A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (65 page)

“
Oh, that
’
s too bad.
”

“
Yeah.
”

“
So what are you doing today?
”

“
Probably going back up.
”

“
What for?
”

“
I don
’
t know. Not much. Maybe I
’
ll go to the high school.
”

Grant looks at me for a second. Maybe he knows.

“
Well, say hi to L.F.H.S.
”

Mr. Iacabino, the owner of the funeral home, is not in. The man who is in is younger than me, and wears glasses behind bright, startled eyes. Chad. I step in, stamping the snow from my feet. I tell him that I
’
m hoping to get some papers, that I
’
m collecting things, that my parents had come through this way, that I was looking for any paperwork they might have.

“
Let me make a call,
”
he says.

He disappears to call Mr. Iacabino at home, leaving me in the coffin display area. There are eleven coffins in the room, each named according to its style and purported quality. The town being what it sometimes is, the coffins are extravagant, each shinier and more elaborate than the other. One is called The Ambassador. Another seems to be made of steel. I write some of the names down in a notebook I will later lose. I will not be buried, I assure myself. I will disappear. Or maybe by the time I die, there will be machines, utilizing advanced laser technology and fiber optics, that will evaporate people shortly after they pass away, without actually burning them. Experts in the operation of the machine will enter shortly after a death, assemble the machine—it
’
ll be highly portable—and with the pull of a few levers, the person will disappear, instantaneously. There will be
none of this interment, no carrying bodies around, inspecting them, embalming them, dressing them up, buying holes in the ground for them, this building elaborate boxes for them, boxes reinforced, double thick—

Or I
’
ll be launched into space. Or by then people, dead people, will be raised atop mile-high white towers. Why not mile-high white towers, as opposed to six-foot holes? There would be obstacles, surely, for engineers and architects, and the problem of space. But space could be set aside. There is Greenland, for instance, vast and white like heaven—

“
See anything you like?
”
Chad asks. He is behind me.

I chuckle. Good one.

He has a file folder. We sit down at a table, black and glassy, used for the planning of services.

“
This is what we
’
ve got,
”
he says.

In the folder are pages recording that Wenban Funeral Home received both bodies, had held a service for my father, and had overseen the donations.

The forms and records for my fathers service are signed by my mother; those for my mother are signed by my sister. I like these papers. They are proof, the only proof we have.

“
So this is everything?
”
I ask.

“
That
’
s it,
”
Chad says.

I ask if he can make copies of the papers. He says he doesn
’
t see why not. He
’
ll go downstairs; it
’
ll just take a sec.

The stairs are cut out of the middle of the foyer. I watch him walk down.

On the wall behind me is a display of headstone offerings. Sizes, materials, choices in style of type and order of information. The options are many—you can have the name first, the dates first, no dates at all. Or, before the name, a slogan—
“
Beloved,
”
“
Eternal.
”
I should probably get a stone. A stone would be good. A stone would save me, would salvage all the damage we had
already done, all the things we had given up or lost.

Chad walks up the stairs. He has a small brown box. He puts the small brown box on the table in front of me.

“
This is weird,
”
he says.
“
But I was just down there, by the copier. Just for the heck of it I looked on the shelves, and saw this.
”

The label on the cardboard box, handwritten:

Heidi Eggers

“
You mean this is...
”

“
Yeah, this must be the cremains. They must have been sent to us at some point. I
’
m not sure why they hadn
’
t been sent to you...
”

I touch the box.

Good God.

Chad stands.
“
I
’
ll go back down and make those copies.
”

He leaves again.

Fuck. God. Fuck.

The box is about a foot long in each direction, and is closed with clear packing tape. It
’
s simple, brown, square—as it must have looked when it was mailed. The label indicates it was sent from the Anatomical Gift Association in Chicago.
How long has it been here?
I can
’
t make out the postmark.

I have to call Beth. I will not call Bill. Bill won
’
t want to hear this. But Beth—

I won
’
t call Beth, either. Beth will be upset.

Chad returns with the copies.

I thank him and collect the papers, put them into a folder in my backpack, and stand up. I pick up the box and—

I have no idea what I thought it would weigh, but it
’
s heavy. Ten pounds or more.

I wander outside.

