You Love Me(You #3)(85)

“I’m so sorry, Nomi. I just know that he loved you more than anything on the planet.”

Except for heroin, the sound of his own voice, a woman’s mouth wrapped around his Philstick, and his music, but that’s funerals for you. They bring out the stupid in everyone, especially the stupid.

Nomi pats him on the back—“Thank you, Uncle Seamus”—and he pulls away the way he should because he’s not really her fucking uncle and the girl needs her space. “Tell you what,” he says. “When my mom died, everyone was like, watch TV, binge, relax, but none of that worked for me…” Because you have no attention span, you lightweight. “What did help me was endorphins.”

That’s the second time he’s used that word in twenty minutes and he will never get married, will he? “Thanks,” she says. “I’ll remember that.”

He takes a deep breath and looks up at the trees. “I’m gonna go do a Murph in honor of your old man,” he says. “I know he’d like that.”

Phil was a lazy fuck who never broke a sweat deliberately and he would not like that at all. I smile. “That’s so nice, Seamus. Seriously.”

The second he’s gone it’s like he was never there and the Meerkat goes right back to where we were. “Do you really think I can do anything I want right now?”

“Yep.”

“And my mom won’t be pissed?”

“Nope.”

“Well, in that case, will you tell her I went to Seattle?”

I never offered to be her accomplice but she’s wearing a Sacriphil T-shirt and her Columbine is poking out of her backpack and it’s one thing to have a birthday party and have no kids show up but this is her father’s funeral and she has no one in there. I know that feeling. When someone you loved in spite of their imperfections is dead and no one in the world seems to care about what that’s like for you.

“Do me a favor, Nomi. The bong stays here.”

She salutes me like JFK Jr. at his father’s funeral and takes off through the backyard to the trail.

Inside, the guys from Sacriphil have picked up their instruments—I knew it was only a matter of time before we had an Unplugged Phil-less jam session—and there is an acoustic shark inside my shark—and I have a purpose now. I have to find you. I worm my way around the room, skirting my fecal-eyed multigenerational neighbors and for you this is a sad room, but for me this is a hot zone. Mrs. Kahlúa is here and this cannot, will not, must not be Jay’s coming-out party.

I cut through the kitchen but I’m fucked here too. The young woman who warned me about Phil is standing in front of your refrigerator. The door is blocking her face—thank you, door—but I recognize her hand. Two diamond engagement rings. She’s having small talk with a court-ordered older alkie I’ve seen at Isla and I am trapped and the guest bathroom door opens and I slip into that bathroom again.

I close the door. Safe.

Someone knocks on the door. “If it’s yellow let it mellow. The pipes are taking a beating!”

I run the faucet and eavesdrop on the NA people whispering about how long they have to stay—GO NOW GO—and they are going—yes!—and I flush the toilet—oops—and I exit the bathroom and here you are, in your kitchen, surrounded by second-and third-tier Melandas. I clear my throat. “Mary Kay,” I say. “You got a second?”

You’re mad at me but it’s not like I walked up to you and kissed you and there is no way to put the toothpaste back in the fucking tube. We did go to Fort Ward and you did mount me in a bunker—twice—and Dr. Nicky’s blog is right: I have feelings too and I am allowed to have feelings.

You excuse yourself, and my palms are sweating. What I say now matters and is it possible to say the right thing when you’re not yourself? You open the side door and now it’s you and me by the planter and you light one of the rat’s cigarettes and blow a smoke ring and who knew you could do that? “I don’t want to do this right now, Joe. I can’t do this right now.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know, Joe. You don’t know what this is like for me.”

“I know.”

You look at me. Validated. And then you blow smoke in a poisonous straight line. “I had no business turning off my phone. I have a child.”

“Let it out.”

You grit your teeth because it would be so much easier on you if I was being an asshole right now but I’m not gonna do that for you. “All we had to do was wait. You don’t know Phil…” Yes I do. “You don’t know that we had something of a deal. I looked out for him and he…” Did nothing for you but drag you down. “He needed me. I knew he was down and there I was off running around with some fucking guy I barely know behind his back while my own husband was dying inside.”

That was cruel but I am strong. “And you must feel horrible about that.”

“Well I feel like the biggest piece of shit that ever lived. He deserved better from me.”

And you deserved better from him but this is the other thing I hate about funerals, about wakes. We don’t get to blame the Deathday Boy. He’s like a bridezilla. It’s his day and he gets to whine and cunt out about every stupid thing in the world. “What can I do to help?”