Pasadena (11 page)

T
he day of the funeral dawns just as bright and hot as all the other days since Maggie died. I throw off my covers and lie there baking on my bed. The AC has given up the ghost again. Sweat plasters my tank and boxers to my skin.

A pressure in my chest keeps me pressed into the mattress, heat building behind my eyes, making them burn. It's only 7:00 a.m.

Joey dropped me off at sunrise and went back to get some sleep before the funeral. I must have dozed. A half-remembered dream evaporates into the stifling air before I can catch it, leaving room on my conscience for Maggie. And Joey.

I sit up and my mouth waters the way it does just before you throw up. I run to the bathroom, splash water on my face, and sit down on the closed toilet lid, breathing. In, out, in, out. Steady and slow.

The bathroom is cooler than my bedroom; the cracked and yellowed tiling keeps the room five degrees shy of the swelter in the hallway outside. But it's a small room, and it's closing in on me. I brush my teeth and skip the shower. It can wait a few hours.

Instead, I pull on yesterday's clothes, stuff my house key in my pocket, and slip out the back door. Inside, my mother's alarm clock goes off. Time for her to go to work.

Our neighborhood is awake, even at 7:00. Rusted pickup trucks pull up to start the morning gardening, lights come on in kitchens and bedrooms, kids running past the windows to their living rooms and morning doses of cartoons.

I walk the cracked sidewalks and watch the normalcy unfold at a distance. Maggie can't do this anymore. She can't wake up too early, can't go for a walk. She can't do anything but be buried, relegated to memory.

And suddenly, I remember my dream. Maggie's in the water and she's struggling, but somebody's holding her down. She stops fighting and goes under. Stays under.

Her killer looks up. And it's me.

I breathe deep, the smell of wet pavement and start-of-the-day lawn sprinklers. The snip of shears and soft thud of deadheaded roses from a nearby yard. I feel an emptiness in my chest and wonder if it's Maggie or Joey who put it there.

It's too early to go to a movie, or even the library. It's already close to ninety degrees and sweat drips down my nose as I walk. I hit Fair Oaks and turn into the strip mall on the corner, patting my pockets for enough money to buy a cup of coffee and a bagel. I find six dollars and stand in line at the coffee place, behind the suits and early-morning strollercizers.

I wonder if they can tell that I'm burying my friend today.

I think of the things Maggie knew about me, about Eppie and Dane. How everyone poured their hearts out to her. We only assumed she had done the same with us.

The thing I'm finally learning is that someone can be your best friend in the world, but you're not necessarily theirs.

I take a seat in the corner by the front window, away from the door. The glass is cool to the touch here, the industrial-strength air-conditioning working overtime. I
search the morning faces to see if Keith is here again, but I don't see anyone I know.

I nurse an iced coffee, killing time until the house is empty. My mother wants to come with me to the funeral. Just a girl and her mom, lending her support. At least she's not farming me out to Dr. B this time.

I watch the line shuffling through the front door, watch people turn and gripe when someone holds it open too long. I try not to think about last night, but I wish Joey was here.

Kissing a friend changes things. I knew that when I left for the summer. I knew some things were better left undone. And right now I'm sick of change. Even Danielle with her face full of fried clams would be better than sitting here alone, waiting. Maybe I should have stayed at Joey's, or called Eppie or even Dr. B. But I didn't think I'd wake up feeling like this.

After the way this week's gone, I didn't think today would be even harder.

I sip my drink but ignore the toasted bagel beside it. I've got no appetite for breakfast just now.

Eventually, when the coffee is gone and the ice has turned to murky water, I throw my cup away, leave the bagel on the table, and head back out into the heat.

I walk up to the library with its green lawn and giant, shady trees. I take a seat on the roots of a spreading oak and watch dogs being walked, children wobbling on their bikes. I fall asleep in the shade, the sounds of traffic and summer playdates fading into silence.

No dreams or nightmares come. I wake up muzzy-headed and lost.

