Wagon Wheels

I'm going to do something a little uncharacteristic here and step back, about three years back and write about something that happened a while ago. If you're one of my regular readers, AKA: my mother, you're probably dying to know what happened with my mortgage fiasco and unemployment. And that is what we call a cliff hanger. And you know what television shows do when there is a cliff hanger episode? They usually start the next episode with a flashback of something completely unrelated but equally dramatic that makes you forget what the original plot was about. But of course I am going to set up why this flashback is occurring first. I am, as usual, sitting in a bar by myself ordering dinner.

I stepped away to use the restroom for a moment, but really I was just in the bathroom talking to myself in the mirror about whether or not to order dessert. This is the conversation I had with myself:

"Come on, seriously?" I said to the mirror.

"What? I've already ordered a three course meal I might as well get some peanut butter pie," my reflection in the mirror said back.

"Or you could save the six dollars and put it toward a cab home and eat ice cream in front of the television with your cat."

"See," the mirror started, "that is just the kind of evening you were trying to avoid by going out."

"True, but the reason restaurants have dessert is for couples that are on successful first dates and want to prolong the time with each other. After all of that food nobody is actually hungry but if the date is going well you want to milk those last moments together splitting an oversized piece of cake. For this reason desserts are usually portioned for two people to share. If you order one by yourself you will therefore be pathetic."

"You're talking to a figment of your imagination in the mirror," the mirror said, "you're already pathetic"

"Have a cigarette and hail a--" and just as I was about to put this conversation with myself to close a song came on in the restaurant. I stopped talking, walked back to my bar stool and ordered dessert. The song that came on was Wagon Wheels, which was not a particularly sentimental song, except for the fact that it was my sister's song and the song that they played at her funeral. I tended to hear this song randomly, about twice a year when I was in a bar that played hipster music. Whenever it came on the first thought I had was that my sister was there in the bar and wanted to let me know. When I went back to the bar I pulled out the chair next to me and ordered the peanut butter pie. When a couple tried to take the seat I told them sternly,

"No, someone is sitting here."

As far as I was concerned my sister had come to visit me, and that was worth a slice of pie. But then I pictured her sitting on the bar stool next to me and for a moment it seemed very lucid and real and I started to tear up. It was sad enough that I was eating dessert at a bar "by myself" but I couldn't be the sad drunk crying and talking to the ghost of my sister.  I tried to pull it together. I looked around nobody seemed to noticed I was crying a little. I had no choice now but to think of that week.

Even though the events happened over the course of the week I honestly don't remember most of it. I spent so much time crying that the moments I remember are the times when I stopped crying long enough for something to happen. I look back and try to construct a timeline of events and it doesn't work. I can't seem to put together a cohesive narrative. I read other writers who have written about deaths in the families and I notice that they struggle with much of the same thing. When you're in it there are moments that seem so clear and in focus, and then everything else seems blurry and rushed like you're looking at it happening underwater. I'm usually tremendous at writing about my life and talking about my life but this was one of those times when I simply had nothing to say.

My first thought was that I needed a cigarette. I was working in a doctor's office and had quit at the time at the doctor's request. When my mother called to tell me there was an accident I didn't know what to think and wasn't ready for details. I knew what I had to do--whenever something happened in my family we immediately kept busy. I had to keep moving and I couldn't stop until I was ready to deal with what happened , which was never so I was pretty much going to be on the go for the rest of my life. I had a cigarette in the cab ride home ran upstairs and threw a bunch of black clothes in a suitcase while my then boyfriend was trying to figure out what was happening frantically in the background. I summed up the event in one sentence and was out the door. People always want to talk and have a cry but I wasn't ready to do any of that I threw my keep all in the cab and told the driver to take me to Ohare.

"What terminal?" He asked.

"I don't know yet just take me anywhere I'm buying the tickets now." I probably should have waited at home while trying to get a flight but that would involve stopping and sitting, not an option. I called every airline and nobody could get me on a flight. Finally, as I was standing outside of the airport chain smoking my stepfather came through with a exorbitantly priced first class ticket. It was the first seat in the first row.

"Would you like a drink before we depart?" the flight attendant asked. What time was it? What did it matter?

"Yes, please," I replied groggily.

"Should I guess?" everyone in the section chuckled except me.

