Top Down Day Read online

  “Of course. Let us know if you need anything. Anything Dawn. Really. I’m so sorry again to hear this. We love you.”

  Her support means the world to me. I knew she would know what to do. As I hang up, I turn to Natalie.

  “You okay, honey?”

  What a dumb question, Dawn.

  She still doesn’t make eye contact with me, but whispers, “Are you going to be okay, Mom?”

  I feel a tug at my heart. What a loaded question. How do I answer that? I want to sob into her shoulder and tell her I have no idea what’s going to happen, tell her how scared I am, tell her how alone I feel, but I know I have to be strong.

  She turns her head and looks directly at me. I can tell she’s trying to search for truth in my eyes when she rephrases her question. “I mean, will you be okay financially?”

  Of course she would be thinking about logistics. Emotionally, she knew none of us were going to be okay. At least not for a while.

  She’s analyzing my every move. Waiting to see if I show any signs of lying or hesitation in my response. There’s no point in trying to sugarcoat anything to her. “I’m really not sure.” Corey always took care of the financial planning.

  Worry is growing on her face.

  “I’ll make it work either way. I can get a job. It’ll be okay. Please don’t worry.”

  She turns her attention back to the tile, and her head falls lower than before. I need to assure her I will be okay. I can’t have my kids worrying about me; I should be the one worrying about them.

  I grab her hand and say, “Lets go get some coffee. It’ll be easier to plan a to-do list with a fresh cup of coffee.” I shoot her a smile as she turns back towards me, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s still trying to search for certainty in my eyes. She knows I’m not as strong as I’m acting.

  |10:56 AM|

  Thomas

  The noises downstairs wake me up. I scan the empty media room; I guess I’m the last one to get up.

  As I’m walking down the stairs, I hear Mom and Kristen talking about cancelling something but I can’t make out what it is. I see Natalie sitting at the kitchen island with Brandon. Both are silently drinking their coffee, not uttering a word to one another, not looking up at each other.

  When I make it into the kitchen, Mom turns to me. “Good morning, Bud. How did you sleep?”

  The question sounds ridiculous as she says it, but I know she’s trying to normalize the morning.

  “Fine.”

  Rubbing my eyes, I try to make out the food on the counter.

  “You?”

  Ah, muffins.

  She jumps into today’s plan without answering the question. “Brandon is going to pick up Grandma and Grandpa O. from the airport so we can all stay here. We should probably talk about a few things before everyone gets here.”

  The scratching on the door interrupts her. We all turn our attention to the front door. Oakley is scraping at it. He’s waiting for Dad to come home.

  I yell out in a pleading voice, “Come here, Oakley.”

  He turns to look at me but then returns to scratching at the door.

  “Come here, bud.” I hit my hand on my thigh, hoping it’ll help change his mind.

  He looks out the window one more time before turning to slowly walk towards me. His eyes look droopy, and he barely lifts his head up to look at me. I sit down on the floor and begin petting behind his ears. This usually calms him down when he gets anxious from too many people being in the house. Hopefully it will work now, too.

  Mom continues, “I’m going to go call Blumenthal to see if we can turn in our tickets for tonight and then we can discuss some important details as a family.”

  That’s what they were cancelling. I forgot they had tickets to Dear Evan Hansen tonight. Kristen has wanted to see this play for forever. Dad would be upset if he knew plans were being canceled.

  Oakley leaves me and walks into the living room. He jumps in Dad’s chair. The chair where he sat to watch Vikings games, where he would play hours of Candy Crush, where he would strum the guitar for all of us. Oakley isn’t allowed on furniture, but no one yells at him to get off. Oakley wants Dad to come home. We all do.

  |12:43 PM|

  Dawn

  No one has said much to each other, and there are only so many generic questions I can ask about lunch. I want to talk to the kids about this week before everyone gets here. I need a moment alone to figure out what’s best for us without a hundred different opinions circling around us. What I need to talk about needs to be done with my kids only.