The park. The library. The funeral at noon.

I stand up, brush off my shorts, and walk home.

The house is empty when I unlock the back door. Another warm drizzle of a shower and I start to feel closer to human. I think about putting on makeup, but I'd just sweat it off. I settle for the natural grieving look and pull on my Jackie O outfit. What with chatting up Violetta, and burying my best friend, it's going to be another full day.

I hear my mother's car pull up outside. By the time I'm ready to go, she and Roy are waiting for me in the living room. My mom is wearing a black summer dress and has a straw hat resting on her knees. Roy is in jeans. Black jeans, to be specific, and a black button-down camp shirt.

I close my eyes and it's three months ago. Joey's waiting for me to close that gap between friend and girlfriend. And Roy starts wedging his way inside. I open my eyes. This is the universe's punishment for last night. This is what I get for trying on “normal.”

“Ready, baby?” my mom says. “Roy's coming with us.” She pats Roy on the knee and rises, hat clutched to her heart. “Don't you look nice? Roy, doesn't she?”

Roy rakes his eyes over me. “All grown-up,” he says. I take a breath. And let it all out.

“Fuck you, Roy. Mom, he's not coming. Let's go.”

My mother looks like a deer in the crosshairs. “What? Uh . . . Don't be . . .”

I raise an eyebrow and put my hands on my hips. “Don't be what? Ridiculous? Can't you
see
the way he looks at me? Or guess what he says to me when he knows you're not around? Open your eyes, Mom. Dust my doorknob for fingerprints. I'm sure you'll find a match. So, as I was saying, not him, not today.”

“Baby,” Roy says to my mother, seeing his free rent ticket hanging in the balance.

She doesn't look at him or at me. She stares down that tunnel to the past, the one with the regret-paved road running through it. She gulps the air, like she might cry. A second gulp follows, and a third.

“Royce Tremaine,” she says, “when I first told you about . . . about
that
, it was in confidence. It was so you would understand me better, understand my
family
. I did not let you into this house lightly, and I sure as hell didn't give you carte blanche on my daughter.”

She looks at him. Her eyes are fiery and rimmed with red. “Did you lay a finger on her?”

Roy has the courtesy to go pale. “N-no,” he stutters.

“Did you?”
My mother raises one of her fingers now and it is sharp as a knife, deadly as a gun. Roy pulls away, digging himself deeper into the sofa.

“We have good locks,” I say, and my voice sounds smaller than I mean it to be. It's been a long time since I've seen my mother as a protector. I clear my throat and watch what it looks like, what it should have looked like years ago when the lock on my bathroom door wasn't as good.

My mother doesn't say anything else, though. She lowers her head and seems to crumble in on herself. “Okay, Roy. You're not coming.”

Not. Coming.

My stomach plummets. If hope is a thing with feathers, then the last one's just been plucked.

Roy stands up, seeing the mama bear has no teeth. “I don't need this crap. These crazy . . . crazy accusations. I don't need it.”

My mother shakes her head. “Let's go, baby,” she says to me.

I start to laugh, ignoring the sting in my eyes. “Way to
show up, Mom. Way to give him a piece of your mind. For a minute there, I almost felt . . . safe. Thanks for that. Thank you for almost.”

I leave them to each other in the overheated living room. I leave them to whatever it is two losers do when the blinders come off and the lights go up.

I wish I could call Joey for a ride. I need that now more than I ever needed that kiss. But you can't turn back time, so I walk to Fair Oaks and get a cab.

I
'm late to my best friend's funeral. There's a joke in there somewhere, but I can't find it. The church is a monstrosity of 1950s design—a functional block of smooth peach-colored cement with a chalky white A-frame stuck in the middle, like the ghost of an IHOP restaurant that crash-landed on a warehouse store. A small brass cross at the peak of the IHOP lets you know it's a house of God. No wonder Maggie scoffed when her parents found religion. This place is hideous.

