My Apologies to a Cat, God Rest His Soul

First of all, I never meant this story to be a blog post.  I’ve been trying for a few years–to no avail–to write a serious literary essay about this.  The trouble is that the odd mixture of hilarity, sadness, and just plain weird has made this difficult.  Now the time has come to admit that I’ve failed.  I’ve never particularly liked people who write about their cats or talk too much about their cats or–God help us all–carry around pictures of their cats.  It’s always struck me as somehow sad, as though this person has so little human interaction in their life that every time their cat licks its ass, it becomes a noteworthy occasion.  That said, I have trekked deep into the terrain of hypocrisy.  This is a cat story.

I wasn’t aware until one o’clock in the morning, on a summer night after the Animal Emergency Room veterinarian diagnosed Chang with terminal feline leukemia that there was such a thing as “kitty coffin.”  It’s not as cute as you would think.  Imagine a heavy, corrugated cardboard box, sporting the caption KITTY COFFIN, but also having a noticeable lack of pictures on it.  It was even shaped like a coffin, sort of.  For this, you pay an extra seventy bucks, plus the cost of euthanizing your pet, and, of course, the mandatory forty dollar fee per office visit.  I know this because while my stepfather stood in the parking lot of the clinic, smoking a cigarette and comforting my mother, I paid the veterinarian an amount of money that probably could’ve fed the cat for a year.

I did not want the kitty coffin.  Though I don’t consider myself to be especially miserly, there seemed something wasteful about it–not to mention tacky and unnecessarily morbid.  To me, the proper way to commit Chang’s body to the earth was wrapped in a burlap sack and buried in a section of the backyard where I planned to plant some nice perennials the following year.  My mother, however,  was heartbroken over the lost of this cat, and so I relented.  I even held the thing in my lap on the car ride back home.

Like dogs, all cats go to Heaven–except this guy, he’s fucking evil

Chang was a Siamese-Himalayan mix of which my mother was particularly fond; she’d had him since he was a kitten, and it was not uncommon for her to refer to this cat as her fifth child–possibly her favorite child.  After all, she never had to worry about the cat bringing home bad grades from school or getting caught smoking pot behind the neighbor’s garage.  If the cat killed a bird, it wasn’t that he was a bad cat–it was his nature.  Chang passed away the better part of a decade ago, but I still think about him from time to time, not because of the life he led, but because of the events that transpired after his death.

To some degree, I will always hold my aunt responsible for the idea of taking Chang’s paw prints before burying him.  It was her suggestion that by pressing the Chang’s paws into wet clay and letting the clay harden, my mother would have  a momento by which to remember him always.  As my mother was both artsy and sentimental, I suppose it appealed to her imagination to have a pressing of the cat’s paws hanging on the wall in the living room, somewhere between my baby pictures and the wedding photos.  You have to understand that in my family, it is still common–even in the 21st Century–for family members to take photographs of dead relatives in their funeral caskets.  These photographs are kept in the family photo albums and have, on more than one occasion, traumatized a child, who, sitting on a parent’s knee, found themselves unexpectedly face-to-face with a deceased grandmother.  “Her makeup turned out really nice, didn’t it?” the parent might say, and the child would feel a lingering ache in their chest as, inside, they died a little.  The practice, which I find  both morbid and distasteful, has led to my admonition that I intend to be buried naked from the waist down.

Remember: Grandma will always be watching over you–especially when she comes back as a vampire!

The problem with taking Chang’s paw print was that, in doing so, there was an unspoken finality in the act.  My mother would be admitting that her beloved pet was truly gone.  After purchasing the clay from a craft supply store, this was something that my mother was unable to accept.  Wrapped in a blanket, Chang’s body laid on a workbench in our basement, waiting to be printed like a common criminal, and my mother hesitated.  She procrastinated for a day, trying to gain her nerve.  And then another day.  And another.  Three weeks later, Chang’s body still resided on the workbench, a deformed and bloated state of his former self.  Fluids had begun to seep from the body.  My family begged my mother to make her peace and to allow us to finally put Chang’s body to rest.

