Page 9 of The Last to Let Go
She doesn’t answer. Instead she walks over to Jackie’s fireplace and picks up one of the picture frames that sit on the mantel. It’s silver and has elaborate molded edges. It looks expensive. More expensive than any five-by-seven picture frame has a right to be. She holds it close to her, then at arm’s length, as if it’s multidimensional and will somehow change its appearance if she holds it at different angles. Silently she sets it back down on the mantel where she found it, except she places it facedown. Then she walks away, drifting down the hall and into the guest bedroom that we’ll be sharing, even though we haven’t shared a room in years.
I look over my shoulder to see if Jackie was watching us from the kitchen. She wasn’t. She’s sitting at the dining room table with Aaron, who’s already wearing his black suit and black tie, and they’re talking in hushed tones, being too obvious about trying to conceal the topic of conversation. Which is Mom. Or Dad. Or Mom and Dad. Or me and Callie—what they’re going todowith us. I pick up the frame and unfold the arm that’s attached to its back with a thin satin ribbon. As I set it back in its place, I look at the picture itself, standing there, perched among the other photos that line the narrow shelf. It’s a family. A family that could be any family—a mother, a father, and three kids, their heights measured in perfect increments, smallest to tallest.
The smallest could be a boy or a girl. It’s that toddler age where it’s hard to tell. There’s a messy mass of wild hair sticking out in all directions, a smile that looks like a film still of a belly laugh, the face slightly blurred from the motion. And the boy, the tallest—while still small—has a shyness about him, a quietness, a stillness with his hands clasped together, his arms somehow twisted in front of him at impossible angles as he glances backward at the mother and father, who stand behind all three kids and exchange a knowing look. A familiar, easy smile, a gaze of love and admiration. The one in the middle, she holds her arms out at her sides, as if saying,Ta-da!and her smile is real and her eyes are closed. Not a single one of them looks at the camera.
It could be any happy family.
Except it’s not. It’s us. And the one in middle, that’s me. Eyes closed. And maybe my eyes are still closed, because I’ve been in this house for ten days and I swear I’ve even looked at these pictures, but I never really saw this one until now.
My fingers leave tiny smudges on the glass. I can hold it in my hands, see it with my own eyes, yet I can’t quite believe there was ever a time when this family existed. But the digitally printed date in the lower right-hand corner is evidence, that on New Year’s Eve, ten years ago, they were here—the people in this picture, this family—they existed. I quickly do the math: I had just turned seven, Aaron was nine, Callie was two, and our parents hadn’t destroyed everything good in each other yet. I don’t know these people. They are all strangers.
Maybe we were all only playing parts; we just didn’t know it at the time.
“Great picture, isn’t it?” Jackie says, standing right next to me all of a sudden. “One of my favorites.” She sighs, gently touching the surface of the glass with her index finger. “Well, we probably need to start getting ready, don’t you think?” She has this way of framing statements as questions, and I can’t tell if it’s annoying or endearing. Or annoyingly endearing.
“Yeah,” I agree, unable to decide. “Jackie, do you think we can see her this week?”
“Let’s just get through today, all right?”
“All right.”
Soundlessly, Callie reenters the room and stands in front of us. Sans plastic bag, she holds on to herself instead, arms folded tightly one over the other. Then she goes and sinks down into the couch cushions, pulling a pillow onto her lap, and stares out the window.
“Callie, you should probably start getting ready too,” I say to her, but she only glares in response.
Aaron sits next to her and says something to her, softly. I can’t tell what.
She lowers her chin, almost a nod—a half nod.
“I’m going to get in the shower,” I announce, though no one seems to hear me.
When we’re trying to leave, Callie refuses to move. When I try to convince her to stand up and come with us, Jackie pulls me aside and says, “Maybe it’s for the best she doesn’t come,” as if she somehow knows my sister better than I do. “Ray can stay home with her. It’ll be fine.”
JUST IN CASE
JACKIE TOOK ME TOthe mall to shop for a black dress yesterday. I didn’t try it on. I wish I had now, though, because it sticks to me around the hips and it’s too loose in the stomach. The fabric is thin, and it’s sleeveless. It doesn’t look like anything I’d ever allow to be anywhere remotely near my body, but I didn’t care enough to look any farther than the first rack of clothes.
I was sweating on the car ride here, but inside it’s freezing. A deeper shiver runs through my entire body when I realize why. A place that houses dead bodies would need to be cold. I linger behind Jackie and Aaron as we walk down the wide hall plastered in the most depressing wallpaper imaginable: sick, pale peach and pink flowers against a deep-navy-blue background. Everything about this place screams death. It shouts it from every inch, every corner. From the dark, heavy drapes that block out all the sunlight in the world.Death, it whispers as we pass empty rooms on either side. The hard floor, covered in a carpet that’s so thin there can’t possibly be any padding underneath.Death-death, it seems to squeak under my footsteps. The carpet feels more like what I would imagine the green felt on a pool table would be like if you walked on it. I guess there’s no real reason for a funeral home to have any luxuries or comforts. Like my dress, it doesn’t matter.
I hold my breath as we near the last room—our room. I know because each room has a frame affixed to the wall outside the door, and in it, behind the glass, a sheet of marbleized paper with an unfamiliar name printed in calligraphy.
Until we reach the last one:PAUL WINTERS.
Aaron stops short when we reach the doorway.
Jackie enters first. When Aaron follows, his steps take on a zigzag path, walking like he’s drunk, like he doesn’t know which way to go, like his feet are arguing with his brain.
I exhale slowly, then suck in another deep gulp of air as I cross the threshold for myself. My eyes are immediately pulled to the opposite end of the room. The casket is laid out like a centerpiece, surrounded by flowers, some kind of morbid banquet. Immediately to the left of the door stands a podium that holds the guest book; I turn around and grip on to it with both hands, my thumbs making imprints in the crisp paper. I can’t do this, I realize, I don’t want to. I wish I had stayed home with Callie.
I glance over my shoulder, nearly losing my balance completely. Jackie’s standing in front of the casket. Aaron stands in the very center of the empty room, craning his neck like he’s trying to see, at a safe distance, how bad this is. As I’m watching him, waiting for some sign to tell me how bad it is, he turns to look at me. Like he can read my thoughts, he holds his hand out. Carefully I release my grip on the podium one finger at a time. Force my feet to move toward him, left-right,death-death. I force my eyes not to look anywhere except at my brother. He reaches for my hand the way he used to when we were kids, crossing the street. That small gesture makes me feel a little safer, like maybe he’ll be my big brother again. Starting now.
We walk together, slowly, cautiously. I can’t tell if it’s his hands that are shaking or mine. I look down at my feet until I have no choice, until there is nothing left to do but raise my eyes.
We weren’t brought up with any kind of religion. So maybe that’s why I’ve never thought too much about the soul. Never knew how to define it, how to recognize it. But looking down at my dad’s face, I know exactly what a soul is, and I know for sure that it exists, because I can see that his is gone. He doesn’t look real. Like whatever made himhim, whatever made him a person, a human being, is no longer there.
As I stare, I keep thinking he’s about to open his eyes. I keep thinking that he moves, just slightly, that I can see him breathing. I blink hard, trying to reset my vision. But it happens again. And again.
“Aaron?” I whisper. I want to ask what he looks like to him.Do you see him breathing? Do you notice his soul is gone? Are you scared?