  When Brandon leaves for the airport, I decide to call everyone to the living room. This is our chance. The details of the upcoming days are the one piece I can control and it will keep me centered and focused. I need this.

  “I know this is tough for everyone.”

  All three sets of their eyes look glossy; they’re fighting to hold in their tears.

  “We need to be there for each other. Especially this week.”

  Kristen wipes her check with her sleeve, Natalie won’t make eye contact, and Thomas has his arms crossed. We all feel and look uncomfortable. How can I make this better?

  Since no one chimes in, I continue. “I also think we need to discuss the upcoming week. Because Natalie and Kristen are still in school, I think we need to try to have the funeral arranged as soon as possible.”

  Natalie gets up from her chair. Where is she going? We have to talk about this. When she returns from the direction of the linen closet, she has a box of tissues. She takes a tissue for herself before giving the box to Kristen.

  “The funeral home should be calling me tomorrow to discuss options.”

  Still, no one is answering me. Should I not be pushing this right now? Am I making the wrong decision? The kids are obviously hurting too badly to talk about this right now. What am I thinking?

  Finally Thomas breaks the silence. “I asked the manager on my project to give me a call later today. I’m going to see if I can take off this week from work.”

  Natalie adds, “I texted my boss this morning letting him know about…it.”

  No one wants to say what “it” is out loud.

  She continues, “He said to stay at home as long as I need to, and he would talk to the director of my program about taking a week off from school.”

  Realization comes over me that maybe my kids aren’t so little anymore. Maybe they don’t need to be told what the next steps would be. Maybe I would need them to help me more than the reverse.

  I look to Kristen, waiting for her response. “I haven’t responded to my professors yet, but I will. I’m sure they’ll be fine with me staying home for a few days. I told a classmate and she said she would send me anything I miss.”

  A sense of relief comes over me. Thank God my kids can stay here with me. We need each other.

  I continue to go over details. “The other thing I want you all to start thinking about is whether we want to do a burial or cremation.”

  I watch each one of them cringe when I ask the question.

  “I know it’s incredibly hard to think about, but Dad never specified and I want us to have our thoughts organized before everyone arrives.”

  Kristen looks up and gently adds. “If we bury him, where would it be? Montana? Colorado? Pennsylvania? Here?”

  She pauses in between each option, testing if any of them sound like the right decision.

  I haven’t thought that far. We didn’t live here long enough to really establish a strong tie, and what if the kids move? What if I move? My stomach turns at the thought of his grave going unattended.

  Thomas speaks up. “Should he be buried next to his mom and sister?”

  Kristen’s response is soft and quiet. “But then we would barely see him. And what if we have a bad day and want to talk to him?”

  Now my stomach is completely in knots with the thought of not being able to see him whenever I need him, whenever I’m confused or frustrated with paren
thood.

  I decide to speak up. “Well, what about cremation? We could each have a piece of him just in case we ever move away.”

  The silence consumes the room as the kids think about the option.

  Natalie groans, “Ugh, but the thought of the process makes me want to vomit. Aren’t their bodies set on fire?”

  Thomas looks at her and adds, “But it isn’t his body anymore. You can’t think of it that way; plus it’s way more sophisticated than that.”

  “I like the idea of everyone having his ashes.”

  Kristen finally raises her eyes when she joins in.

  “When we each have our own places, we’ll still have Dad with us.”

  I take a look around the living room and into the kitchen. This house will feel enormous with everyone gone. I shake these thoughts and return to the conversation.

  “I agree, cremation is probably the best option for our family. We’ll get Grandpa O. and Aunt Louise’s thoughts when they arrive.”

  One item checked off my to-do list.

  “Also, for the next few days, I want everyone to think about the funeral. Consider if you want to speak or don’t want to speak. We don’t have to make this decision right now, but I want everyone to be thinking about it.”

  What am I thinking? Do I want to speak? I’m not sure I can; what would I even say? Who would I be talking to? I don’t even know who’s going to come.

  I place a small notepad and a pen on the coffee table before leaving the living room.