On the day that we finally buried him, my mother went into the basement with block of clay.  She was the only one of us who did not gag from the smell, as though her love for the cat shielded her from such things.  She took his paw, which was curled to his chest, and gently pulled, but to no avail.  In the three weeks that he laid in our basement, Chang had stiffened into a furry mannequin.  The body had cooled to touch, and it was impossible to tell that he’d ever be alive.  My mother pulled harder at his paw, desperate for a single print.  There was an audible snap as the leg broke, and my mother recoiled.  Sickened, she dropped the clay and asked us to please hurry up and bury the damn thing.

My stepfather and I buried Chang on a hill in the backyard, in a spot right outside the kitchen window–unfortunately nowhere near where I had had any intention of planting a garden.  I tried to hold the Kitty Coffin in a seemingly dignified manner as my stepfather dug the hole.  With a bad back and a cigarette habit, he was ill-equipped for the occupation of grave digging, and was soon struggling and out of breath.  I offered to dig for a while, but he persisted stubbornly.  Finally, he snatched the Kitty Coffin from my hands and stuffed it into the hole, but the grave was too small to accomodate the casket.  Unfazed, my stepfather, a heavy man, stepped on the coffin, pushing it into the ground with his foot.  The box collapsed and we could hear the crunch of the cat within.  I nearly laughed and vomited at the same time and, from the kitchen window, my mother called out, asking if all was well.  My stepfather didn’t respond.

In addition to the clay with which to take Chang’s paw prints, my mother had purchased a sheet metal cut-out of a cat to use as a grave marker.  For the rest of the time that I lived in that house, when looking out through kitchen window at night, the silhouette of the grave marker in the moonlight created the illusion of the cat digging its way out of its grave, intent on seeking some horrible revenge.  My stepfather stabbed the marker into the ground and began feverishly shoveling dirt into the grave.  Again, my mother called from the window, asking if everything was alright.  For reasons that I never understood, I began to sing.  I had a pleasant tenor then, and in that moment I sang out the words to Swing Low, Sweet Chariot for all I was worth.

“You’ve always had such a pretty voice, Douglas,” my mother called from the open window, and she listened and hummed along to that gospel tune, secure in knowing that all things work out in their appointed time.

Nine-Year-Olds Should NOT Be Pole Dancers, Dammit!

OK, the first thing you should know is that my co-worker has the cutest little girl ever invented.  Like scary cute.  The kind of cute that compels grown-ups for no good reason to write down their checking account numbers for her and to take out second mortgages on their homes to ensure that this kid has an adequate supply of barbie dolls and ice cream (not to mention the iPad 2 that her mother bought her for Christmas).  I tell you this not because I think that she is any more spoiled than your average nine-year-old or to illustrate my weakness for little people with big brown eyes and outrageous demands–I should be thankful that my fiance and I have not yet had children or we would probably be homeless and our kid would have a totally kickass home theatre system.  I tell you this because something happened a while back that made me realize that not only has this kid acknowledged that her cuteness has made the world her proverbial oyster, but that she is already plotting on how to take it to the next level.

Things had just slowed down at the restaurant that I manage and my co-worker’s daughter was sitting in a booth, supposedly working on her homework, but in reality she had just conned me into bringing her a free piece of chocolate cake.  My co-worker was sitting at the table with her daughter and, as I was turning to walk back into the kitchen, she happened to say to the girl, “Hey, tell Doug what you wanted me to buy you this weekend.”

The girl shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and I thought for a moment that she had perhaps made some ridiculously expensive request, you know, something extravagant like the Large Hadron Collider.  Or Lithuania.  The country, I mean.

The girl said nothing, so her mother, in the same voice that she might announce that her daughter wanted a new pair of flip-flops, said, “She wants me to buy her some thongs.”

At this point, I turned to walk outside, lest my blushing cause me to spontaneously combust and result in my restaurant burning to the ground.  It probably would’ve looked something like this:

What you have to understand is that I, along with virtually every other man on Earth, have a short, but highly specific list of topics of which we will never, even under threat of death, discuss with our girl children or with any girl of an age that they could be our children.  Should my fiance and I have a daughter of our own, I will gladly be there for the fevers and the vomiting and the skinned knees.  Every bedtime, I will check the closets and under the bed for monsters and I will be there in the middle of the night to chase away the lingering dread of nightmares.  I will be there for her basketball games and I will personally kill every little boy who ever breaks her heart.  But when it comes to certain topics–love and dating, her first training bra and her underwear, the wonders of puberty, of menarche and sex and masturbation–I believe that it is my right, God help me, to remain blissfully ignorant.  This is her mother’s domain.

