Forgive Me
Chapter 3
“Abandoning my anger, trying numb for a while
It may serve me better than a dead hearted smile”
Chapter 3
“Abandoning my anger, trying numb for a while
It may serve me better than a dead hearted smile”
“I’m really sorry about your parents,” Kevin says. He graduated with Sean and now he’s an undertaker.
“Thanks, Kevin,” Sean responds, and I barely look at either of them. This cannot really be happening.
“I know they airlifted your mom. We were all pulling for her.” Shut the fuck up, Kevin. I roughly run my hand up and down the side of my face.
“Her injuries were too extensive,” Sean says, and pulls out a chair for me. Even with my high wedges on, I’m nowhere near his height. Sean’s a big, burly, Irishman with the same green eyes as my own, except mine look like that of a dead person now.
Sean and Kevin work through what appears to be a list of things people need at a funeral: caskets, obituaries, memorial cards, flowers. I barely listen to a word of it. What day is it? I’ll bet it’s written on the top of Kevin’s form somewhere. He seems very organized. I always liked him. Not feeling him today. I try and focus on the top of Kevin’s papers as he plays with his pen cap above them. I wonder if my obvious hatred is making him nervous. None of this is his fault. I smile sweetly and even that seems to make him uncomfortable. If I’m killed in a car accident tomorrow, is Kevin going to have this conversation about me? How many times a day does he have this conversation? He should have studied statistics at Rutgers like me. Rutgers was a million years ago.
“Have you thought anything about the service?” Kevin directs his question to Sean. I am clearly scaring him.
“We’re headed to the church next.”
Great. I definitely want to take this show on the road.
“Are you okay, Charlotte?” Sean asks as he opens the truck door for me.
“I’m dead inside. Maybe it’s shock or something, but I cannot seem to figure out anything but how much I hate people. Kevin seems like a nice guy.”
“He is.”
“It took all of me not to reach across the table and strangle him with his own tie.”
Sean stares at me, completely disturbed by my statement. “Okay…” he manages, and closes the truck door.
“How is it you are so mentally stable? Both your parents were just killed in a horrific car accident. Poof! Gone. What the fuck, Sean?” His eyes widen and I note that I need to take it easy on him.
“I’m working through the process. Planning a funeral, calling relatives, meeting with the police and fire officials, dealing with the hospital and insurance companies, driving my crazy-ass sister around. You know, the process.” Sean starts the truck and looks behind us to back out. We drive the three minutes to the other side of town in a hysterical silence.
Pastor Johnson leads us back to his office and Sean motions for me to take a seat first. This is Kevin’s office all over again, but Pastor Johnson’s office is full of books and it reminds me of the thing I love most about him. He is intelligent. His sermons always make me smarter. Sean and Pastor Johnson speak of memories of our parents as anger burns inside of me. My mom loved this church her whole life, and now it’s betrayed me. She should be planning refreshments for someone else’s funeral. I look up and realize at some point the conversation switched to music.
“She’ll want ‘In the Garden’ sung at the funeral,” I say.
“Who will?” Sean looks like his mute sister just learned to speak.
“Mom. She’d want ‘In the Garden’ sung. It’s her favorite hymn.” I lower my eyes to my hands in my lap. “Was her favorite.” Pastor Johnson pauses, waiting for me to say something else, but I have nothing else in me. It’s all dead, too.
“I want you both to continue attending services,” His directive catches my attention. “It’s important. Not because it’s what your parents would want for you, but because it’s what you both need. In the darkest moments of your life you should not stop worshipping.” Is this the darkest moment of my life? What does that mean? Is there some qualifying ribbon I receive for hitting the darkest moment?
“Even in this horrible time, God knew it beforehand.” This statement completely pisses me off. My hands begin to shake at the suggestion that my parents’ accident was part of a divine plan. “It’s not a surprise to Him. He knew it before you were born.”
“Oh yeah, well fuck Him and fuck you, too,” I say, anger searing me.
