All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(49)

I often think of the people who never thought I would do anything. Those are your allies. Those are your little secret friends. You keep them close.

I think that what’s important— I was on a panel with Gay Talese, the great New York Times journalist, great narrative journalist. And people were asking him about the current age of journalism, where, you know, we’re Boswells. We sit in a cube and we write about people who write about people who write about—that we end up in this meta, crazy place where we don’t have anything original, we’re just putting a little topspin on whatever’s going by.

And the great Gay Talese said, “We are outside people. We leave, we find people more interesting than us, and we come back and we tell their stories.”

Right now, everything looks impossible. Think back when you applied to be here. How many bodies did you crawl over to get here, for one thing? You’re extraordinary just by getting in here. And now you made it to the end—improbably, not everyone probably did, but you’re here. You’re standing here. So when you see the big incline ahead of you, just keep in mind these last two years. You totally beat the odds, and you fucking landed it. You’re here!

Odds against you, here you stand. Grads of the Berkeley School of Journalism. Resolve to be worthy of that. Resolve to do important things with that. Be grateful for the good things that have come your way.

This small group before you, ladies and gentlemen, will I’m sure one day make a big dent in this world. Maybe somebody should write a story about that.

My deepest congratulations to you, the family; you, the faculty; but most of all, you guys. I’m proud of ya and I don’t even know ya.





26


    His Second Act



“Still alive.”



As I woke up I was hit with the undeniable fact that today was my father’s funeral. I tried to will my eyes to open, but they were swollen and crusted together from all of the past days’ crying. I was in bed in the attic of our family home in New Jersey. I cringed as I began to conjure the things I did or said the night before. I’d held it together at the wake but then all went to hell as I drowned in white wine and grief. I dimly recalled begging my twin to sleep next to me, but when I awoke the place in the bed where her body was supposed to be was vacant. I turned over and faced the light and there she was, quietly folding a sweater into her suitcase. She didn’t look up but said good morning all the same. The air up in the attic smelled still, unfamiliar. I couldn’t remember how I got up there.

I asked her if everything was okay.

“Not really.”

“Will you help me get ready?”

“Sure.”

I got out of bed and reached for the water next to the nightstand that she had most likely put there. “I don’t want to talk about last night,” I started. “Later, we can discuss it, just not right now.”

She remained silent. I hugged her and she hugged me back, but there was reluctance in her embrace.

We headed down into my bedroom—the room I was supposed to sleep in but refused to in a drunken stupor—and I kicked open the suitcase on the floor. Yunna and her mom had gone out and bought some black dresses for me to try on. There was a liquid-like leather dress that my contrarian side wanted to pick, knowing that Dad would hate it. But Meagan chose the simple black cotton one for me. I showered quickly and blow-dried my hair and put my glasses on, a good shield for the tears that would be forthcoming. My face was bloated, having aged remarkably over the previous week.

A hangover was descending quickly. I knew I should be sober for what was coming next but I wouldn’t be. I couldn’t be. We three would be speaking in front of seven hundred or so people.

The hangover continued to blur everything until I was outside St. Ignatius Loyola church on Park Avenue. It was bitterly cold (much like the night he died), and there was a lone bagpiper belting out the Irish melodies of yesteryear. My stepmom had hired him, giving my father a proper Irish goodbye. I fumbled around in my black blazer pocket for the Adderall I had pocketed from my roommate’s stash. I’d since kicked him out, but had a couple of remaining pills left for very special occasions. This felt like one of those moments. I didn’t feel good about stealing it, but there was this weird thought that kept circling my brain: I deserve this. It was a lie; I deserved nothing.

The bagpiper motioned for my stepmom to come over. The church wouldn’t allow him inside and with the wind chill, it was below freezing. He couldn’t feel his fingers. Jill nodded and told him she understood. He put his hands inside his cloak, grateful for the reprieve. I left them and headed into the church. I heard my heels click on the lavish marble that lined the inside of the church hall. I marveled at my surroundings. Even in death, he had arrived.

Stained-glass windows lined the hall, and I noticed that if you stared long enough into one of them, you could forget why you were there. Momentarily.

The funeral felt different from the wake. People were somber and quiet, saying only the bare minimum. I noticed how attractive my boyfriend looked in his suit. We held hands and stared straight ahead toward the altar. The room filled to the brim with people, and I was once again impressed by the gravitational pull of my late departed dad. I wondered where he was sitting for this encore presentation.

The service began and continued without disruption, and I was riveted by the stories once again. My sisters and I got up to speak. Meagan was first, her tone cautious, slow, deliberate.