"Just pour some whiskey in a glass, no ice or mixer." Then I got choked up a little bit, it was just the kind of sassy thing I would say I should have been amused. Why couldn't I be amused? Was I even allowed to be amused by anything right now? The drink returned and I threw it back. I tried to sleep but I spent most of the flight staring out the window at nothing and imaging how the accident happened. I had no details and in these moments an imagination was the worst thing to have. I then felt bad for leaving my boyfriend at home without any real explanation of what happened. He saw me frantically packing and I said in probably one breath, 'sisterdiedgoingtopennsylvnianowdon'twanttotalkgottapack.' Did I even say bye?

At some point I managed to compose myself on the way home. A friend picked me up from the airport and decided that the best thing to do was to make stupid jokes to try and distract me. The hardest part in any of it was seeing my other sister, her twin, and she'd never be a twin again. I'd never have twin sisters again. The thought overwhelmed me. And I just kept thinking please nobody say anything or I'm going to start crying again. My sister simply said,

"It's so hard." And that was all it took, we both sat down on the steps and had a good cry.

An hour later my Mother came with reinforcements, my grandmother. First of all there are some things you need to know about my grandmother, here is the general profile:

Dossier of Nana

Age: we don't ask anymore

Hair color: we don't know anymore, it's been the same artificial brown color since Eisenhower.

Location: New Jersey, when the early settlers discovered New Jersey and decided to inhabit and pollute it into oblivion they neglected to design roads where you could make a left turn. The elderly were all stuffed away in quiet retirement suburbs, which are as horrible as they sound, in a not at all ironically named part of the state called Leisuretown. Since Nana has settled there she has left the state maybe twice and not stopped complaining until she was back across New Jersey state lines.

Occupation: until recently worked in the divorce courts in New Jersey as a secretary. Long before I was born she worked in the jewelry store at the Palmer House in downtown Chicago, which was where she met my grandfather.

Features: Nana has been wearing Chanel no. 5 since it was invented in the twenties, she thinks that a woman should never be seen in public without a silk scarf and a pantsuit, and she doesn't yet understand homosexuality and maintains (to this day) that I'm single and living with a good friend. She insists that my sister decide on any major other than business because no man will ever want to marry her is she makes more money than them.

Nana approached me and my sister and, for the first time in my life, actually cried about something. This was a tough broad who had been there, done that, got the tee shirt--she's seen everything. She said to us,

"I've lost everything in my life. I'm old, everyone I know has died or is dying. I should be used to this by now, but this is the worst. It's just the worst."

In times of mourning, some families turn to the drink. Nana had come prepared with her jug of Carlo Rossi Rose, my mother had bought a bottle of Jameson. However, it seemed that alcohol was not the thing that would help us in this time of tragedy. You never understand until you're in it but food is the single most important, cathartic, nourishing thing. My family did the only thing we could do: we ate. We ate everything. Nothing would take the feelings of sadness, nothing would patch the hole in our lives, and so we focussed on the hole in our stomaches. And there was no short supply of food. People instinctively knew that flowers wouldn't help this, muffins would. Platters of bagels and lox would help. Cakes would help. My sister had worked briefly at Panera in high school and the entire staff heard what happened and sent over bags and bags of bread and sandwiches and pastries. They didn't even ask if we needed more, they just kept sending. So we just kept eating, and as ridiculous as it sounds there was something so healing about being able to eat, and sit and talk with friends and family.

Though the family had never been more broken it took this even to bring us all back to the dinner table, where we stayed for five days straight eating our schmears and sharing our stories about my sister. Though I had plenty of stories to tell, I had nothing to write. Everyone told me that I should try to write about what I was feeling, to just get it down. But the writing wasn't what helped. The eating and talking was. My uncle called, after years of no communication. If you had asked me before this if there was anything that would bring my mother and her brother back together I would have thought absolutely not. When my grandfather died, he didn't even come to the funeral. I thought he would forever be out of our lives, but somehow the loss had turned things around, had made us all realize how petty we had been in our lives.

At night my sister would hunch over her computer and go through every picture of her twin on Facebook. The page was overflowing from comments from everyone she knew. People we didn't even know started reaching out. Day after day we just left the door open and people would wander in and out of the house, sit for a while at the table with us, eat a muffin and go. After everything that had happened we just didn't have the energy to plan a funeral, and I wasn't even sure how long I could really avoid going back to "the real world" in Chicago. We planned what was supposed to be a simple celebration and the family decided that we should make it a party. And in the spirit of celebration my mother asked that nobody wear black or somber colors. My sister and I looked at each other. We both lived in the city, and pretty much only owned black gray and neutral clothes. I pulled everything out of my luggage it was all black.

My boyfriend called to tell me his flight time and asked if I wanted him to bring me anything to wear.