I mount the wide white steps, the heat reflecting off them in waves, and pull open the left side of the large gray double doors.

At least the inside looks more suitable for a funeral.
From here, the IHOP roof is revealed to be lined with tall windows. Sunlight pours down in rays that stripe the congregation below. Unfortunately, except for the pews and pulpit, peach and chalk is still the order of the day. Add in a crowd of black-clad mourners, and it looks like a set from an eighties movie.

Parker and his father are in the front row, Parker's wheelchair blocking part of the center aisle. Violetta is already sitting in the pew behind the family. Mr. Kim is talking to two people I can't see. His stance shifts and I'm surprised to discover Scott Dunfee standing before him, literally hat in hand, his brother Keith at his side.

Scott's in his dress uniform, all brass buttons and epaulettes. He's changed since the last time I saw him. Hardened, maybe. Grown older. He looks like a photo op standing there, jaw chiseled, eyes bright with emotion. Maggie would have swooned.

Keith is less striking, but he managed to dig up a blue suit. And I guess there is peace in the Dunfee family because Keith's got his arm around Scott's shoulders, shoring him up. Scott shakes Mr. Kim's hand. As if in silent agreement, the three of them move closer together and bow their heads.

Someone comes up behind me and I know it's Joey.
He's too close. A kissing distance. All I have to do is turn around. “Who are you looking at?” he murmurs into my hair.

“They're praying,” I say, refusing to turn my head. I ignore the tingling in my back and focus on the curious sight of the jock and the hero, talking to God.

“It is a church,” Joey replies. “Jude. Last night—” His fingertips brush my waist.

“Really, Joey? Now?”

He sighs and retreats a few inches.

I ignore him, unable to look away from that circle of grief on display.

Mr. Kim comes up for air and grips Scott's arm, wrinkling the perfect uniform. There is a stiff nod, a brusque pat on the back, and Keith leads Scott away to settle into a pew.

The viewing line shuffles forward.

“Are you ready for this?” Joey asks, his voice no longer intimate, but sad. His hand brushes mine, but I don't reach for him. “Jude?”

“Why wouldn't I be?” I'm going for bravado but, as I say it, the line of classmates and relatives shifts, and I see why he asked.

Hank was wrong about the casket. The Kims must've
hired the makeup artist to the dead stars, because Maggie Kim is lying in state, just the way she always wanted, black dress, pale skin, and a host of mourners lining up to say their final farewells. A blanket of red roses drapes the lower half of the coffin like an evening gown.

Just like that, I'm glad Joey's with me. I'm not sure I'd want to face this alone.

Mrs. Kim presses a hand to her daughter's casket. She allows herself to be led away, leaning heavily against none other than Edina Rodriguez.

Edina's traded in her YMCA swimsuit for a Maggie Kim costume—her dress is identical to the one in the coffin. I'm glad I didn't borrow it now. We would've looked like triplets. Her hair is pulled back into the tight Audrey Hepburn bun Maggie used to favor for formal dances. Maggie's pearl choker is back around Edina's neck. Just once, I wish the damned thing would live up to its name.

Edina sees me and Joey coming down the aisle. The look she gives me is no less than triumphant. She pats Mrs. Kim on the shoulder and goes back to playing the most aggrieved friend.

Joey and I follow the parade of mourners—Tallulah is there, Dane at her side, despite the traumatic breakup. The two of them look more like a
Vanity Fair
photo shoot
than a couple of sad teens. I wonder if this is the start of a trend for them, a Catherine-and-Heathcliff affair that will leave them devastated, yet believing their love is inevitable. Maybe they just don't know how to be apart yet.

Like me and Maggie.

When she died, I let Joey take her place.

Behind them, Hank and Eppie have shucked off their wet suits long enough to pull on black outfits. They press their fingers, shaped into peace signs, to their lips and then to Maggie's forehead.

Joey and I move slowly forward.

