Dad picked me up from social services, all the things they ever wanted to say to us and didn’t. Perhaps all of it’s still out there, somehow. Maybe that light at the end of the tunnel people like to talk about is just those hairs encoding everything we are before we’re nothing at all.
Most likely, this thought process is a stage of grief, demonstrating that I am just as susceptible as every human who has ever grieved to magical thinking. Dad would be so disappointed.
We’re holding the memorial under the rotunda at the beautiful library in downtown Los Angeles that Mom had once said was her church, and that Nah and I practically grew up in. It’s an art deco masterpiece, full of beautiful chandeliers and murals and wood paneling and marble.
A podium beneath the exquisitely painted ceiling has been placed before rows of already-full chairs, and behind it sits a projector screen on a stand. Gram, Papa, Aunt Nora, Uncle Tony, and our cousin Nate are gathered near the podium, going over last-minute details. Various relatives from both sides have flown in from Boston—Mom’s Greek side and Dad’s Mayflower crew.
Cynthia glides over in one of her gauzy sundresses straight from 1969. This one is dark purple. She’s laden down with amethysts that hang from her neck, and her burgundy hair is in a Frida-inspired braid—she and Mom did an online tutorial to figure it out last year. The ribbons woven into her hair are sage green, Mom’s favorite color.
“Mis hijas,” she says, wrapping her arms around us both.
I breathe in her lavender scent, and I suppose there is some truth to the calming effects of certain essential oils.
“She’s here,” Cynthia says, leaning back. “I can feel her. Can you?”
“I can’t tell what’s her and what’s me,” Nah says.
Maybe Nah is undergoing the same grief psychosis as me.
“That’s because she’s a part of you,” Cyn says.
But she’s not a part of me. Not technically. We don’t share blood, DNA. I didn’t grow inside her.
“It might feel like we feel them,” I say. “But I think it’s a game our minds are playing. Some sort of defense mechanism against grief—”
“Mae.” Hannah shakes her head. “You can’t prove everything.”
“You can try. You should try.”
Cyn gets that smile, the one that makes her look like the goddess cards on Mom’s altar. “Spirit doesn’t fit in a beaker or a test tube, hija.”
I wish Dad were here. You can’t reason with a coven.
Later, when Nah and I are alone again, I watch Cyn do all the things Mom would do: check to make sure the coffee’s hot, rearrange the food. Discreetly throw out the daisies Mom hates from the flower arrangements people brought.
“I need a drink,” Nah says.
She keeps scratching at her arms, pulling on her hair, like she wants to peel herself off her bones.
I can’t believe we’re here again, so soon.
I look up at her. Wait until she meets my eyes. They flit away, almost immediately. This is a very bad sign. Avoiding eye contact almost always means she’s using.
“Please don’t make me do this on my own, Nah.”
Her skin goes blotchy, a sure sign of an increase in epinephrine. “What the hell does that mean? I’m here, wearing this shitty black dress—”
But Aunt Nora is motioning us over, and I start walking toward the podium. Then I stop. Turn.
My sister stands behind me, motionless. There are enough reasons to cry today. I don’t need to add to them.
I walk back to where she’s frozen still. “I’m sorry.”
It’s possible I am being too hard on her. I need to find a way to speak her language.
“What’s a tarot card for us?” I ask.
Hannah smiles a little. Just a little, but it’s something. She cocks her head to the side. “The Two of Cups. It’s about relationships. Leaning on each other.”
“Okay. Then let’s … Two of Cups the shit out of today.”
She laughs a little. “I can’t believe you just cursed in church.”
“The library understands. It’s a special occasion.” I hold out my hand and she takes it.
“I’m sorry about the playlist,” she says.
“It’s okay. I understand.”
I’d asked Nah to make one of her famous playlists for the slideshow I put together of Mom and Dad. That was going to be her contribution to the funeral. When she’s not on pills, Hannah is the family DJ. She would make Mae Is Stressed About AP Tests playlists that had funny things like the Cookie Monster song on it. Or a Dad Has Physicist Enemies