Page 4 of On Fire Island

His mouth was sweet and cold, and we kissed on that swing for what felt like hours. He never made the last ferry boat.

Back at the house, I crawled into the barely twin bed next to a sleeping Sarah Lawrence and gave him mine. His legs hung off the end, and I marveled, again, at the difference in our sizes. A sliver of light from the full moon outside illuminated our facesenough to stare into each other’s eyes (and souls) until our lids became too heavy and we both drifted off.

The next day, we rode the Long Island Rail Road back to the city together, holding hands the entire way. And we didn’t let go until this past Tuesday night at Sloan Kettering hospital, when I quietly left the earthly world for good.

two

My Funeral

Even though we knew the end was coming, Ben and I did not discuss the funeral or what I wanted. Knowing my control-freak mother as I did, expressing my wishes seemed as pointless as when I asked for a small bat mitzvah and ended up making my grand entrance into the ballroom of The Pierre Hotel on the back of a camel. I took it as a lesson, and when it was time to marry, Ben and I eloped. It was a transgression that my father understood and my mother never forgave. I was certain that my funeral would be seen from the same vantage point, my mother’s, with little consideration for what my barely half-Jewish, fully heartbroken husband would need. It was wrong of me not to tackle the subject with my family in advance. I just didn’t have it in me, even though I had nightmares that my mother would open up my coffin, yell “Is that what you’re wearing?” and apply her signature Dior red lipstick that she’d been unsuccessfully pushing on me since the tenth grade.

In the Jewish religion, the preference is for a burial to take place within twenty-four hours of death. So it was the very nextday that Ben stood at my graveside funeral. I was shocked that he won the debate between an intimate graveside service versus a multilevel extravaganza at Riverside Memorial Chapel, but apparently, even my indomitable mother was not on her A game after losing her firstborn child. It was the only argument she had lost in years, although, in her characteristic fashion, losing may have been her plan all along.

The trade-off for the smaller funeral was Ben’s promise to commit to seven full days of shiva—the Jewish time of spiritual and emotional healing. On hearing the deal he made, well, let’s just say, if guilt existed in the afterlife, I’d have been riddled with it for not making my wishes clear in advance. It was a bad trade, and poor Ben had no idea what he was in for. My new Rabbi friend, who was thankfully present for the conversation, tried to warn him. She said, “When someone dies in the prime of their life, there are many, many people who want to pay their respects. It’s going to be hard to manage at the cemetery, and you are going to be flooded with visitors at your home.” Ben thought he knew better and stood his ground. I guess you rarely know better than a rabbi.

The funeral service was brief. My Rabbi friend spoke beautifully about my life cut short. She acknowledged my inner light and my dry wit that she had gotten to know over the past six months, my success as an editor and my love for books; Modena chocolate; Fire Island; our rescue dog, Sally (named for the book,Sally Goes to the Beach); and, of course, my husband of nearly ten years, the now five-time bestselling author, Benjamin Morse. No one stood up and recounted funny stories because, first, that is not something that’s really done at a graveside service, and second, a funeral for a thirty-seven-year-old is not likely to have you laughingat remember-whens. I think you need to be at least seventy before the guests leave feeling as though they had attended a roast at the Friars Club.

Ben scanned the sweltering scene with his hollowed eyes, determining that he had done no one any favors, himself included, by getting his way on the service. He steadied himself and took a deep breath in as the Rabbi read the beautiful poem “We Remember Them,” by Sylvan Kamens and Rabbi Jack Riemer responsively with the crowd:

At the rising sun and at its going down; We remember them.

It was brutally hot, even for late June (not for me, by the way—a very nice perk of my new condition). My mother began to rock back and forth and back and forth, the ridiculously high heels she had worn for the occasion digging deeper and deeper into the ground. Someone noticed and placed a folding chair beneath her, and even though it wasn’t a good look for her—sitting while everyone else was standing—she acquiesced. It reminded me of a camp visiting day in Maine when the temperature reached a record-breaking 105 degrees. My mom, who never went anywhere without perfectly coiffed hair and a face full of makeup, rose from her lawn chair and walked directly into the lake, right in her Lilly Pulitzer.

At the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter; We remember them.

My sister, Nora, traditionally a mama’s girl, took my usual spot, wrapped in our father’s arms. I hoped she would help to fillthe void of my passing by becoming closer to our dad. She was crying, but as I watched her then, all I thought of was our hysterical fits of laughter in the dark when we were young and shared a bedroom.

At the opening of the buds and in the rebirth of spring; We remember them.

My high school friends stood in a row, holding on to each other for dear life, old grudges between them instantly dismissed. A montage of memories played out in front of me, from sneaking drinks at bat mitzvahs in bandage-style dresses to throwing our shared fake IDs out the bathroom window of Webster Hall for the next group to enter with.

At the blueness of the skies and in the warmth of summer; We remember them.

There were many people there from Random House and the publishing world in general: publicists and editors, authors and friends. Ben’s agent, the indomitable Elizabeth Barnes, was visibly rattled, which surprised me as I had never even seen her blink. I was happy for Ben that there was such a nice turnout, though he didn’t seem to notice.

At the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of autumn; We remember them.

Out of all the groups in attendance it was our Fire Island friends who felt nearest to my heart. The lot of them huddled close to one another for collective strength. All except for mynearest and dearest, our neighbor, Renee. She had stepped to the side and was clearly having a hard time keeping her composure. Losing her marriage and her best friend in one year had cracked her exceedingly strong resolve. Her ex-husband, Tuck, walked over to her and put his hand on her shoulder for comfort. She swatted him away—no dismissing grudges there. I homed in on the newest addition to the group, baby Oliver, who was just six weeks old. His moms, Pam and Andie, were a part of our inner circle at the beach.

As long as we live, they too will live, for they are now a part of us as; We remember them.

Before long the sun-beaten crowd loaded themselves back into their cars, where the procession to return to the city spanned two exits on the parkway. Ben could tell, upon leaving, that most people hadn’t had the chance to express their condolences, and it panicked him. It takes a lot to keep a Jew from paying a shiva call, and not having had a face-to-face exchange with the bereaved was top of the list (maybe second to top—word had gotten out that lunch was being catered by Zabar’s). He knew that many would feel the need to tell him in person how sorry they were for his loss—a mouthful of condolence followed by a bagel with whitefish salad, and they would leave satisfied that they had fulfilled their commitment. That notion, along with the conversation on the way back to Manhattan, pushed him over the edge.

It was odd to see Ben sitting in the limo alongside my sister, my parents, and my maternal grandmother, without the link that was me. He really didn’t fit in without me beside him. I could tell it was hard for him to stomach the sight of my grandmother, alive and kicking at ninety, while I was gone so young. She beganquestioning everything about the upcoming shiva, from the kashruth of the food to thefemaleRabbi. Ben was clearly longing for a do-over.

More and more often lately, nonorthodox Jews, like us, seem to sit shiva for less than the traditional week. Ben’s family was not religious at all, and when his father died a few years ago, they sat shiva for three days and thought it was the most pious thing they’d ever done. His mom was not Jewish, and he was never bar mitzvahed.

When he met my family for the first time, Nana Hannah, my father’s mother, came right out and asked him, “Are you Jewish?”

I squirmed while he answered truthfully.

“My father is Jewish and my mom is Protestant, but we were raised Jewish—culturally, at least.”

I thought she would give her standard answer, “You are what your mother is,” but she didn’t. She asked him a question that no one had ever asked him before.

“Who do you believe in, God or Jesus Christ?”

He didn’t have an answer, so she plowed on.

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