The cold is startling. I turn my back to the wind, protecting the box. I walk to the car sideways, open the passenger door and
put the box on the seat. I walk around the car, tiptoeing on the ice, open the door and get in.

I turn to the box.

The box is my mother, only smaller.

The box is not my mother.

Is the box my mother?

No.

But then I see her face on the box. My sick head makes me see the face on the box. My sick head wants to make this worse. My head wants this to be scary and unbearable. I try to fight back, to know that this is normal, all this is normal, but I know that I am a monster, that I should not have come here, that because I am looking for bad things they are being given to me and I should not have asked for this in the first place, that because I have been asking for this and more it will
get
worse and more brutal. My eyes blur. I shake. I want to put the box somewhere else—in the trunk maybe—but know that I can
’
t put the box in the trunk. The box which is not my mother cannot go in the trunk because she would be livid if I put her in the trunk. She would fucking kill me.

Late that night, I get back to Grant and Eric
’
s, and they are watching a movie where Al Pacino is blind. Al Pacino is angry and talks with an unplaceable accent. He is maybe Canadian. We are all sitting in different parts of the room—Eric in a comfortable chair, Grant in a comfortable chair, me on the couch between.

We are watching TV, drinking beer from bottles. We are completely normal. With Grant and Eric, in their condo in Lincoln Park, in Chicago, we are regular, I am regular. We are kicking back. I can kick back. I am
kicking back.

I am trying not to think about the box. About how, forty feet away, in my rental car, on the floor of the passenger side, is the box. I could not bring the box inside, and I have not and will not tell
Eric and Grant about the box, and, fearing that someone, perhaps one of them, might pass by the car and see the box and know what it is and be horrified and think me a monster, I have covered it with a towel.

Al Pacino is wearing an elaborate military uniform, and is yelling at a high school-aged guy in a school uniform. I have come to the movie late, so it
’
s unclear why he is yelling at the guy in the uniform. They are in some kind of swank hotel room.

“
Why is he yelling?
”
I ask.

“
Shh!
”
says Grant.

“
Is he blind?
”

“
Shut up. It
’
s almost over.
”

The phone rings. Eric answers, tosses it in my lap.

“
You.
”

“
Who?
”

“
Meredith.
”

It
’
s Meredith, panicky.

“
Is it John?
”

“
Yeah,
”
she says.

“
Is he—
“

“
No, no. He
’
s okay, but he
’
s threatening again. He sounds drunk.
”

I take the phone upstairs and into the bathroom.

“
Does he have pills? What?
”

“
I don
’
t know. I didn
’
t ask. Maybe he
’
ll do his wrists.
”

“
Did he say anything like that?
”

“
No. Maybe. I don
’
t know. I can
’
t remember. But you have to call him. I
’
ve been on the phone with him for an hour and I
’
m losing my fucking mind. He says he tried to call you but you weren
’
t home.
”

“
I
’
m in Chicago.
”

“
I know that. I called you, stupid.
”

I call John.

“
What
’
s the problem?
”

“
Nothing.
”

“
What do you mean, nothing? Why am I calling you?
”

“
I don
’
t know. Why are you calling me?
”

“
Meredith said you wanted me to call.
”

“
I tried to call you.
”

“
I know. I
’
m in Chicago.
”

“
What for?
”

“
A wedding.
”

“
Get off!
”

“
What?
”

“
Nothing. I was talking to the cat.
”

“
You
’
re talking to the fucking cat? Listen, I don
’
t have time for—
“

“
Fine. Sorry I
’
m such a bother.
”

“
Okay. So. What
’
s the problem? What is it? Are you threatening?
”

“
I
’
ve just had a rough couple of days.
”

“
Now you sound drunk. At first you didn
’
t sound drunk. Are you drunk or not? Give me some parameters.
”

“
No, it
’
s just this medicine.
”

“
Wait. What medicine? What does that mean? Did you already take something? What is this? Is this it?
”

“
Is what what?
”

“
Did you already—
“

“
No. Jesus. I
’
m just sleepy. I had a beer.
”

“
You
’
re supposed to be sober. You can
’
t drink on the antidepressants, stupid. You were sober the last time we talked, right? You
’
re supposed to be sober. How long did that last?
”