Sadly, my co-worker was unaware of the no-touch topics of all men everywhere–either that, or she is truly a cruel and hateful woman.  As I walked away, she said, “She also wants to be a pole dancer when she grows up.”  I stopped.  What?  The little girl–the same girl who was embarrassed by her mother speaking publicly about her underwear–was smiling now.  “Yeah, I wanna be a pole dancer,” she confirmed.  “They make lots of money.”

If there is any topic that belongs on a man’s no-touch topics list, this surely had to be a big one.  Yet, I still had this godawful paternal need–from where I had no frigging idea–to explain to her that girls her age shouldn’t want to be pole dancers.  Girls her age should dream of being doctors and lawyers and the first female President of the United States of America.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not saying that there is anything wrong with being a pole dancer.  It’s honest work, and I’m sure that some pole dancers love what they do.  But there was something intrinsically wrong here.  This girl was no longer satisfied with the status quo, no longer satisfied with adequate nutrition and a roof over her head and a virtually unlimited supply of Wii games.  At an age when she should still be sporting pig tails and reading her way through the Nancy Drew series, this girl had already been seduced by the prospect of easy money and fast living.  If I had a daughter, I’d always imagined that she’d be older–at least seventeen–before she considered morally compromising herself for money.  The kids are growing up too fast.  I can only hope that at home that night, my co-worker took her daughter aside, hugged her tight, and said, “Baby, you’re much too young to strip for money, and you’ll always be too young to strip for money.  When you’re my age and you have a daughter of your own and she’s driving you crazy and you love her more than anything in the world, you, I, all of us, we’ll all be too young…And yes, of course you can have a new iPhone.”


I was raised in a home with seven women, all of us living together in my grandmother’s house.  I’m talking about two sisters, a foster child, a cousin, an aunt, a mother, and a grandmother, all co-existing in a three-bedroom millhouse with only one bathroom.  Obviously, there was some bed-sharing going on and the concept of privacy was about as strange as a mosh-pit at a Kenny G concert.  On the boy’s team, there was my father and me, drowning in an ocean of estrogen.  The odds were against us from the start.

Now, every year, quite literally, dozens of women from my family gather together for Christmas and Thanksgiving and wonder why, at twenty-five years old, I’m not married, with a gaggle of children running around.  The answer is simple.  I’m terrified of women.  I’m not saying that these women treated me badly for being a boy; they treated me like a little prince.  But any guy who has ever wished that he had seven women that treat him like a god has never taken into consideration that God has never really had all that much say in how Man worships Him to begin with.

Unfortunately, I can still remember the first time that I realized that there was something unnatural about living with this many women.  I was potty training at the time, which I’m sure is traumatic enough for anyone.  My mother believed with all her heart that a child learning the proper way to take a dump was a family moment—not to mention a Kodak one.  In the evenings, when everyone had gotten home from work or school, she would place the potty in the center of the living room—where everyone was sure to have an unobstructed view of my little, naked baby ass—and she would demand that I sit on the godforsaken thing and go poo.  Child abuse laws in those days weren’t nearly as effective as they are now.

I learned how to take a crap with an audience of females cooing and pointing and making comments like “Aww, look at his little thingie!”  This is the sort of thing that can cause lifetime problems with erectile dysfunction.  At the time, my father was sitting in the corner of the living room, in his favorite rocking chair, his head leaned back, staring up at the ceiling as though willing the sky to open up and swallow him whole.  Through the course of middle and high school, when showering after gym, I would be struck by the horrible mental image of someone thrusting a finger at me and proclaiming “Aww, look at his little thingie!”  And I’d think to myself, Is this what sex is going to be like? Years later, my father and I would sit on the front porch of his house, talking and enjoying a cold beer in the scorching summer sun, and I would remind him of the incident.  My father would set his beer on the ground, lean over and embrace me, and say “God help me, I’m sorry, son.”

