; play with his dying granddaughter,
drawing her attempt at laughter;
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and when she finally left this world, cushion the blow for us who remain.
Right now he is greeting people
coming through the door. Missy
sits at the front of the church,
cardboard. Chris is beside her,
as he has been almost every minute
since we found them, plastered
together and weeping for their still-warm child. But is it love or death that keeps him there? Will time
gnaw away what seems to be total
devotion? Or is it, in fact, all for show? I don’t know, and it’s not
up to me to decide. I do know I’ve
changed my mind. I hope things
work out between them. I hope
forgiveness is achievable, and that it can help rebuild their marriage
and create a future together. On
the other side of Chris, Shane sits, holding hands with Alex. Not long
ago, that wouldn’t have happened.
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Chris has experienced some
fundamental change, one I never
believed possible. I was wrong.
A HUGE ADMISSION
Because if I was wrong about
that, I have to ask myself what
else I might be mistaken about.
My daughter is at my right. Shelby
was gone before I said a word,
and Harley reacted with unexpected
anger.
Why didn’t you tell me?
I had the right to know. I had
the right to say goodbye. God, Mom.
I’m not a baby. I understand
that people die. Why do adults
try to hide the ugly stuff from
their kids? People die. People
fall out of love and get divorced.
Or they fall out of love and stay
together when it’s obvious they
shouldn’t, like Bri’s mom and dad.
All they do is fight. It’s stupid.
I’m sure my mouth fell open,
and I’m positive Harley noticed.
“How do you know they fight?”
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I’ve got ears, Mom, and so does
Bri. Her dad thinks her mom is
sleeping around. And guess what
else. He still doesn’t know
Mikayla is pregnant. Don’t you
think someone should tell him
before baggy shirts can’t hide
it anymore? Especially since
she’s going to keep the baby.
It was all news to me. Of course,
I’ve been swallowed up by funeral
planning, not to mention wake
preparations. It will be at my house, which does not wear death like
a shroud. As the music begins to play—
Let the Sun Shine In
, sung by Shelby’s favorite Imagination Movers—Harley
turns, gives a small wave to Brianna, who leads the Carlisle family to seats near the back. Holly and Jace aren’t fighting at this particular moment, but the distance between them
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is noticeable, and for an instant,
that makes me sad. Sadder.
And for the rest of the service,
through a swirl of prayers, homilies, and eulogies, I consider why.
UP UNTIL NOW
I have managed to stash guilt
somewhere behind the notion
that Holly asked for whatever
she got and Jace deserved better.
While that is probably still true,
I need to ask myself a few hard
questions, like what happened
to my personal sense of morality?
Do I consider Holly my friend?
Do I want to play even a small
role in the corrosion of her
marriage? What would my child
think of me, if she ever found
out? Would Jace reconcile
with Holly if it was possible?
Is
it possible? Even if it isn’t, how long do I want to keep
sneaking around? Isn’t part
of loving someone wanting
the entire universe to know?
I feel a little sick, like I’ve been spinning in circles and come
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to a sudden stop, everything
shifting from dizzy into focus.
I AM STILL WOOZY
When the service ends. After brief
condolences, we form a procession
to follow the hearse to the cemetery.
I send Harley with Mom, Marissa,
and Chris, ask Dad if I can ride with him. I suppose it is rather an odd
request, because as soon as we’re
under way, he asks,
What is it?
“Do you love Mom? I mean, really
love her, after all this time and all you’ve been through? Don’t say yes
unless you mean it.” I kind of expect an immediate yes, but that’s not
what I get.
To answer that question
correctly, I need it in context. So
where exactly is it coming from?
How to approach this, without
just coming clean? “First, were you ever completely, totally, had-to-have-her, insanely in love with Mom?”
When he says yes, absolutely, I ask,
“Then why the other women?
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And if you were in love with any
of them, why did you stay with Mom?”
THAT STOPS HIM
He considers how to answer, and
just about the time we reach the gates of the cemetery, he says,
I was young
and selfish when I went running around
on your mother. I told her she was
welcome to run too. She did, but it
was contrary to her nature. And yes,
I fell in love with a couple of women
along the way, but that kind of love—
the kind rooted in sex—burns out
fairly quickly. I stayed with Leah mostly
because of you and your sister, but
what I discovered by staying was love
born of friendship. She may not feel
the same way, and if that is so, I’m truly
sorry. Yes, Andrea, I love your mom.
Relationships are complicated. As I follow several to Shelby’s grave, I realize there’s one huge question I’ve avoided 850/881
asking Jace: “Do you
still
love her?”
HUGE QUESTIONS
Are most easily avoided
by detouring widely
into vast fields of
minutiae.
When someone looks
at you, silent in demand
for answers, diversion
may best be found in
trivia.
Should that person give
voice to pesky queries,
try to slow the advance
with a barrage of
details.
When all else fails
and the ax initiates
sure descent, baffle
the interrogator with
bullshit
and run like hell.