  “I’m leaving this here for anyone to write down any questions, concerns, or thoughts for the week.”

  I pray my children don’t feel alone or afraid to speak up. With a heavy heart, I leave the room and hope my kids know I’m trying my best.

  |3:07 PM|

  Natalie

  Everyone has dissipated into different rooms. I keep myself busy by checking Brandon’s location. I’m surprised how much I miss him right now.

  When he’s finally five minutes away, I let everyone know. My hands are clammy and my stomach is uneasy. I’ve been so excited for Brandon to come back. I didn’t realize how nervous I was to see Dad’s family. Their pain is so different. They are now losing their only son and their only brother. The thoughts intensify the anxiousness I feel in the room.

  I hear the door open and suitcases nicking the walls. The dogs barking add to the commotion. I hear Brandon telling them he can take their suitcases to their rooms upstairs. I can’t face them; I’m not strong enough to see their faces.

  I listen to Thomas and Kristen greet them at the door. I hear some sniffling and it only makes me dread coming out of my room more.

  As I turn the corner into the kitchen, my eyes meet my grandpa’s first. Every part of his body looks in pain. He looks like he’s aged about ten years. Heartache is a son of a bitch. I walk over to embrace him. With my arms wrapped around him, he whispers, “I’m so sorry, Nattie.” His arms feel like my dad and his voice sounds like his voice, too. Hearing the nickname my dad gave me when I was little makes me tense up. I can’t manage to say, “So am I.” Tears form in my eyes, and I know I won’t be able to hold it in. I close my eyes to avoid watching the world around me shatter into pieces.

  The moment he loosens his grip, I notice a rivulet of tears running down his face. He reaches for his handkerchief in his breast pocket. I’ve never seen my grandpa cry before and my sadness shifts to him. No one should ever have to bury their child, especially twice.

  |5:38 PM|

  Kristen

  The energy in the house keeps shifting. It brings comfort being surrounded by those you love the most; yet, at the same time, it brings discomfort. The constant flow of people, unanswered phone calls, and dinners piling up on our porch reminds me of what brought us to this point. My dad has passed and no chicken enchilada dish can fill the hole in my heart, no matter how much it tries.

  The living room discussions remain light and meaningless. Both sets of grandparents are chatting and discussing the changes in the Montana weather. My aunt and sister are talking about school and her excitement about graduating soon. Uncle Danny, Thomas, and Brandon are talking about some recent mountain biking trip. How, in a room full of people, do I feel so isolated, so lonely?

  Mom’s bedroom door opens and she walks into the living room. Her reading glasses on top of her head force a few pieces of hair to fall out of place. She has several crinkled papers in her hands and the circles under her eyes are dark. She’s been in her room for hours now. She wanted to be prepared when the funeral home calls tomorrow so she’d been working on Dad’s obituary. No one stopped her when she told us she needed to work on it. Her to-do lists have always been a coping method for her. Whether it be packing for a vacation or college dorm move-ins, she always has her list to help her stay in control of the situation.

  Standing in front of the fireplace, she clears her throat in an attempt to gather attention.

  “I’ve finished the obituary.”

  The talking in the room comes to a hush and all eyes turn to her. She seems nervous and vulnerable. Has she forgotten she’s reading this in front of her family, not strangers in a poetry café?

  As she begins to read, people start cutting in. I can’t make out who is saying what or what grammatical error is being corrected. My eyes are focused on my mom. Each critique is slowly weakening her. But she tries to stay poised, and makes adjustments with her blue pen. I want to tell her how proud I am of her; tell her how impressive it is that she was able to do this right now, but I keep my mouth shut. I let the adjustments continue even when I can feel my voice itching to stop it. When she finishes, she opens the floor for comments and opinions. It’s wonderful and well-written. It shows a glimpse into the person Dad was, and it portrays the legacy we need to build upon. When the opinions start flowing, I watch her body lose its posture and her spine curl up after her head falls down as she searches for a chair to sit down to make more edits. She’s defeated. Am I the only one who can see the small tear falling from her eyes? Before she makes it to the chair, the papers drop and the pen hits the floor.