A decrepit old man is being wheeled down the aisle in front of us, pushed by a young nurse. Maggie's grandfather or great-uncle, I can't remember. The other uncle, the one with the tuna breath, is off the guest list.

Then there's Parker. He doesn't approach the coffin, just sits there in his wheelchair. I wonder if he's already said his good-byes or if he's just sulking as usual.

One respectful row behind him, Violetta is looking not quite herself in a black dress and shawl. From my vantage point, I can see she is texting beneath her wrap. But with whom?

The thought passes as the old man is rolled away and Joey and I reach the casket.

Maggie.
I start to say her name and stop. Margaret Kim, beloved daughter and sister, lies in the satin-lined box. I recognize her the way you would an old friend years later. Familiar, but strange. Someone you want to trust but can't because you don't know them anymore.

Margaret Kim is dead. But she's not my Maggie.

I sob in relief at the sight and Joey wraps an arm tight around me.

The body in this coffin is not the girl I knew. In those moments behind my eyelids—laughing at me from the side of the pool, couched next to me on the sofa in front of her old black-and-white movies—Maggie lives on. Sitting on my geometry homework. Waving at Luke through the telephoto lens.

She's still alive inside me.

I lean down and kiss her corpse good-bye, one cheek, then the next, pressing my lips into the pancake makeup inside the open casket. Its buttressed lid is the final proof that the cops are calling it an accidental death, and not a suicide after all. You shut the door on suicides. Accidents, on the other hand, are simply an act of God.

“You did it, babe,” I tell her. “You made a beautiful corpse.”

After a moment, Joey steers me back up the aisle, only
to be flagged down by Mrs. Kim in the front row. I bend down into her embrace, careful not to kiss her cheek so soon after kissing Maggie's.

“You will say something,” she says into my ear. “When the minister says, you will speak.” It's not a request.

I hesitate. Her arms hold me tight, as if she can make me agree by sheer force. A eulogy for Maggie. “Of course,” I say.

If she'd asked me yesterday, like a normal person, I might have said no, or spent the night tossing and turning over what to say. But this is Maggie's mother, and that girl never took no for an answer. They're more alike than I would have guessed. Mrs. Kim nods, her hair brushing against my cheek, and releases me.

Joey is waiting. We return up the aisle and find seats in the sixth row.

A little while later the service begins. The minister goes on about unfairness, the prime of life, and God's great plan. I bow my head, but I'm not listening. I'm wondering where Lukey Loo is.

Then Joey nudges me. Maggie's father is taking the stage.

He looks dignified and drawn, as if he's aged ten years since yesterday. I wonder if it's taken this long for Maggie's
death to finally sink in, or if it's a face he put on, the way his wife put on her makeup, to look the part of the grieving father. He buttons and unbuttons his suit coat nervously when he reaches the podium, and looks out across the audience with a weak smile.

“It's unnatural for parents to outlive a child,” he begins. His voice is hoarse, but grows stronger as he speaks. “We've fought against it for years with our son, Parker. So, you can imagine, after so much diligence with one child, to have Death come along and steal the other, it's . . . unbearable.”

He leans some of his weight on the podium, his breathing amplified by the microphone in front of him. There is a convincing amount of grief in his stance.

After a moment, he straightens. “Margaret Hye-Sun Kim was our only daughter. Intelligent, lovely and, admittedly, very independent. Too independent, a father might say.” He laughs a little at this, giving the mourners permission to laugh with him. “We were proud of our daughter. Our little angel.” He removes his glasses, wipes his eyes. “Thank you all for coming.”

The whole room seems to be waiting, wondering what comes next.

I'm still chewing on the “angel” line when Joey nudges me again. “You're up,” he says.

The minister is standing at the pulpit, watching me with a professional sympathy. I put my purse on the seat beside me and rise, a thousand drums playing inside my chest.

Heads turn. I feel eyes on me all the way up to the stage, my legs brushing against each other beneath the hem of my dress. I mount the three little steps, feeling the heat of all those eyes, and wrap my hands around the sides of the podium overlooking Maggie's coffin.