Female number seven, my Aunt Lori, moved in when I was five years old.  She had just gone through a particularly nasty divorce and my grandmother was never one to turn away a family member in need.  After her failed marriage, Lori developed an obsession with children and, more than anything, she wanted a little girl.  You would think that, between my two younger sisters, she would have her choice of little girls to play with.  But, this wasn’t the case.  One night, when my father wasn’t around to stop her, she started out by painting my fingernails a deep purple color.  “Isn’t that so pretty?” she asked.  I don’t know about pretty, but I thought it was pretty cool.  It made me look like I had monster hands, just like on TV.  So, I went along with it.  Before long, she had me in full make-up and wearing the little, white flower-girl dress that my cousin had worn to her wedding.

“Oh my gawd!  You look like a little doll,” Lori shrieked as she admired her handiwork.  She had taken me into the bathroom to stand in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the door.  I was a little offended at that point.  After all, I was a boy, and boys don’t play with dolls.

“Well, what do think?” she asked.

My first reaction was to start crying, but I stood there for a moment, studying my appearance.  I thought I looked, well, sort of pretty.  My dad didn’t think so.  When he came in and caught a glimpse of me, he wore a pained expression as though he had just received a swift kick in the testicles.  That night, the two of us stood under the glare of the sixty watt light bulb in the bathroom while my father scrubbed my face with a rough cotton rag and a bottle of Dawn dish detergent.

“Damn women gonna try to take your balls of next,” he muttered.

“Daddy, are you mad at me,” I asked.

My father gave me a tired smile and wiped his own face with the rag, leaving a streak of make-up across his forehead.

“Naw…you’re still my little man.”

By the time I was six years old, my parents had divorced.  My father moved out of the house and I was left alone to the devices of a flock of women who seemed to be turning synchronized menstrual cycles into an Olympic sport.  This is not an exaggeration—there was a marked calendar on the bathroom wall over the toilet tank.  Just above the economy-sized box of tampons.

It’s a strange thing for a six-year-old boy to discover tampons.  Tampons were an unholy relic, mysterious in design, serving functions of which I knew not.  I just knew it was a lot of fun to jam the tampons into the water faucet of the bathroom sink and to see how long it took for the pressure to build up enough to shoot the thing out like an unlikely missile.  I would stand over the sink, feeling like the captain of a submarine, saying, “Ai-ight, gentlemen, you may fire at will.  One time, my cousin, Dana, walked in and saw this.  She started throwing tampons at me, chanting “Dougie’s gotta vagina!”

“I do not!” I shouted.  I didn’t know what that was, but damned if I had one.

Hearing the noise and figuring that Dana and I were fighting again, my grandmother came striding into the bathroom, brandishing her favorite weapon: the flyswatter.

“What in the world is going on in here,” she demanded.

“Doug’s playing with tampons,” Dana informed her gleefully.

My grandmother gave me a strange look.  Apparently, this is not what she had expected to hear.  I still had one of the sodden wads of cotton clenched in my fist.  I didn’t know what else to do, so I held the soaked sanitary product out to her.

“I’m sorry, mamaw.  I think it’s broken now.” I said.

Terrified, I braced myself for a butt-whipping that never came.  My grandmother grunted, then snickered, and finally broke out laughing until tears were poring down her face.

“Ah, Lord,” she said, wiping her face with the back of her hand.  “I love you, but you’re full of shit, sometimes,”

I swear I haven’t played with a tampon since.

It was around the time my mother remarried that people in our house started going their own separate ways, forming their own sub-families.  With my mother’s marriage came a stepfather and a stepbrother.  I like to think that our combined masculine powers repelled them like vampires shying away from a crucifix, but I’m probably deluding myself.  After we had parted ways, I started to miss the ladies.  Not the dresses, but the familiarity that comes with so many people living in close-quarters.  At Christmas and Thanksgiving, we reminisce and say, “Good times, good times” and, when they hound me about marriage and children, I tease them, telling them that living with so much estrogen had probably made me sterile.  But, sometimes, I do think about what it would be like to have a son of my own, to tell him to honor these women that love him so much.  I wonder what it would be like to hold him against my chest, to gaze into eyes that are a reflection of my own, and to say, “Aww, look at his little thingie!”


