Remember The Moon (4 page)

My mother shivered in response to my presence and turned toward me, as though about to address me, but then she looked through me.

I love you, Mom. I’m sorry. I know how hard this is, but I will see you again soon.
I felt myself fill with love of her, and together we became surrounded by a now familiar white light. She seemed to physically relax, her shoulders slumped slightly, and I noticed a tear rolling down her cheek.

Damn you!
I jumped. I heard her thought as if she had slapped me across the face.
First your father and now you. What kind of cruel world is this?

I’m sorry, Mom. I am so sorry.

I drifted away from her, shut out by her sorrow.

Maya and Calder, their coats flung on nearby chairs and cheeks rosy from being outside, stood now in a group with her parents. Maya wore a black turtleneck over a tight-fitting pink dress, something I loved seeing her in but that she rarely wore. I knew she wore it to my funeral especially for me, despite it being socially inappropriate in the way it pulled tight over the roundness of her beautiful ass, creating a sensuality out of place in the roomful of black suits. Her hair pulled back off her pale face, eyes red-rimmed and swollen and her lips lush and pink, beautiful even in grief, she gripped her glass of wine, whose blood-colored surface rippled with each tear that clung to her cheek before launching itself into the abyss.

Stone-faced, Maya rebuffed her mother, Estelle, when she tried to put her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. I reached out in a habitual way to take Maya into my arms, to comfort her in a way I hadn’t done, I suddenly realized, for too long. I wanted desperately to put my arms around her, to calm her, but without my body I was as successful at hugging her as a double amputee might be. Our auras linked, though she seemed oblivious. I sensed a purpose for my death, in both my life and hers, but it angered me to try to account for something so meaningless, unwilling to forgive my own stupidity.

Calder was tired and cranky, a seven-year-old teetering on the edge of a meltdown. Without trying to, I surrounded us all, wishing to be a whole family again, which transformed the yellowish ambient light of the dim room to a glowing spotlight. Calder sighed and seemed calmer for the moment.

And then I saw Marcus Pellegrino. He sat drinking a scotch in a seat in a corner, far away from everyone. His presence at my funeral surprised me. Had Maya invited him? I saw her look at him from across the room and then quickly look away, but couldn’t tell from her expression if she too was surprised by his presence or expecting it. He wore a black wool coat and sat erect at the bar, talking to no one. His greying hair slicked back, he wore a heavy, expensive watch and polished Italian shoes. Marcus looked every bit the rich prick. Despite his obvious effort trying to make eye contact with Maya, she seemed to want nothing to do with him.

Distracted by feedback from a microphone, a sound that looked to me like transparent ripples fanning away from the mic, I lost interest in Marcus. Funerals were not called funerals anymore. This was a “Celebration of Life”. I tried to think of things that could be celebrated about my life. Maya, Calder, yes. They were both reasons to celebrate. But had I been a good husband, a good father? I’d been focused on my job, took pride in each promotion, earned increasing amounts of money, but spent more and more time at the office, on the road. I spent more time with a bunch of twenty-something programmers than with my own family. I felt young with my employees, like an older brother, going out for watery beer and doughy pizza after a long day, feeling guilty afterward arriving home long past Calder's bed time. I had wanted to live that carefree young man’s life again – no responsibility, no mortgage, no one waiting for me at the end of the day.

Jake and Miles now stood together, each holding the neck of a long brown bottle of Red Hook, watching a slide show of photographs, a window into their boss’s life, a world they had never experienced in the time they knew me. A soundtrack accompanied the photos – Stevie Ray Vaughn, Steely Dan, Stones. My baby pictures flashed across the screen accompanied by Stevie Ray’s “Little Baby”. School pictures, ridiculous photos of friends and family, early shots of a teenaged Maya at her cottage. She was wearing a bikini, waving from the dock, me poised behind her, about to push her in, causing her to lose her top, much to the embarrassment of us both, but funny years later. I had sleepwalked through my whole life, waking up now as a dead man.