"No, I'm just going to the mall to buy a stupid cheap shirt that I'm never going to have to wear again. We're going today."

My sister and I perused later at Boscov's. If this department store had a slogan it wouldn't be "the everything store," it would be "the nothing-you-want-to-wear store."

"Who are all of these crappy designers?" I asked my sister.

"This is why I left the suburbs," she said, "So I'd never have to shop in this damn store again." Boscov's was a bit of a throw back to the northeast department stores in the Strawbridges era. Most of them were gone and the few that dwindled were hopelessly latched to a shopping mall next to a Spencer gifts or Sam Goody. In stores like this there was no new collection, no trend alerts. There were no mailers. Places like this time just stood still and nothing ever changed. And in a way it was almost a little calming to stand in what felt like a time warp. Everything around the store rushed on into the future while my sister and I stood in the past next to the two-for-ten sweater sets.

The day of the celebration we all took different posts around the hall. We had rented out one of those giant halls that they have the cop funerals in since my stepfather's brother worked for the Philadelphia police and had a connection at the hall. We weren't really sure would show up since we didn't call anyone or send notice in every way, just just made a simple Facebook event and said to bring anyone you'd like or might want to celebrate her life. We each took different posts. I was the greeter--meaning I stood in front of the door with a circle of chain smokers and a cup of lukewarm coffee. My boyfriend was on Nana duty, meaning he had to sit with Nana and keep her from doing anything crazy, my sister was stationed at the buffet eating her feelings and stuffing food in her Coach bag. My mother was in charge of the guest book.

Within an hour the entire hall was full. There was a line out the door and around the building to sign the guest book. There were no more seats in the chamber. People stood outside anxiously vying for a good view. I had no idea my sister, my little sister who dropped out of college and worked in a diner could have possibly known this many people. It was a powerful feeling, but also made me morbidly consider my own life. Could I ever command a turnout like this? Inside the chamber, where it was shoulder to shoulder people, my boyfriend was trying to keep Nana company. Nana seemed a little shellshocked throughout everything so he was trying to keep her talking.

"It's so crowded in here," she said groggily.

"I know," my boyfriend said, "Look at all the people. They're all here for your granddaughter. Isn't it special."

"I wish they would shut the doors already," she grunted.

"What?"

"I can't even hear myself think! Go get me a coffee and something to nibble on dear. I'll hold your seat."

Outside my boyfriend found me,

"Your Nana's really something else," he said. Once everyone was packed into the hall I took my seat with the rest of the family in front. A group of my sister's friends brought their instruments and played Wagon Wheels, which was supposedly her favorite song. A few people went on stage to speak and then a minister was saying a few words when my sister turned to me, tears welling up in her eyes. I kept thinking, please don't say anything. Don't say anything. I can't take any more of this. Everyone around us turned to her and she leaned in close to me and our mother and whimpered a little.

"What is it sweetie?" My mother asked, putting her hand on my sister's leg. Here it comes. I grabbed a tissue out of my jacket pocket.

"Mom--" she hesitated. Don't say anything, I can't cry anymore today, I was thinking.

"What baby, what's wrong."

"I really--" she paused and looked around, the minister was telling a story about how she would have wanted us to feel joy and celebrate, "really--" Everyone in the family turned to my sister and waited for her to finish the thought.

"I know, I know honey."

"I really have to pee."

"Oh," my mother said, and we all broke out into laughter. The minister stopped speaking and everyone began to look over at all of us. "Will you take your sister to the bathroom?" she motioned to me.

"Now? Did you misplace your bladder?"

"You need to fake cry, make it seem like you're overwhelmed with grief and your brother will take you out--they'll all think you're just overcome with tears."

"I cannot honestly believe you," I said. Nana leaned over and shushed all of us,

"Stop, I can't even hear this stupid woman talk!" She yelled loud enough for half the room to hear.

That was the thing about these things. Sometimes you need a good cry, but mostly you're just waiting for someone to make you laugh. That night at the dinner table, a family again, we all told stories about my sister, some of the ridiculous outfits at the funeral, Nana passed out on the couch, horrible botched family vacations, and of course my sister and her propensity for ruining everything with her bladder.

Back in Chicago I had to readjust to city life, and I couldn't think of any way better than a martini at the Palmer House. I strolled by where Nana used to work and it suddenly stuck me that for however random, horrible, and unpredictable my life was sometimes it always came full circle, and there was always something to laugh at, and there was always a dinner table for eating and drinking and telling stories.