The last time I spoke in public, I was on the witness stand. The view is familiar, and so is the task. It's time to testify.

“Good afternoon.” I clear my throat, wishing I'd brought a bottle of water. “For those of you who don't know me, my name is Jude. I was one of Maggie's friends.”

In the audience, I see Edina squinting at me. Her eyes widen when I don't use the b-word, but “best friend” is hard to say when you have no idea why yours is dead.

“Maggie's parents asked me to speak today and, frankly, I didn't want to.”

In the pews, people shift uncomfortably. Joey looks at his lap, then up again. I can feel him willing me to do my best.

“You see, Maggie was special. She could charm a squirrel out of a tree.” I glance at Joey. He blushes. “She could
look at the most unlikable person or the worst situation and find the good in it. In us.”

Edina nods. Dane and Tallulah draw closer together. Eppie is crying on Hank's shoulder. Parker looks at his knees, shaking.

The hole is opening up beneath me again, the one that's been there every quiet moment, every night since Maggie died. I recognize it now, here, from behind the microphone.

I've fallen into this pit before. But Maggie pulled me out. This time, I'll have to climb out all on my own.

“So, I've been blaming myself for Maggie's death. I was out of town when it happened, and I keep thinking, whatever happened that night, maybe if I had been there, I could have done something to help.” Heads nod in sympathy, or shake, expressing their own confusion. “But here, today, looking out across this room, I see family, friends, and classmates.” Each group nods in acknowledgment as I scan the crowd. Edina and Tallulah hold their chins up. Stiff upper lip, I suppose. Or pride. “You all loved Maggie too.”

There are murmurs of agreement. I clear my throat. “The difference is, all of
you
were here. And she's still dead.”

Gasps. Edina scowls. Maggie's mother has a hand over
her mouth, her husband's arm around her. Parker is staring fixedly at nothing. Tallulah starts crying, Dane looks blank. Eppie and Hank are hunched together now, shoulders shaking. From tears, or laughter, I can't tell.

In the sixth row, Joey is shaking his head at me.
Make nice, for Christ's sake
, I can hear him saying.
It's a funeral after all
.

I take a deep breath and force myself to continue.

“So . . .” I pause and let the indignant mumbling die down. “So, now I'm thinking, maybe you can't save anyone. No matter how much we might care for someone, it's not always up to us. Could any of us have helped? Maybe. We'll never know.”

Behind me, the cross on the wall creaks as the building shifts, a passing truck or a tiny earthquake making the foundation shudder. Temblors happen here all the time. There's just no way of knowing if it's an aftershock from some long-ago event, or a precursor of things to come.

I take another deep breath. Everyone is quiet now, not sure if I'm the enemy or just a kid who's hurting.

Frankly, I'm not so sure either. Because I'm realizing something, standing up here in front of Maggie's dearly beloved. The sort of thing that makes you feel like you're falling out of a Ferris wheel because it means there's no
difference between holding on for dear life and letting go. Hold on and you'll eventually be crushed by the wheel; let go and gravity does the rest.

“We'll never know. But it doesn't matter,” I say, “whether we could have helped or not. Because it's over. Maggie's gone. And now we have to let her go. Thank you.”

I turn away from the podium and walk back down the steps, each one bringing me closer to the bereaved. Maggie's mother reaches out for me, eyes red, a real handkerchief in her hand. She pulls me into a hug and thanks me. Her father nods his head but says nothing. Parker's got his eyes on the middle distance. His jaw is clenched. Mine is too.

I make my way back to the pew where Joey is waiting. He pulls me into the seat like he's rescuing me, and maybe he is.

Maggie was my Ferris wheel. I can see that now. It was a ride with a view of everything I could never have found on my own. And now it's over.

I reach into my purse and pull on my sunglasses. That's enough sharing for today.

It's time to move on.