Page 1 of This Is How It Started
Part 1
The Funeral
Chapter 1
Colma, California
Present Time
I think of my mother as I stand at the edge of block seven, lot two, section six, peering over the side of an empty hole. Oddly enough, the depth of a modern grave in the United States is a mere four feet deep. The whole six-feet-under thing is a misnomer, according to the funeral guy. He was a fountain of information during our first consultation, throwing out selling points about Eternal Home the same way I do when I’m trying to push a house that’s sat on the market too long.
Despite the barren trench’s shallowness, it looks dark and bottomless. And soon, they’ll lower the most important person in my life into the freshly dug hole and cover him with dirt.
I shudder, angry with myself for giving in to my mother and not insisting on cremation. At least I could scatter Josh’s ashes somewhere beautiful, a place that held meaning to him, instead of the so-called “City of Souls.” Besides burial being horrifyingly claustrophobic, I don’t want Josh here.
I want him home, alive, and making Saturday-morning pancakes, wearing his silly chef’s hat and singing “Volare” at the top of his lungs in his best Dean Martin voice. And while I’m nowhere close to acceptance in the so-called seven stages of grief, I know that’s impossible. Still, he deserves better than Colma, where two million dead people live.
The San Francisco suburb was turned into a necropolis in the 1920s because the city banished all its graveyards. No one can afford to live in San Francisco, let alone be dead there.
The town’s motto is “It’s great to be alive in Colma.”
I can attest that it’s not. It’s depressing as hell.
But my mother is emphatic that Jews don’t do cremation, that it’s only for “the pagans.” My mother’s relationship with God and Judaism is based solely on convenience. That is to say, she wields both like a sword when she’s set on getting her way. The last time we actually set foot in a synagogue was for my brother’s bar mitzvah, twenty-three years ago.
But that’s not why I’m thinking of my mother at this moment. I’m wondering whether my late father would rather be buried next to her than Brooke. She was, after all, his wife of thirty-seven years, the mother of his three children, and the love of his life. So, when the time comes, will he choose Mom over Brooke in the afterlife, knowing that you only get to take your one true love with you into eternity?
We’ll never know, I guess. But in my own time of grief, I think about it a lot. I think about Josh and me and our enduring love for each other. How there’s no doubt in my mind that when my turn comes, I will be Josh’s plus-one in the hereafter.
“What are you doing?” My brother, Adam, pulls me away from the open grave. “Come on, Rach, everyone’s waiting.”
He ushers me inside the funeral home, where the rent-a-rabbi greets me with a sympathetic smile. My mother waves me over to the seat next to her. The front row has been reserved for family only, and I can’t help but notice how alone Brooke looks amid the rest of the Golds. We’re a clannish lot, and from day one she’s been persona non grata for obvious reasons. But today I feel a smidgen of solidarity with my stepmother. After all, we’re part of the same club now.
She takes her place on the right side of my brother-in-law, who is too absorbed with looking at his phone to notice. My sister pokes him in the arm, a not-so-subtle hint that he’s being disrespectful. This is when I normally would turn to Josh, and a silent acknowledgment that Stephen is a douchebag would pass between us. For some reason that makes me laugh out loud.
My entire family is staring at me now with a mixture of embarrassment and pity.
Adam takes my arm. “You okay, Rach?”
I nod, but I’m not okay. I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay again.
Mourners are still filtering in, and it strikes me that soon the chapel will be standing room only.
My mother whispers, “I knew we should’ve gone with the larger sanctuary.” She turns to Adam. “Ask the director if we can squeeze in more chairs along that aisle over there.” She gives a Vanna White wave, indicating the space near the door.
“Ma, they’re not going to block the exit. It’s probably against fire code.”
My mother shoots him a look. He rolls his eyes and goes off to do her bidding.
The rabbi and the Ackermanns are huddled in a corner, speaking in hushed tones. I look over at Hannah, but from her body language I can tell she and Stephen are fighting. For a second, Brooke meets my gaze, and I quickly turn away.
On the other side of the room, three rows up, Campbell and Jess scootch through the aisle and grab two of the last remaining seats. Campbell catches my eye and holds his hand to his heart. The gesture both warms and angers me at the same time, which isn’t fair. None of this is his fault.
I face forward, knowing I should probably join the Ackermanns and the rabbi, but am unable to move. I decide to let the Ackermanns make the final arrangements. I’m too checked out to contribute anyway.
By the time the rabbi takes the dais, I’m somewhere else entirely. A beach in Fiji with Josh. We went there for our honeymoon, which was sort of a strange choice given that neither of us are beach people. But Josh’s friend had taken a similar trip the year before, and Josh picked the same hotel in Viti Levu on his recommendation. I’d never seen water that blue or coral reefs so vividly colorful. The entire week had been blissful.
I relive every second of the trip as the rabbi recites the opening prayer. Something from the book of Psalms, according to my program. A few seats down, I hear Josh’s mother sob. My mom reaches over Adam and takes her hand.