Maya moved some of the folding chairs from the front rows so she could sit on the floor with Calder on her lap. A couple of other small children came and sat down next to them, instinctively trying to comfort in that natural way the adults seemed to have forgotten.

Rob, my best friend from high school who had flown in from Toronto, stood up after the slide show, taking charge.

“I just want to say a few words.” Tiny lines crept around his smiling brown eyes. His once thick dark hair was now white and wiry, and a slight paunch stretched the buttons of his suit jacket. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Rob, and the changes surprised me.

“I honestly can’t believe I’m standing here. I can’t believe Jay’s gone. Shit, man. He was way too young.” The room remained silent. “I can’t help thinking about this time in grade ten at Jarvis. The shit... oh sorry... I mean the crap–” laughter poured from the audience “–that we got into! Jay never used to eat the sandwiches he brought from home. Instead, he would stuff them into his locker so he could ‘grow mold’. The various types of mold that grew on those sandwiches did fascinate me, but I enjoyed the laughs too. The smell by the end of the year stank up the entire hallway!” More laughter. “He wanted to be a geneticist back then, before he got into that computer stuff. I figured he would discover the cure for cancer or something. I don’t really know when he got into the software world.”I did want to be a geneticist. I volunteered at a lab at the University of Toronto when still in high school and loved it, but when I got to University I learned how much political posturing went on in the profession at the academic level, it turned me off. I took some computer science classes and eventually found myself in Seattle working at Microsoft. Rob told the audience about my jazz band and how I got all the girls, which wasn’t exactly true.

“But he only ever had eyes for one girl.” Rob looked down at Maya, who looked up him and smiled. “And who could blame him? Maya was hot!” Maya waved at him dismissively, still smiling and now blushing. “Dude, I know I haven’t seen you in a while, we’ve been pretty lousy at keeping in touch, but man, I’m sure going to miss you.” The speech paused as Rob swallowed several times and licked his lips, fighting back tears. I was sorry we had grown apart. How had I let that happen? I should have been a better friend, should have called more often.

The screen came alive with a movie that I remember we made during my stag party: a bunch of guys getting high on ‘shrooms and playing mini golf, a shockingly young, thin version of myself kneeling down on the fake grassy carpet lining things up, pretending to be the next Arnold Palmer. The sound of my own giggle surprised me and I realized I hadn’t laughed like that for a long time. Maya still sat cross-legged with Calder in her lap, laughing at the movie, but also crying, an occasional tear landing on the top of Calder’s head. People stood in a circle around her, passing down tissues. She seemed small and lost. I touched her hair, trying to feel its silkiness, the twist of a curl.

Damn you Jay! Damn you damn you damn you!

More slaps across the face. I shouldn’t have been surprised by her anger, but oddly I was hurt. Was she even sad that I was dead?

Daddy, when are you coming home?
I heard Calder this time.
You were supposed to help me with my science fair project. And you promised to drum with me.

Calder, I am so sorry!

Tears filled Calder's eyes, and he turned in towards Maya and cried silently into her chest. She kissed the top of his head.

“I’m sorry this is so hard,” she said, her own tears welling.

“Daddy was supposed to help me with my science fair project. And drum with me! Now he can’t do any of it! Why did he have to die?”

“Oh, sweetie. I don’t know. I’m mad at him too. But he didn’t mean to die...”
Did you?

Maya, of course I didn’t mean to die!

Estelle came over and crouched down beside her daughter and grandson.

“Should we do the ashes now?”

Outside, on the deck of the boat, Estelle held the urn that contained my ashes and pried open the lid that Peter, Maya's dad, had previously forced open with a screwdriver. The plastic bag holding my remains had already been snipped open so the breeze carried a little of the dust into the air. Maya held the urn down low enough for Calder to see its contents. The grey powder held chunks of white bone. Calder looked up at Maya.

“Is that Daddy?”

Maya nodded.

“What do I do?” he asked.

“You can reach in and take a handful and then sprinkle it onto the water.” Calder shook his head.

“I don’t want to touch it.”

