Page 2 of This Is How It Started
When it comes time for the eulogy, I only half listen, lost in my own grief. I’ve chosen not to speak, knowing that there are not enough words for all the things I want to convey. Besides that, I’m feeling deeply selfish, wanting to hoard my memories for myself.
One by one, friends and family tell stories that range from funny to poignant. Adam has been designated to speak on behalf of the Golds. Despite my mother nagging him to write out his speech, Adam does it off the cuff. He talks about the first time I brought Josh home to meet my family and how Mom made her famous roasted chicken—famous because it’s one of the few dishes my mother makes. The story has become legend in our family. And when Adam tells the part about how my mother mistakenly coated the chicken with cayenne pepper instead of paprika, the room erupts in solemn laughter.
“It was trial by fire,” Adam says. “We knew Josh passed the test when he went in for a second helping.”
Even I find myself smiling at the memory. Then I silently sob until my whole body shakes. Hannah stuffs a wad of tissue in my hand, and I surreptitiously blot my eyes. I don’t want anyone to see me cry, which is patently ridiculous. But like I hoard my memories, I also want to hoard my sadness. It’s mine and mine alone.
The eulogizing goes on too long, and the rent-a-rabbi signals that we need to wrap things up. We only have the chapel for ninety minutes. TheEl Malei Rachamimis first chanted in Hebrew, then English.
“God, full of mercy, who dwells above, provide a sure rest on the wings of the Divine Presence, amongst the holy, pure and glorious who shine like the sky, to the soul of Joshua Seth Ackermann, son of Saul Joseph Ackermann, for the sake of charity which was given to the memory of his soul...And he shall rest peacefully at his lying place and let us say: Amen.”
“Amen.”
Our family is whisked away to a private room in preparation for the funeral procession.
I chose four of Josh’s closest friends to be pallbearers. Two of them are from Chicago, where Josh grew up. The other two are from Martin, Owens and Luckett, Josh’s architecture firm. For a fleeting second, I wonder if Campbell will feel slighted that I didn’t choose him.
The burial service goes by in a blur. For most of it, Adam’s arm is slung around me as if to hold me up. It’s not until the mourner’s kaddish that I break down, though. It’s not the prayer itself, which I don’t understand because it’s in Hebrew. It’s the finality that it represents. Josh is never coming back. The thought of it squeezes my chest like a tourniquet.
Afterward, I ride with my mother and the Ackermanns in the limo (part of the Eternal Home package) to the house on Vallejo Street. Brooke has graciously lent it to us for the funeral reception. Josh’s and my apartment is too small, and Mom’s townhouse is in the middle of construction hell. She’s been remodeling for the last six months.
The minute we walk into the Queen Anne, I’m embraced with a sense of warmth and familiarity. It’s ironic because the home is the size of a museum and more than a hundred years old. It should be drafty and stodgy, but it floods me with so many happy memories that I’m momentarily vaulted back in time. Even Josh, who preferred steel and black glass and precise lines, loved this house. He used to say, “Oh the stories this Victorian could tell.” It definitely knew our story. The story of the Golds.
My mother heads to the kitchen, where she immediately starts delegating. The caterers have arrived, and she’s rifling through the china cabinet in the butler’s pantry, handing them serving platters. I look at Brooke and my face heats.This is not your house anymore,I want to tell my mother.
Brooke gently rests her hand on my wrist. “Let me make you up a plate before everyone gets here.”
I’m not hungry, but I nod. My mother continues to bustle around the kitchen like a military commander, expediting the massive quantities of food she’s ordered to the dining room. Brooke fixes me a bagel sandwich from one of the deli trays and leads me to the front parlor.
Today, she is warm and ingratiating, a side I’ve never seen before.
The parlor looks mostly the same as when I lived here, though I can’t help but notice that the millwork could use a fresh coat of paint and the furniture looks a little worse for wear. The photos of my parents that once adorned the mantel have been replaced with pictures of my late father and Brooke. I’m sure they’ve been there for a while. But for some reason I’m just noticing them now, noticing how old my father looks standing next to Brooke in her simple sheath dress. On the sofa table is a wedding portrait of Josh and me taken in the backyard. My throat clogs just looking at it.
Hannah and Stephen are the first to arrive. Stephen pats my shoulder and disappears down the hallway.
My sister eyes the plate on my lap. “How you holding up, Rach?” She’s at least the tenth person to ask me that today.
“Hanging in there,” I say and make room for her to sit next to me on the sofa. But she heads off in search of Stephen.
Soon, the house is buzzing with people. The Ackermanns are surrounded by members of Josh’s firm. I’m glad his parents are getting to see them again. Josh was a rock star at Martin, Owens and Luckett. His last project won an AIASF design award. I’m hoping his colleagues brag on Josh. I love his parents, but they never got over the fact that their only child didn’t follow in Saul’s footsteps by becoming a prominent Chicago lawyer. That, and not marrying his high school sweetheart, who now works for Saul’s law firm. Instead, Josh settled for the adrift San Francisco girl who failed to give them a grandchild.
“What are you doing over here alone?” Adam grabs my sandwich and takes a big bite.
I shrug. “How long do you think I have to stay?”
“Probably to the end. Anything else would look weird, don’t you think?”
Typically, Adam would be the last person on earth who I’d ask an etiquette question. But in this instance, I know he’s right. Thank God I nixed the whole sitting shiva thing (my mother’s idea, which the Ackermanns and I quickly nipped in the bud). Seven days of sitting on stools and mourning while friends and family call to pay their respects sounds like the seventh ring of hell. Besides, Josh would’ve hated it. Or maybe not. He did so love being the center of attention. Me? Not so much.
“Are the Ackermanns staying with you tonight?” Adam nudges his head in their direction.
“They’ve been staying at the Mark Hopkins and are going back to Chicago tomorrow.” I’d invited them to stay with me but am secretly glad they chose the hotel.
“The Mark Hopkins, huh?” Adam lets out a low whistle, then glances across the room at Brooke, who is being held hostage by my late father’s Aunt Rose. “What’s up with Dad’s child bride?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why is she being so nice?”