“Charlotte! What the hell are you saying?” Sean is wild-eyed as he yells at me, before realizing he’s now cussing in the Pastor’s office, too. “Sorry, Pastor.”
“It’s okay. Charlotte, it’s okay.” I have no idea what else he’s saying. I can no longer listen to a word of it.
“Would you excuse me for a minute?” I smile out of habit and walk out of his office. I sit on the front steps of the church and wait for Sean. I should be crying. I should be flat on my stomach on the lawn of the church, banging my fists and feet into the ground as I sob uncontrollably. But I’m not. I don’t even feel guilty. I’m not sure I feel anything. Maybe some anger. That’s a good sign, right?
Sean is pissed, I’ll bet. I remind myself again, I have got to go easy on him. He’s all I have left now.
Shockingly, Sean doesn’t include me in the rest of the planning. Instead I am “watched” by my sister-in-law Michelle, or by my Aunt Diane at all times. It’s like they’re completing a nurse’s log about what I eat and drink, always begging me to eat more and get some rest. What the hell do I need rest for? I think I can talk about the shittiness of my parents’ death without a full eight hours.
After two days I abandon my anger. It’s pissing me off, too. I try numb for a while. I walk through the grocery store aisles like a zombie searching for crackers. I pause in the makeup aisle, because I am a masochistic zombie, and remember all the times my mom let me wear makeup as a little girl. I’m sure I was the only first grader wearing eye shadow in the class picture. I can barely concern myself with it now.
I walk down the ice cream aisle and pick out my father’s favorite, mint chocolate chip. My mother used to tease him that he only stayed with her because she kept the freezer stocked with ice cream. I drop it in my basket and lumber to the register to pay.
“Charlotte, I’m so sorry about your parents. We’re gonna miss seeing your mom in here every week,” the cashier says, and I just look at her with my dead green eyes. Say something, Charlotte. This interaction is going to be retold seventeen times today.
“Thanks,” I manage, and walk out of the store. I throw the ice cream in the trashcan by the door. Maybe this is why cutters cut themselves? I’ve never understood it, but now I can’t remember what it’s like to feel something.
“Thanks, Kevin,” Sean responds, and I barely look at either of them. This cannot really be happening.
“I know they airlifted your mom. We were all pulling for her.” Shut the fuck up, Kevin. I roughly run my hand up and down the side of my face.
“Her injuries were too extensive,” Sean says, and pulls out a chair for me. Even with my high wedges on, I’m nowhere near his height. Sean’s a big, burly, Irishman with the same green eyes as my own, except mine look like that of a dead person now.
Sean and Kevin work through what appears to be a list of things people need at a funeral: caskets, obituaries, memorial cards, flowers. I barely listen to a word of it. What day is it? I’ll bet it’s written on the top of Kevin’s form somewhere. He seems very organized. I always liked him. Not feeling him today. I try and focus on the top of Kevin’s papers as he plays with his pen cap above them. I wonder if my obvious hatred is making him nervous. None of this is his fault. I smile sweetly and even that seems to make him uncomfortable. If I’m killed in a car accident tomorrow, is Kevin going to have this conversation about me? How many times a day does he have this conversation? He should have studied statistics at Rutgers like me. Rutgers was a million years ago.
“Have you thought anything about the service?” Kevin directs his question to Sean. I am clearly scaring him.
“We’re headed to the church next.”
Great. I definitely want to take this show on the road.
“Are you okay, Charlotte?” Sean asks as he opens the truck door for me.
“I’m dead inside. Maybe it’s shock or something, but I cannot seem to figure out anything but how much I hate people. Kevin seems like a nice guy.”
“He is.”
“It took all of me not to reach across the table and strangle him with his own tie.”
Sean stares at me, completely disturbed by my statement. “Okay…” he manages, and closes the truck door.
“How is it you are so mentally stable? Both your parents were just killed in a horrific car accident. Poof! Gone. What the fuck, Sean?” His eyes widen and I note that I need to take it easy on him.