“It’s OK, Calder. It’s just the ashes from Daddy’s body.” She stopped talking and looked at her mother.

“Calder, if you don’t want to do it, that’s fine,” Peter said. “You do whatever feels right.” Calder looked relieved. Maya put her own hand into the urn and scooped out a handful. She poked through it with her fingers, looking at the pieces of bone.

“It’s so weird to think this is Jay. It’s so abstract. I can’t make sense of it.” She tipped her hand over the rail and watched as the dust fell between her fingers and floated in the wind.

“I love you, Jay.”

I love you too, Lenie.

The ashes settled in a dusty swath on the surface of the indigo water, alight momentarily before dissolving into the salty depths. My mother, Maya's parents, and Rob each took handfuls and released them, whispering their own farewells to me. There was a long silence after everyone finished and they collectively stared into the water.

“Well, I guess that’s it,” Maya said abruptly. People began to make their way to the cabin of the boat. Maya and Calder remained where they were.

I felt a tug, saw a pulsating glow on the bow of the boat that I hadn’t noticed before. My father waited there.

I still need to help her. Help Calder. They both hate me!

You will be better able to do that from where you are going than from where you are now
. My father’s thoughts were clear, though I couldn’t see how.

How can I possibly help them when I’m dead
?

There’s a ton for you to learn, son. You just have to trust me
.

As the boat made its way back to the dock, only Calder and Maya remained on the deck, peering over the rail, where the light from the now-bright moon reflected on the waves. When they arrived at the dock, Maya took Calder's hand and led him back inside. She looked tired and drawn, but I could tell from the glances that she snuck toward the back corner of the bar that she wanted to speak to Marcus. People flocked around her to say goodbye with long drawn-out hugs as Maya stood mute, eyes glazed, patting them absentmindedly on the back until they released her from their embrace, tears in their eyes. When the crowd finally thinned and her parents had taken Calder home in their car, she walked over to one of the bar stools next to Marc and perched.

“What are you doing here, Marcus?”

“I came to support you.”

“I’m fine, really.”

“I’m so sorry, Maya.”

“I can’t do this right now, Marc. I have to go.”

Maya collected her coat and purse and walked over to where my mom waited and whispered into her ear. My mom nodded and got up, put on her coat, and they were gone. Marcus slowly finished his drink and walked down the gangplank. He wandered in the direction of his hotel. I no longer cared about Marcus Pellegrino.

Without any effort on my part, I drifted away from the boat, weightless, suspended in air that wasn’t air. Engulfed in a silky whiteness, a kind of brightness that doesn’t make you squint, I had the sensation of lying on a warm, sandy beach, the sun on my eyelids creating a kaleidoscope of a million colors performing dances of light and form. I moved slowly toward a tunnel. I guess all those dudes who died and came back to life were right about the tunnel thing. I finally stopped resisting the insistent undertow and followed my father “into the light”, as it goes.

J
ay,

I superstitiously knock on wood against my bizarre thoughts of doom. God, you’ve been gone now less than a month and already I think I’m going crazy. You know it’s not my style to be superstitious. Just before I fall asleep, or in those moments before waking, an image or feeling comes – a car crash, Calder being kidnapped, a fire. Some unnamed disaster, waking me in panic. I reach over to touch the bedside table as if a tiny stroke of its slick, cherry wood surface might calm the chaos wracking my mind. I wake up clammy, and the night’s terror is reduced to a silly memory in the daylight. Maybe it was a dream, maybe a premonition. Either way, I live a nightmare. I wake each morning only to have to relive another day of you not being here, not being anywhere. I have to work hard to convince myself that you’re not just on a business trip.

I dropped the pen and journal into my lap and lay back on the pillow. Would writing a letter to Jay really help anything? He was dead for Crissakes, but my therapist suggested it as a way to deal with my grief. It was 5 a.m. again and I couldn’t sleep, so I gave it a try, but it felt strange. I put the journal and pen on the bedside table and rolled over and pulled the duvet over my head to try and hide from the day. I lay awake for another hour until the alarm went off. Using sheer will, I rolled back over to sit on the edge of the bed, my frozen feet on the fuzzy rug that’s meant to warm them. The effort to stand was unbearable and I waited there, prone, until I thought it might be possible to straighten my legs. My feet sank into the carpet as I stood, knees bending, hands on my thighs so I could use them to push myself to a wobbly standing position. I made my way to Calder's room to wake him. I felt like I was a hundred years old.