  “I can’t do this anymore. You write it and I’ll read over it tomorrow.”

  Her voice sounds angry and defeated. She isn’t putting up a fight anymore. I watch her turn away from us and slam the bedroom door behind her. Natalie chases after her. I turn my head back to the living room. All of the people we love the most are all sitting wide-eyed and confused. I know everyone is trying to help; we all want the best obituary for Dad. But Mom needs support and reassurance that her work is good enough. The division is apparent, and in some ways warranted, but not what we need right now. How can I fix this? Can I fix this?

  Part IV

  MONDAY

  MARCH 25TH

  - FOURTEEN -

  |2:17 AM|

  Dawn

  I listen to Kristen snoring on the air mattress below my bed. Natalie stopped tossing and turning about forty minutes ago, so I assume she finally fell asleep. I wish I could go to sleep. My mind struggles to turn off the guilt. Did I miss something Friday morning? I try to replay the morning, but I can barely remember anything. I don’t know if I’ve subconsciously blacked out the memories of the weekend or if I’m too tired to think a few days back. I search through my phone for answers. Did Corey ever text me saying he was having stomach pain last week? I can’t find anything. Did he tell anyone he was feeling sick? I quietly open the drawer of the nightstand next to me. Before reaching in, I look around to make sure I didn’t wake the girls up.

  I reach for his phone. I haven’t had the courage to look at his phone yet. I’m terrified I’m going to find the sign I missed and realize this whole situation is my fault. I’d never forgive myself; my kids would never forgive me. As I hit the home screen, a text notification makes me lose my breath. It’s from Natalie. She texted him Friday telling him that she was thinking of him. I double-check the time of the message, and the flashback of Corey being restrained and intubated hits me. He
never saw her text message; this would kill Natalie if she ever found out she was too late. My throat is too tight to continue looking at missed text messages. I go back to his homepage and see three red notifications on his calendar. I assumed it was going to be work meetings, but I almost choke on my surprise when I see its reminders of a dentist and doctor appointments for the upcoming week. He was supposed to get his cast off this week. I make a mental note to add notifying the health care offices of his passing to my to-do list. What else do I need to cancel? I think about the upcoming weeks and all the plans we’ve made. The concerts we have tickets to, the airfare to go to Natalie’s graduation, the 4th of July trip to Lake Keowee. I can’t imagine doing any of this without him. I don’t want to do any of this without him. I place the phone back into the drawer and rest my head back on my pillow. I look to the ceiling, begging for answers. What did I miss? How did this happen? What did I do wrong?

  |11:00 AM|

  Thomas

  The ride to the funeral home is so quiet I can hear the turning of my steering wheel. Mom received a call from the funeral home this morning to come over this afternoon to discuss logistics. We had to drive two cars in order to fit everyone. I’m driving with my sisters and my mom, while Brandon drives my aunt and Grandpa and Grandma O. I wonder if their car is as quiet as ours. This week would be the first time Brandon meets most of the extended family and I can only imagine how uncomfortable it is to meet everyone under the current circumstances.

  The GPS directs me to the parking lot on the left. As I put the car into park, I notice the busyness of the road the funeral home is on. It’s between a Food Lion and a Circle K gas station. The funeral home feels out of place here; unless you had a reason to come here I’m not sure anyone would ever realize it’s a funeral home.

  Natalie mumbles, “This feels strange,” as she closes the car door behind her.

  We sit on the couch in the waiting room while Mom goes back first to talk to the funeral director. There is an oddly placed bird cage in the back corner of the waiting room. Who has pet birds in a funeral home? However, I can’t deny, it helps distract us all for the time being. There isn’t enough seating in the waiting room, so Brandon and my aunt are standing backed up to the wall. The room doesn’t have much space with the couch, bookshelf, and birdcage in it. The back door creaks open, and the funeral director is standing under the doorframe. “The members of Corey’s family can now join us in here.”