“I’m working through the process. Planning a funeral, calling relatives, meeting with the police and fire officials, dealing with the hospital and insurance companies, driving my crazy-ass sister around. You know, the process.” Sean starts the truck and looks behind us to back out. We drive the three minutes to the other side of town in a hysterical silence.
Pastor Johnson leads us back to his office and Sean motions for me to take a seat first. This is Kevin’s office all over again, but Pastor Johnson’s office is full of books and it reminds me of the thing I love most about him. He is intelligent. His sermons always make me smarter. Sean and Pastor Johnson speak of memories of our parents as anger burns inside of me. My mom loved this church her whole life, and now it’s betrayed me. She should be planning refreshments for someone else’s funeral. I look up and realize at some point the conversation switched to music.
“She’ll want ‘In the Garden’ sung at the funeral,” I say.
“Who will?” Sean looks like his mute sister just learned to speak.
“Mom. She’d want ‘In the Garden’ sung. It’s her favorite hymn.” I lower my eyes to my hands in my lap. “Was her favorite.” Pastor Johnson pauses, waiting for me to say something else, but I have nothing else in me. It’s all dead, too.
“I want you both to continue attending services,” His directive catches my attention. “It’s important. Not because it’s what your parents would want for you, but because it’s what you both need. In the darkest moments of your life you should not stop worshipping.” Is this the darkest moment of my life? What does that mean? Is there some qualifying ribbon I receive for hitting the darkest moment?
“Even in this horrible time, God knew it beforehand.” This statement completely pisses me off. My hands begin to shake at the suggestion that my parents’ accident was part of a divine plan. “It’s not a surprise to Him. He knew it before you were born.”
“Oh yeah, well fuck Him and fuck you, too,” I say, anger searing me.
“Charlotte! What the hell are you saying?” Sean is wild-eyed as he yells at me, before realizing he’s now cussing in the Pastor’s office, too. “Sorry, Pastor.”
“It’s okay. Charlotte, it’s okay.” I have no idea what else he’s saying. I can no longer listen to a word of it.
“Would you excuse me for a minute?” I smile out of habit and walk out of his office. I sit on the front steps of the church and wait for Sean. I should be crying. I should be flat on my stomach on the lawn of the church, banging my fists and feet into the ground as I sob uncontrollably. But I’m not. I don’t even feel guilty. I’m not sure I feel anything. Maybe some anger. That’s a good sign, right?
Sean is pissed, I’ll bet. I remind myself again, I have got to go easy on him. He’s all I have left now.
Shockingly, Sean doesn’t include me in the rest of the planning. Instead I am “watched” by my sister-in-law Michelle, or by my Aunt Diane at all times. It’s like they’re completing a nurse’s log about what I eat and drink, always begging me to eat more and get some rest. What the hell do I need rest for? I think I can talk about the shittiness of my parents’ death without a full eight hours.
After two days I abandon my anger. It’s pissing me off, too. I try numb for a while. I walk through the grocery store aisles like a zombie searching for crackers. I pause in the makeup aisle, because I am a masochistic zombie, and remember all the times my mom let me wear makeup as a little girl. I’m sure I was the only first grader wearing eye shadow in the class picture. I can barely concern myself with it now.
I walk down the ice cream aisle and pick out my father’s favorite, mint chocolate chip. My mother used to tease him that he only stayed with her because she kept the freezer stocked with ice cream. I drop it in my basket and lumber to the register to pay.
“Charlotte, I’m so sorry about your parents. We’re gonna miss seeing your mom in here every week,” the cashier says, and I just look at her with my dead green eyes. Say something, Charlotte. This interaction is going to be retold seventeen times today.
“Thanks,” I manage, and walk out of the store. I throw the ice cream in the trashcan by the door. Maybe this is why cutters cut themselves? I’ve never understood it, but now I can’t remember what it’s like to feel something.