Under the Surface (Book Part 11)

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I walk up the sidewalk, the same one I’d mindlessly been up thousands of times. Like a dream, the familiarity and comfort splinters; I’m Alice inside the looking glass. Up is down, but with a directive: Say goodbye. Through the ajar front door, I walk. Down the eight-foot brick entry. Into a much too-lit and eerily still room. Police officers and medics stand along the room’s outermost edge, their gazes cast at the floor. It takes a moment to see her. My Mom. Her body is a rag doll in the middle of the wood floor, the same floor she’d diligently mopped the day before. My Dad and brother are by her side.

But none of it matters. Not my still racing heart from the run. Not the specialness I feel that all these people are here. Not the realization that there is a lifeless body in the center of the room. The only thing that matters is the only thing I see and feel blood-curdling irate about. All these people. How exposed. They can all see her bald head. My Dad’s pleas for her not to leave us fade to me. Are you kidding me? Her wig. It’s off. The shock is visceral to the point of shaking. I head straight for it, pick it up, then tuck it gently over her head.

While floating on my back, my eyes cast towards the expansive blue sky, and I imagine the casino’s heavy double doors that I won’t pass through today, tomorrow, or anytime soon. This realization, a slice of my should-be life juxtaposed with my now reality, is a gift beyond gifts. Each stroke and deep dive under is a thanks, and my entire body welcomes it.

“I want to prepare you. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do,” My Dad’s words are odd and chilling, far outside the usual conversation 16-year-old me normally has with him. He’s returned home from viewing my Mom’s body at the funeral home, and my turn is next.

I stay floating with an occasional leg kick to keep my head above water, but I don’t know how long. A child’s squeal alerts me that I’m no longer alone. Turning, I see movement up toward the road, where my car is parked. On the boulders are two children balancing and hopping from one rock to the other; following close behind are two adults with fishing poles in hand.

I duck under and pull myself from view with three large breaststrokes. I surface, see I haven’t been spotted, and wade backward the rest of the way to shore. From here, I can’t be seen. I walk the pebbly beach to my deflated inner tube, blow it up, then plunk it in its center. I close my eyes, and I am unconscious in less than a minute.

I’m not okay. Her far too-stiff body tricks my eye into thinking she’s breathing. I look closely at the mortician’s choice of light pink lipstick. She usually wears burgundy. I see she’s wearing the dark blue blazer and matching skirt I picked out. But there’s a disorienting addition of a scarf (later, I learn it’s hiding an enlarged neck). Only the mortician and I know that underneath is the nicest bra and underwear from the drawer.

I stand looking for no more than three minutes. Before turning to go, I tuck a note in the coffin and use a tissue to dab the pink lipstick like a stamp. Later, I’ll see it whenever I open my desk drawer, which will feel like “the end” of her book.

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