An Inconvenient Grief

December 24, 2003

She draws me to her small chest, her sinewy arms closing around me, wrapping us in faux seclusion. I’m drowning in the scent of her cloying perfume. “Would it kill you to be a little more social? People are going to think you are rude!” She says with a smile that could shatter teeth. She takes another sip from her flute of water. For her, “water” consists of one part water, and three parts gin.

Oh no, I might appear rude!? As if that would be the most horrific thing ever! I untangle myself from her spider-like grip, sigh, wrap myself in my arms, and venture through the throng of familiar, yet ever-evolving faces; people I’ve seen throughout my twenty-five years of life. I smile my perfected perfunctory smile. I hurriedly slip into my jacket, scarf, mittens, and hat. I need space… and a smoke. I can sense her emerald green eyes, piercing a hole in my back, lips disappearing into a tight, thin line of disdain.

A gust of air slaps me in the face, Oscar de la Renta disappearing from my sinuses. I look at the immaculately maintained, cookie-cutter houses, the driveways overflowing with rows of vehicles, shiny and reflective from the recent precipitation. The excess cars spill into the street and fall like sentries into tidy lines along the curbside. 

I cast a frosty gaze at the sky. Each lungful of expelled air creates clouds of condensate. I look back down, plod over to my parent’s Lexus, open the backdoor, and lean in to get my pack of cigarettes and my yellow Bic. Plucking a cigarette from the pack, I clumsily position it with my gloved hands between my painfully chapped lips. I bump the car door shut with my hip and strike the lighter, cupping the small flame to protect it from the gusty wind. I take a long drag and sigh with contentment.

All the windows, doorways, eaves, sidewalks, and surrounding shrubbery are neatly manicured, and draped in twinkling Christmas lights. They create multi-colored mirrors on the cars. There are no people or pets out, the near-freezing temperatures and previous torrent of wintry precipitation driving them all into their warmly glowing homes.

She insisted on me being here. I can’t force small talk about the weather, football, or the food, let alone muster up responses to the stale platitudes being passed my way. I have zero appetite. All I want is to be at home, wrapped in a cocoon of our sheets and blankets in our, dark and solitary bedroom. She didn’t want me to drive my car, so I am a captive, here at her will. 

My daughters, Ellen and Katie are with my sister's family at the beach, the pressures of reality temporarily removed. Our son, Joe is with his Dad’s parents. I realize: this is the first time in almost a decade I have been alone for the holidays, in charge of, only me. A chasm of desperation yawns open inside of me. 

Profound despair and loss flood my body along with a terrifying sense of being... unnecessary. I tilt my head again and peer into the moody grey sky, contemplating the events of the past thirty-six hours, wondering. Hot tears leak from my eyes and down my temples, forming rivulets that run toward my ears.

I look away from the heavens, irritatedly wipe my eyes with the backside of my scratchy mittens, and toss the half-finished Marlboro into the street, a tssss as it strikes the wet pavement. I down the contents of my red Solo cup before chunking it into the recycling bin.

Without warning, I break into a sweat. I snatch the hat from my head and try to pry the scarf from my neck. The soft, almost silky warmth has become a stifling noose. I wrestle with it. When I’m liberated from the thing, I hurriedly peel my jacket off. I take shallow shuddering, breaths. Still flushed despite the regular gusts of bitter wind, I open the door of the car again, chuck my shit in the backseat, and huffily slam it shut. The sound of the door slamming is blunted in the cul-de-sacs' cold, clean, twinkling silence. It's as if we are not real; just figures in a snow globe.

I pull my hair up into a sticky knot on top of my head. The air cools my clammy skin and nips at my torso through the minuscule holes in my ugly sweater. I trudge back to the house. Once inside, I plaster my societal smile on and then, “excuse me, pardon me,” my way toward the guest bath down a neatly decorated, squat hallway. 

Throwing a cursory glance over my shoulder, I creep beyond the bathroom door, go further down the hall, and enter the master suite. Looking back one more time, I slink into the master bathroom. Once inside, I simultaneously lock the door and flick on the light. Not bothering to be quiet now, I turn the faucet on. The trick, I’ve found is to act like you belong where you are: “Oh, my apologies! The other toilet was already in use and I couldn't wait!” I gingerly press on the mirrored cabinet. There is a slight click as the magnetized latch is released. I swing it open.

Along with random cosmetics and over-the-counter medications, stand several rust-colored, plastic prescription bottles: “Ambien (could be cool but not my groove), Propranolol (hey, same beta blocker as me), Prozac (I have lots of my own, thank you).” I search toward the back where one lone soldier faces the corner, as if punished. “This looks hopeful! Hydrocodone 10/500, I was hoping for Oxy’s but these will do…” I check the expiration date.