The summer after I dropped out of college, I found a job washing dishes at a small barbeque joint in Rockwell, North Carolina, a town that was little more than a crossroad to nowhere.  I worked fourteen-hour shifts, five days a week, for a few cents more than what, at that time, passed for minimum wage.  I can’t say that it was all time wasted.  I learned a few things while employed there.  For instance, if you take a whole chicken (before you throw it on the grill and char the sin out of it) and hold it beneath its fleshy, naked wings, it looks disturbingly like a small child.  You can’t get this from a college education.

I would leave work every night, drenched with foul dishwater, soaked as a newborn baby, and smelling like a dumpster, to walk home so that I could take a shower and fall prostrate across the floor of my younger brother’s bedroom.  Being in a position convenient for speaking to the Lord, I would melodramatically pray for God to kill me in my sleep.  Nothing fancy, just a nice, peaceful aneurysm.  When I would awake the next morning to do it all over again, I’d think, Maybe it’s time I start worshipping a darker god.

I said that I dropped out of college.  I have to admit that this is an evasion of the truth.  I didn’t so much drop out of college as fail miserably.  Not in the sense that I was kicked out of school for bad grades or anything of that nature…I never made it that far.  When I started college, I was like a dog that has just been let off the leash for the first time.  I went nuts.  I stayed up most of the night, drinking enough to pickle my brain like an hamster fetus in a biology lab, drinking as though I expected to find salvation in a ninety-proof bottle.  Then, I would sleep until noon, waking with a look of sheer horror on my face at the sight of sunlight streaming through the window.  At that point, I expected Professor Van Helsing to step through the door of my room, brandishing a crucifix and rebuking me in the name of Christ.  Then he would drive a stake through my heart.

Two years later, I began to suspect that I might be an alcoholic.  By the end of my sophomore year, I was a complete washout.  I had no goals in life, no idea what I wanted to do, and, honestly, didn’t really care.  So, I decided that it was time to seriously rethink my life.  I did what any self-respecting failure would do.  I moved back in with my parents.

I had intended for that summer to be a time of reflection and personal growth.  At the very least, I planned to knock off the booze, dry out, and regain some semblance of perspective.  I believe Mr. Robert Burns had something to say about “the best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men.”  My situation was probably more common to men than mice.  It turned out that many people trapped in jobs that lead nowhere, living boring lives and leading existences devoid of purpose turn to alcohol as an escape from existential angst.  Who would’ve thought?

The manager at the restaurant where I worked was this guy named Jeff, a charming individual with a gun rack in the back of his pick-up truck.  He kept the walk-in coolers in the kitchen well stocked with cases of Coors Light.  Each night, after we had closed down and cleaned up, we sat at the counter and enjoyed a time that we referred to affectionately as Communion—this, of course, being stale cigarettes and a cold beer…or two or ten.

That summer, on the day before Independence Day, we were one of the only restaurants in town that remained open.  It was a busy day, with people dropping in to pick up smoked barbeque shoulders for their Fourth of July celebrations or simply stopping by to shoot the bull.  Although things were hectic, everyone seemed in a good mood.  Jeff, knowing my disposition for being easily embarrassed by matters of sexuality, had taped magazine cutouts of hard-core pornography to the wall in front of my workstation, seeking to elicit one of those blushes that I was so famous for, the ones where, all of a sudden—WHOOSH!—my head spontaneously combusts and my body is a flaming heap on the floor.  Then he festively informed everyone that I was masturbating on the job.  After that, in a fit of high spirits and good will, he announced that we were shutting down to attend a party at his house.

As I pulled into the driveway, Jeff was standing on the front deck of his house, waving a beer at me like an air traffic controller flagging down a 747.  I walked up to the deck and he pushed a Heineken into my hand, admonishing me, “If my wife gets drunk and takes off her clothes, goddammit, you better not tell anybody.”  At that point, I made a solemn promise to myself that I would just have one or two beers.  Gang aft a-gley. Several hours later, I was lying bare-assed in the kiddie pool, holding a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam in much the same way a newlywed couple, spent and vulnerable, hold each other after that first night of passion.  I think it was Jeff’s six-year-old daughter who tapped me on the shoulder and asked what the hell I was doing.

