The Rest of the Story(22)
“Okay,” I told him. “I love you.”
“Love you too, Emma. Bye.”
I put my phone back on the bedside table, rolling over to face the window. I could just see the surface of the water, the moon overhead. I looked at it, thinking of my dad and Tracy, speeding across a city I’d never seen and couldn’t even picture, until I fell asleep.
And now it was eight a.m., and there was toast, or at least the smell of it. Also, possibly coffee. Hopeful, I got up, pulling on some shorts and a clean T-shirt, then brushed my teeth and went downstairs.
“Morning,” a voice said as soon as my foot hit the bottom step. Startled, I jumped: Oxford, Mimi’s husband, was sitting at the table, a newspaper open in front of him. Otherwise the kitchen was empty, although when I glanced at the toaster, I saw the indicator light shone bright red, signaling it was on.
“Good morning,” I replied. I walked over to the counter, where, sure enough, I found a coffeemaker with half a pot left. Score. “Okay if I take some of this?”
“Help yourself.” He turned a page of the paper. “Milk and cream are in the fridge, sugar’s over here.”
I found a mug, filled it, then came over to the table, finding a spoon and adding some sugar before taking a seat. As I did, the toaster binged cheerfully, six slices popping up. Oxford didn’t seem to notice.
“You want some of the paper?” he asked me.
“Sure.”
“What section?”
I took a sip from my mug. Perfect. “Do you have the obituaries?”
He didn’t bat an eye, rifling through to pull out the local news. “One of my favorites. Always good to start the day making sure I’m not in there.”
“I’ll let you know,” I said, smiling at him.
“Do that.”
We sat there, reading in companionable silence, which was a strange thing to do with someone you’d only barely met. But reading the paper I did know, since Nana and I did it together every morning. After all the newness of the day before, it was nice to have something familiar. Of course, the moment I felt relaxed, Trinity showed up.
At first she was just shuffling footsteps, coming down the hallway. Then she appeared, looking half-asleep in sweatpants and an oversized tank top, her pregnant belly stretching it out. She did not look at or address either Oxford or myself, instead just walking to the toaster, where she retrieved the six pieces of toast, piling them on a paper towel, before going to the fridge for a tub of butter.
“If you take that, bring it back,” Oxford said, still reading. She did not reply, instead just going back the way she’d come, leaving us alone again.
The obituary section in the Bly County News—North Lake was too small for its own paper, clearly—was much smaller than the one in the Lakeview Observer. Which I supposed made sense: fewer people, fewer deaths to report. Today there were only two, starting with Marjorie McGuire, 82, who had gone to meet her Lord and Savior the previous week. In her picture, she had a beauty shop hairdo and was smiling.
The fact that I was interested in the obits made my dad uneasy. He worried it reflected my anxiety, fear of death, not dealing with my mom’s passing, or the triple bonus, all three. But it wasn’t about that. When Nana and I had first started our breakfast-and-paper tradition, I’d cared about comics and not much else. The obits were always there, though, on the opposite page, and at some point I’d started reading them as well. Then my mom died. She’d had no obit, for reasons I could never understand, so I got even more interested in how people chose to be, or were, remembered.
Most obituaries, I’d found, shared the same basics. The opening paragraphs rarely gave specifics, other than the person had passed “after a long illness” or “unexpectedly.” Occasionally someone died “at home,” which sounded like it might be a way of saying it was on purpose without using those exact words. The religious ones often contained scripture, if not a mention of where the deceased planned to go and who they hoped to see there. Next up was usually a summary of the life itself, with education, marriages, and children and a listing of career high points. The final paragraphs usually touched on a hobby dear to the person who had passed—travel was big, and volunteering for good causes—before providing funeral info and suggesting where to donate in lieu of flowers.
I always made a point to read each word of every obit. This would be the last way this person was remembered: Was I really too busy to take an extra three seconds to read about their commitment to the March of Dimes? Also, I felt reassured when all the day’s listings were people like Mrs. Maguire, who had lived a good, full life. An obit for a younger person, like my dad’s age, always made me sad. A teen or a child was heartbreaking. It just didn’t fit, like a rule had been broken, and I’d find myself trying to piece together the part of the story that wasn’t told.
When I’d first started reading the obits, they never mentioned overdoses or drugs as causes of death. In recent years, though, as more opioid crisis stories hit the front page, they made this section as well. Occasionally it was spelled out, with the deceased having “struggled with an addiction,” or similar. More often, though, you had to read between the lines, finding the references to battling demons, pride in a previous period of sobriety, or a family request to donate to Narcotics Anonymous.
Would it have made a difference, having a clipping from a paper with my mom’s name and dates, a recap of the things and people she loved, and those who were missing her? It would have been at least more closure than that night outside the building as the elevator doors closed. Maybe that was what I was looking for, all those mornings with Nana and now.