School was starting again for Calder today. He’d been off for almost a month, between the President’s Day mid-winter break and his dad’s death. As usual, it was nearly impossible to wake him. He turned toward the wall, wrapped in just his sheet like a long, blue cocoon. I had to think very hard to remember the order of my day. Teeth? Shower? Breakfast? Get dressed? The movements came from muscle memory, padding to the bathroom, scraping the shower curtain across the tub, turning on taps, fingers in hair. Tears were washed away, down the drain. Tears turned to sobs, and I doubled over in the shower, then crouched down to sit on the bottom of the tub, clutching my knees tightly as water and tears washed over me. Can you see me? Are you there, Jay? When I turned off the shower, I felt my essence flow down the drain with all those tears. I wrung myself out and re-pieced the mosaics of my being together with each article of clothing I pulled over my body. I stared at my face in the mirror, weighing the benefits, but ultimately rejecting the application of makeup, which my puffy eyes defied. A grieving widow should never wear mascara.

I poured Cheerios into a bowl and set it in front of Calder. His hair was in his eyes and he looked angry or sleepy, it was hard to tell.

“I can’t eat. I don’t want to go to school. Can’t I stay home for another day?”

“No. It’s time to go back. We need to get back to our routines,” I said as I pushed oatmeal around in my bowl. “Everyone’s going to look at me,” Calder said.

“It will be OK. If they look at you, it’s because they want to help. It’s because they care about you.” It’s because they pity you. I pushed the thought away. I faced the same fears.

“But they probably won’t notice you at all and they will just be happy to see you back at school.”

I’m not sure who I was trying to convince of this, him or me. I started spreading peanut butter on bread for his lunch. “I don’t want peanut butter.”

“We don’t have anything else.” Grocery shopping was out of the question. I wished Bethany could come back and stay a few more days, but she had her own kids who needed to get off to school each morning. I couldn’t rely on my sister for everything. She would know what to do, what to say to Calder to make him go to school.

“Can’t I have pizza?”

“We don’t have pizza.”

Calder slithered under the table. I grabbed his arm and tried to drag him out.

“Stop this, Calder. I can’t do this right now. We have to catch the bus.”

“I don’t want to go.”

I pulled his arm, pinching him unintentionally. “OWWWW! You’re hurting me!”

He began to cry. Hot tears sprang to my eyes.

“Get out NOW!” I yelled.

His cry turned to a sob.

“Get up. We have to go NOW!” I was just as hysterical as he was now. He crawled out from under the table, still crying. I held his coat out for him and he put it on.

“Please Mama, don’t make me go,” he said through hiccupped sobs.

My heart broke for him. He sounded so pathetic and sad. I couldn’t say anything because I knew I would cave in and let him stay home for another day. I knew I couldn’t let that happen, that getting back to school was the best thing for him. I handed him his backpack.

“Please Mama!” He dropped to the floor face-down and continued his dramatic sobbing routine.

“Let’s go.” I picked him up and stood him on his feet and walked him out the door. We didn’t say anything on the way to the bus stop. He kicked a rock along the sidewalk with his boot. When the bus rolled up, he turned and looked at me, a look of pure anguish on his face. I waved and turned away.

I drove to the gallery, blindly, on autopilot, stopping at red lights, accelerating on green, staying in the right lanes, uncertain how fast I should be going. I couldn’t decipher the colors, shapes and words that bombard me, or make them appear meaningful. I didn’t care anymore about my paintings and their display locations for this new show. The curator hugged me, muttering, “Sorry for your loss,” before scuttling away as if grief were a contagious disease. I stared at my painting, so cheery in fuchsia and yellow, and tried to avert my glance from the picture of the three of us, collaged in the center, happy, carefree. I took it down. Every painting in that place was steeped in meaning.