It was daylight by the time I left Jeff’s house.  I drove home, looking like I’d just survived an ethnic cleansing, with a headache that pulsed in a perfect salsa rhythm.  I consoled myself, saying, At least you’re putting what you learned in college to practical use. Fresh out of college, I had could pull a hangover as well as anyone.  As a general rule, alcoholics are a gullible bunch.  We tell ourselves that we don’t have to drink, or when we do drink, we can do it like normal people.  The comedy of it all is that we can’t even tell that we’re lying.  It’d be funny if it weren’t so damn sad.

After I parked the car in the driveway of my parents’ house, I staggered to the front door, wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep until the Second Coming of Christ.  As I stepped through the door, I heard a clatter and my sister sprang out of nowhere, flinging her arms around my neck.  I was prepared to slaughter her and leave her lying in the doorway while I went off to bed.  I would’ve, except that she was sobbing into the front of my shirt and later the curiosity would’ve killed me.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I asked, hoping that this wouldn’t take too long.

“Mom and Eric had a fight,” she said.

That my mother and stepfather had been fighting was by no means a life-changing revelation.  It wasn’t Moses and the Burning Bush.  The two of them had spent the entirety of their marriage pissed off at each other and their frequent battles were epic.  Think Gilgamesh versus Humbaba.  Luke Skywalker versus Darth Vader.  Mike Tyson versus Evander Holifield.  You’ll get a pretty good picture of Saturday night at my parents’ house.  My sister, seeing that I wasn’t exactly blown away, clarified herself.

“Eric hit Mom.  He was drunk and they were arguing.  Eric started screaming in Mom’s face, calling her a bitch, and Mom slapped him in the face.  Then he kinda snapped and starting hitting her.  Brandon jumped on his back and had to pull him off her.”

“Where’s Mom?”

“She’s in bed.  She won’t come out of her room.”

“Is she hurt?”

“No, I don’t think so.  Just a little bruised up.  Eric left, and took Brandon with him.  Where were you last night?  I kept hoping you’d come home.”

I didn’t want to admit to her that, while she was dealing with all this shit, while I should’ve been there, I was busy getting drunk.  Looking down at the floor, trying to avoid the question, I noticed a knife lying on the floor behind her foot, one of the long butcher knives from the cutlery drawer in our kitchen.

Though I knew the answer, I pointed to the knife and asked, “What’s that?”

My sister’s face hardened.

“When you pulled in, I thought it was Eric.”

I just nodded.  There was nothing to say.  I told my sister to go to bed.  I didn’t imagine that she’d slept much the night before.  I picked the knife up and stepped out onto the front porch.  Gazing across the yard, I noticed that the glare of the sun on the morning dew had given everything a sort of faded-orange look, like an old photograph.  I sat on the steps, watching the blade of the knife as I turned it over in my hands.  I relished the feel of the cold steel.

For the next two weeks, my mother was a wreck.  She went through crazy mood swings: giddy one moment and bawling the next.  My sister told me it was because she was taking pills and drinking too much wine.  One day, she and my stepfather miraculously reconciled their differences and decided to get back together.  Not surprising—my mother had never lived alone in her life, and I’m not sure she even knew how.

I should’ve stayed to make sure that she would be okay.  It’s a little-known truth that most alcoholics, deep down in their hearts, are selfish bastards.  Wrapped up in our own problems, we don’t like to consider the possibility that other people might be suffering as well.  Maybe we’ve lost the emotional capacity to care.  Or, maybe, we feel incapable of giving moral support and we’re afraid to see others suffer so.  Maybe we’re dead inside.  Maybe.  So I moved out.  I found a roommate, a better-paying job, and took an apartment a couple of towns away.  For the better part of three years, I stayed away.  I found reasons not to visit.  I never returned their phone calls.

One January evening, I was driving through Concord, enjoying the nightlife.  I had gotten the night off from work, telling my boss that I was attending the funeral of a fictitious family member, so that I could spend the night in a bar, have a couple of drinks, bullshit around a little, maybe entertain the possibility of getting laid.  As I waited at a red light, my cell phone rang and, when I answered, my aunt told me to get to the hospital.

My mother had had a massive heart attack.  No one is sure how long she stopped breathing before the paramedics revived her, but they know that she died three times before they got her to the hospital.  The deprivation of oxygen damaged her brain beyond repair.  Her body hung on for three days, though her brain was all but dead.  When the doctors finally removed her from life support, I watched her vital signs fail from the nurse’s station.