These pills aren’t expired but they are not an active prescription. It’s less of a gamble if it’s an abandoned script than one still being taken... I unscrew the lid. I shake about twelve to fifteen tablets into my sweaty hand. I put those into my pants pocket, reserving one for now. I turn the water off and cautiously return the bottle to its exact position of punishment. I flush the toilet and I gently press the mirrored door shut. Click! Grabbing a tissue, I wipe the fingerprint on the otherwise spotless mirror. I flick the light off as I pop the pill. Easing out of the bathroom, I swallow the oblong tablet as I slide toward the bedroom door.

“Morgan! I was looking for you!” Aunt Kat’s high, Southern voice startles me, and my heart pounds erratically, jack-rabbiting about my chest.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Aunt Kat! The guest bathroom was occupied and it was an emergency, so I used yours. I hope that’s alright!”

“That’s fine, Morgan,” she said, dragging out the long-i in ‘fine.’

“Thank you.” I smile hugely at her. I'm one of her favorites, so I’m not too concerned.

“I was wonderin’ where you got off to and wanted ta make sure you’re okay.” She says, again, dragging out the last vowel sound.

Inwardly, I scream, “Am I okay? No! I am not okay and I don’t understand why my mother forced me to come here! All I want is your drugs and your booze and to GO HOME!” 

Instead, I broadcast my made-for-public smile and state, “I’m managing as best I can. I appreciate your concern. Everyone has been so supportive today.”

“You want me to heat you up a plate? There’s plenty!”

“No, thank you. I should… check my cell in case… you know, the kids…” I begin and at the thought of the children and all of the questions and sorrow that lie ahead, I say, “Actually, I think I'll go make one right now. You’ve been waiting on us all day! I can manage! May I get you anything ?” 

“No thank you, Sweetie! I’m going to use the potty and go back out there to the domino table before your Uncle Jack starts to think he’s hot shit,” She cackles, "I don't want him peekin' at my hand!"

She walks toward the restroom I just exited, I walk toward the kitchen, nab a red Solo cup, and fill that son of a bitch to the tip-top; my Mother frowns at me from across the counter as she fills her water glass.

Uncle Sal is on his way for seconds or possibly thirds. He mops his cherry face with a handkerchief the size of a beach towel, blows his nose into it, and shoves it into his back pocket. I gulp half the Merlot, top it off, and try to bolt. I assume I've managed my way around him successfully; however, a familiar, grossly unwelcome, hand spats my backside. I glance in the direction the damp meat hook came from. Sure enough, Sal's there with his bright crimson face and small bowtie lips slathered in grease from the brisket, breathing so audibly it was worrisome.

“Hey, Morgie, I’ve been tryin’ ta find ya ta ask ya how yer holdin’ up. I imagine yer havin’ a real rough time of it all, I’m so sorry for ya loss but mostly for the littluns. You be sure to give ‘em a big ol’ squeeze from Uncle Sal and honey, it’s all gonna work out, I promise ya.” I peer into his beady bloodshot eyes and as much as the hand to the ass eked me out, my eyes betray me as a crack forms in my elaborately constructed dam. No! I’m not doing this here! I shouldn’t even be here. 

“I’m doing okay, Uncle Sal. Thanks.” I manage, edging past his round belly. I spy the front door and no one in the path between me and required escape.

Taking a determined breath, I make my way to the door. Similar to whack-a-mole, Kat pops up. “I’ve got yew a plate together, Morgan. I went ahead and made one for each of the kiddos as well! I didn’t think you'd want ta cook tonight with everythin' that’s going on.” She beams like a plump, German, Stepford-wife. The crack in the dam allows one trickle of moisture to breach its barrier. “You are a lifesaver, Aunt Kat! It’s so considerate of you to be so willing to help…”

Unexpectedly, I am smooshed against her ample bosom, soft and yielding like warm kneaded dough, a comfort. My tense body relaxes into her. Deep in my chest, the chasm stretches wider, and the sensation of release and intense pressure combine. I’m being smothered by culpability and pain and bosom! I pull away from her and push back out of the front door again. I grab my winter wrappings out of the SUV and blaze another cigarette while continuing to drink, watching the empty street.

I amble to the yard. I sit on the frigid grass, usually soft and yielding, now stiff and brittle under me. I lie back. There's tranquility in sitting on icy grass and inhaling the fresh, cold smell of winter air.