Someone approached me from behind. I wiped away a tear and turned to see Manuel, the gallery’s installer, giving me that horrible look of pity as he tried to hold my gaze like he wanted to read my soul.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. God, I hated that line. “Thanks, Manuel.”

“So, hey, I’m just wondering if you’d like to go out for dinner with me sometime?”

I stood in shock staring at him.

“Manuel, I appreciate the offer, but my husband died three weeks ago. It’s going to be a long time before I feel like going out for dinner, with you or anyone.” I couldn’t help sounding disgusted.

“Yeah. I understand. Just wanted to put it out there.”

He slumped off. This is what my life had come to. Christ.

Home again, I wandered around the house, not quite knowing what I was supposed to do next. More memorabilia assaulted me. The pen cup Calder decorated for me last year for Mother’s Day. The tiny card Jay gave me on Valentine’s Day two years ago, the one embossed with vines and flowers. He wrote, “To Lenie, don’t know what to say, but I love you. Happy Valentine’s Day – J.” The heart-shaped rock perched on top of my stack of household bills that languished in their lateness. It was the stone he found on Vashon during that rainy weekend we spent at the B&B. We stayed in the loft of an old barn. I had spent weeks bugging Jay to get away for a few days. He was so absorbed in his work, staggering in from the office after dinner every night, barely in time to tuck Calder into bed. I convinced him we needed a family weekend away and he agreed, which surprised me. The weather cooperated and the sun poked shyly from behind the clouds as we held hands, making our way along the rocky low tide near the Point Robinson lighthouse. Calder ran ahead, crouching over tide pools, sticking his finger into the anemones to make them squirt. I loved seeing Jay relaxed and happy, in a good mood, one I hadn’t seen in a while. He forgot his work stress, if only for a weekend, and that made me happy. The crease between his eyebrows softened, and I watched as he strolled down the beach, stopping to crouch beside Calder to point out various sea creatures. We made love that night, quietly, so as not to wake Calder sleeping in the next room. It was delicious and slow and afterwards I basked tangled within his arms and legs, my warm breath against his chest.

That memory stuck in my throat, along with the tears that were again threatening to erupt. I swallowed them down, sat in front of the computer to distract myself, clicked the computer mouse randomly. I had forgotten that man, the person I married. We were like driftwood, Jay and I, floating toward each other until a wave took us and floated us apart. Now that wave had taken him. He was gone and I was left to float alone, adrift. Is it me who is lost, Jay, or you? I’m not sure anymore. We were both present and absent, with form and without. Come back, Jay. Please come back to me.

That night in bed, I continued the letter. I didn’t know where else to put the sadness and guilt I was feeling. Words on a page seemed as good a place as any.

Did you see Marcus at your funeral? You probably wondered why he was there. I didn’t expect him to come. He had no right to be there. You will never know how hard he tried to get me back after I started seeing you. I never told you how he used to come to my studio when we lived in Toronto sometimes while you were at work and I was there painting. He’d take me out for lunch and tell me how much he still loved me, but I’d heard it all before. It was his story. Always the smooth talker. Besides, I’d fallen in love with you by then, Jay. I admired your ambition and the respect people had for you. A big change from Marc. Sure, I’d admired him, but I don’t think I ever had the respect for him that I had for you. And maybe I never had the love for him either. I don’t know. I thought I did. I wonder now what you thought of him. I don’t know why I never asked you. Anyway, I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?

I hear your voice sometimes in my head, disembodied, spoken silently from within. Do I speak or do you? Are you hearing my thoughts? Reading this letter? Have we become one being? My body, your thoughts. Perhaps I’m going insane. I’m in danger of such insanity, I realize. I can hear you telling me I’m not insane, but what do you know? You’re dead. Shit. Why the hell did you have to die? I need you, dammit. You got off easy. I’m sure there are no dishwashers to unload wherever you are.

Please come back,

Love Maya.