I was hung over when I went to my mother’s funeral.  The night before, deciding that we would send Mom off in style, my three siblings and I broke open a gallon of cheap vodka and a mason jar of black cherry moonshine and proceeded to get shit-faced.  In retrospect, I can’t really understand why people consider getting wasted a tribute to someone who passes away.  It’s not like the deceased is present, with their arm thrown over your shoulder, laughing along in drunken revelry.  Consequently, we all showed up at the funeral home looking worse than some of the residents.

I was the pianist for the reception.  A young preacher (who had never met my mother) presided over the service.  I sat on a bench at the piano, sweating alcohol through my pores while the preacher spoke passionately of my mother, as though he weren’t being paid to do so.  He clenched his fingers as though he were trying to wring tears from the air, and you could tell that he was imagining himself in some dramatic role, like someone Paul Newman might portray.  I waited for him to finish off with a speech: “I’d like to thank the Academy….”

Listening to him, I was overcome by the morbid urge to break into a cheerful rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”  I stifled a giggle at the thought, but, luckily, anyone who might’ve heard me probably thought I was trying not to cry.  I wish I’d done it though.  Mom would’ve laughed.

After the funeral, for a while, I fell back into the familiar pattern of staying away from anyone who cared about me.  The phone would ring and I would just let it switch to the answering machine.  I wouldn’t call back.  From time to time, one relative or another would show up at my apartment to check up on me, frown at the collection of empty bottles lined up like so many little dead soldiers on my coffee table, and report back to the rest of the family that I was still alive.  I stewed in my own self-indulgent misery.

I can’t remember that there was ever any single moment of epiphany.  No one imparted any profound words of wisdom.  God didn’t speak to me as a disembodied voice from within my microwave oven—or any other appliance for that matter.  At that time, I would’ve told you that there are no divine revelations, but there comes a point when it becomes physically painful for a body to remain in decline.  Imagine a river cutting through a vast countryside, slowly eroding away the edges of the land until it finally carries those fragments of the earth into the sea.  I was sobered by the thought that I was on a superb track for a career as a professional failure.  I began to envision myself in twenty years: drunk, bald, lonely, sitting in a La-Z-Boy recliner, watching especially grotesque pornography while whacking off to cheerless, unfulfilling orgasms (surely the only kind drunk, balding, and lonely men can have).  This sounds funny, but I’d bet the house that it’s not funny to the guy in the La-Z-Boy.  Just ask him.  I decided that, at twenty-four years old, maybe it was time to put the booze down and give college another try.

A week before I returned to college, I dropped in to see my stepfather, more out of a sense of duty than any real desire to see the man.  He had moved out of the house that he and my mother had shared and into a small apartment up the road.  I hadn’t seen him since the funeral.  When I knocked on the door, he opened it and grabbed me into a bear hug that nearly jerked me off my feet.  My first thought was, Shit, he’s gotten fat! Ushering me into the living room, my stepfather pushed me onto the couch and then plopped down into an adjacent armchair.

I was horrified to see that every square inch of the coffee table in front of us had been plastered over with photographs of my mother: holiday photos, wedding pictures, even her driver’s license.  I looked at my stepfather, waiting on him to comment, but he just looked confused, as though he had forgotten what he was doing.

“So…how’s things been going for you?” I asked.

“Good…Good.  I’m getting by the best I can.  But, sometimes, it’s hard, you know?”

I nodded, not sure what to say.  He gazed at the pictures that had been so obsessively scotch-taped to the glass surface of the table.  A hundred images of my mother smiled up at us.  He touched one of the pictures, as though he could reach through the surface to caress my mother’s face.  I looked away, embarrassed because he had nothing left but a silhouette of the woman who had been my mother.

“I talk to her…every night.  Sometimes, I just sit here alone and I talk to her and it’s like she’s still here.  I can imagine her talking back to me.  I’ll see her again someday.  We both will, you know that?  I believe it.”

“Yeah, I know you do.”

I thought at that moment that perhaps my stepfather had gone insane, and I couldn’t blame him if he had.  I wondered what it must be like to be severed from the one with whom you shared the marriage bed.  It’s probably like losing part of oneself.

He slumped in his chair, deflated.