I shut my eyes and am accosted by memories: the sun warming my cheeks on a radiant summer’s afternoon, the sound of the wind rushing through the valley, tickling the underside of the towering ash trees, making them rustle like a song, the river reflecting the sun off of its many jagged ripples, the coppery scent filling my nose, angry and suspicious eyes flashing, candlelight flickering, my reflection, skin soaked with sour sweat as my own dope-sick eyes plead with me, tears of helpless agony pour down my wasted face.

I am bombarded by sounds: the laughter of the children as they play; painful little angels tugging at my soul, the sound of two people passionately making love in an attempt at Oneness, and the sweet nothings whispered in the ears of lovers, stern voices lecturing, accusations thrown around like pin-less grenades; strong hands restraining me as I struggle to break free  I gasp and sit up, an egg-sized lump in my throat as I choke out a sob. 

I stand and don’t bother to brush myself off. Once again, I down the rest of my drink and toss it into the recycling bin with the other. I stumble but correct my footing and tuck my hand into the front pocket of my jeans. I fish out another Vicodin and dry-swallow it as I open the front door, go inside, and cautiously make my way to the kitchen for more wine.

I boldly grab a beer stein from a shelf and fill it to the brim. I lean forward and begin slurping down the top inch; ease of transport and all... I drift to the card table and unceremoniously flop into a metal folding chair. I put my glass of wine on the table and peer over the top of my glasses, bleary-eyed. Across from me is Aunt Kat. To my right is my short, slight Uncle Peter. To my left is Aunt Betsy. She is a top-heavy lady with skinny chicken legs encased in beige leggings. She is usually the most wasted and always the loudest and rowdiest. She looks at me, alarmed.

Swiftly, my Mother materializes and grabs my elbow. “Morgan,” she says through clenched teeth“why don’t you lie down awhile in the guest room?” I jerk my arm from her grasp, take another big drink, and level my blurry gaze at her. Aunt Betsy chimes in, “Morgie, we all know what a hard time ya’ll is goin’ through. We loved Brandon and are so sorry this tragedy has happened to yer family but maybe yer Mom's right. Ya just need to nap for a while. This might not be the time ta—“

I whip my head around to her and then turn to address everyone. “Do ya think? You are right! This isn’t the time or place! My fiancé, my son’s father was killed last night! So, you tell me? Why in the absolute Hell am I here?

I look back to my Mother. "Would it look that bad, shine such an unfavorable light on the family if I stayed home after this kind of loss? If I’m here instead of at home grieving, does that help sweep this ugly little incident under the rug? 

You all loved him? PLEASE!”

Uncle Sal steps forward and offers to step outside with me for some fresh air. I yell, “I don’t need any more fresh air, SAL! What I need is for you to keep your hands off of my ass and for my son to have his Dad back! Can your fresh air do that?”

“You are all going to go home and look forward to Christmas Day, while I get accused of killing the love of my life because we got into an argument; he got drunk, went for a little joyride, and died!

He’s dead. It doesn’t make sense to me right now! His father came to my home and offered to purchase my son-- that is how severely dysfunctional this shit is!” I pick up my wine stein and my Mother tries to take it from me. I violently turn away, sloshing wine onto the white tile floor. I drain the contents and bang it back onto the card table, making the dominos jump.

“You understand how hard this is for me; the emptiness, the sadness, the confusion, the guilt, the rage, the selfishness he, our son... the relief? IS NOBODY GOING TO SAY IT? Fine! Fuck it, I WILL! Brandon-- was a junkie. He wasn’t a bad man. No, but he wasn’t necessarily a good one either! He was an exhausting prick but I loved him!” I choke back another sob, the ugly cry threatening to lay everything bare.

No one moves. No one seems to blink, “All I want is to be at home so I can mourn enough to pull my crap together for my children who are all mine now, all my very own! They are going to come home with questions; hard, real-life fucking questions that are going to NEED answers! Will any one of you be there to help with that?"

Will any of you even be at his funeral in two days? A funeral twenty-four hours after Christmas Day! You wanna know why? Do you want the gory details? He was decapitated! There will be no embalming! They have to get this shit done so he doesn't stink up the joint!"

I sway momentarily and hands reach out to steady me. “No!" I shout, "Leave me be!” I glare at the hands. Of course, my Mother-- the person who should have politely declined this invitation; the person whose arms I should be in somewhere at home. I fix her with an unwavering, dead stare “Some people should be sterilized,” I say to her.

I look hard at my extended family, “I’m so sorry if I ruined your gathering with my inconvenient grief. I’ll be outside in the car while you say your goodbyes.” I glare so furiously at my Mother, that she should have turned to cinder. I walk to the front door, tripping slightly on the leg of an end table. I open the door and walk out into the Christmas Eve dusk, finished with it all.