“I don’t know what to do anymore.  Sometimes I think I should just kill myself, so I can see her again, you know?  I just miss her so much and I feel useless without her.”

Seeing that he was crying now, and desperately wanting to change the subject, I excused myself to get something to drink from the kitchen.  When I open the refrigerator, I saw that the inside was empty except for several bottles of Night Train.  On a hunch, I checked the wastebasket in the pantry and found several more bottles, empty.   As much as I wanted to feel contempt, I couldn’t muster up any sense of exasperation or moral superiority.  This was something I understood all too well.  I went back into the living room, carrying a glass of water.

“I’m leaving for college next week,” I said.

“Yeah, I know.  Your Aunt Jann told me.  I wish I’d found out sooner.  We could’ve done something together, spent some time together.”

“Yeah…that would’ve been great,” I said, and the truth of it is that I think it might have been.

I imagined that my stepfather had pictured the two of us together on a boat, in the middle of some lake, fishing.  Perhaps the two of us would have shared a beer as we laughed, reeled in catfish, and recalled fond memories, remembering that time when….  The prospect seems pleasant now.

“Before you go, I got a bunch of stuff of your mother’s.  I’m sure you want to go through it.  You can have anything you want,” he said.

“No, that’s okay.  You hang on to it.  A college dorm room probably isn’t the best place to keep Mom’s stuff.”

“No!  I want you to have it.  Just wait here a minute.  I’ll go upstairs and get it and we’ll go through it together.  We’ll go through it together and you can take anything you want.  Just wait here.”

My stepfather stumbled up the stairs, talking aloud to himself.  I stood by the foot of the stairs for a long while, listening to him fumbling around up there.  He was talking to my mother.  I waited in the living room for maybe half an hour and, by then, all I could hear from upstairs were sounds of my stepfather weeping.  I started towards the front door, stopping to take one final look at the coffee table.

She looked more beautiful in the photographs than I remembered her being in real life.  A picture at the corner of the table showed her holding a bouquet of sunflowers. Much younger versions of my siblings and I were standing beside her.  I remember the day that photo was taken.  It was Mother’s Day.  We had asked her what she wanted for Mother’s Day, and she told us that more than anything, she wanted us to go to church with her.  We didn’t usually go to church, but we wanted to make her happy.  She won the bouquet for having the most children of any mother at church that day.  I’ve never seen her smile like that before.

The night before my mother died, while the rest of the family slept in the waiting room, I had stood beside her bed, holding her hand.  The doctors were trying an experimental treatment, cooling her body in order to give her brain a chance to cope with the damage.  Her skin was tinged blue, and her hair (which she had always been so particular about) was plastered, lifeless, against her head.  Her hand felt cold as glass, but I held onto it, hoping that the heat of my body would somehow flow into hers.  I prayed to God that night, as I never had, making every promise I could think of, asking Him to give my mother back to me.  For a moment, I thought I felt my mother squeeze my hand.  I sat in the armchair beside her bed and fell asleep, secure in the conviction that the following morning would bring a miracle.

A year later, that night in my stepfather’s apartment, standing in front of all those images of her, I prayed again.  It was a real prayer, precise, not just an empty pleading directed out into the cosmos.  This time I knew to whom I was speaking.

I’m sorry, Mom.  I don’t want to do this anymore.  I don’t want to be just some fuck-up.  I swear to God or whoever is out there listening, I don’t.  I’m sorry….

I walked out of that apartment for the first and last time that night.  Days have come and gone, and I’ve tried to live in way to be deserving of the most intimate connection to my mother, who bore me into this world on a river of amniotic fluid and blood.

It’s a strange thing, blood.  Across the span of human history, civilizations have made blood sacrifices to appease their gods.  You hear stories of how the Son of God shed his blood to restore Man to salvation, how we’re all washed in the blood of Christ.  Maybe that’s how it happens.  In the beginning, God created Man, and from Man came Woman.  God gave them the gift of passing along a part of themselves to create new life.  The mother, wracked with the pangs of birth, suffers to bear a child, and by virtue of her sacrifice, that child comes into the world baptized in her blood.  I don’t know.  I just hope my stepfather is right.  I think—I believe that one day, we will see her again.  All bad memories will be shed like a wet raincoat, and there’ll just be that one perfect moment.  It’s a sobering thought.