FIVE
ESSIE
The hole of depression I fall into is endless. I keep expecting Vaughn to show up. I keep expecting to hear his voice, or to get a text message from him, but nothing. He’s gone. I can do nothing, say nothing, think nothing. It’s like my brain’s been hot-wired and the only thing it’s now capable of registering is pain.
Pain comes in a dizzying array of disguises. There’s the physical pain of it—my throat scraped and raw, my eyes swollen, tear ducts incapable of producing any more tears. My body, completely exhausted but unable to sleep. Then there’s the mental anguish. My thoughts run on this endless vicious loop. Why him? Why us? Why now, when things were finally looking up?
Those missed calls on my phone plague me. Why didn’t I pick up? Why did I ignore it, thinking that I’d have time to talk to him later? That he could wait? The one thought that cycles through me over and over, refusing to give me peace or rest is this: Was he calling when he was dying? Was he calling me to say goodbye, and I fucking screened him because I didn’t want to get into trouble at work?
Max goes with me to the funeral home. His eyes are red and it looks like he hasn’t slept. We both walk in, stunned expressions on our faces. It’s a cruel fucking trick to be expected to organize a funeral when you feel like this. When you wake up and can’t believe that you’re actually awake, that you’re not still asleep, still dreaming, still having this nightmare that you know can’t actually be true.
But it is.
The director says he is very sorry for my loss, and then starts showing me caskets to choose from. Tears sting my eyes as I realize even the cheapest one is far more than I can afford. So what happens now? What happens when you can’t afford a casket, the most simple of pine boxes? I can’t help but think of Vaughn’s body, cold in the morgue. What are they going to do with it? What are they going to do with him if I can’t afford to bury him?
I’ve failed. There’s no other way around it. I have failed in every possible way. If it were the other way around, if it were me who was dead and Vaughn was trying to figure out a way to pay for the funeral, he’d do it, somehow. That’s just how he is. Was. Jesus, I can’t get used to using the past tense. He was always able to figure things out, always able to make sure that we got through okay. And now I can’t even do this one simple, important thing for him. My throat aches.
“I can’t be here right now.” I rush out of the place, barely able to make my legs work properly. It’s too much. This was not what was supposed to happen. I’m not supposed to be picking out a casket for my brother. I’m supposed to be watching the surprise on his face when he opens his Christmas present. We’re supposed to be watching movies and hanging out in our apartment, being grateful that, despite everything we’ve been through, life is finally working out.
Except it’s not, because everything is completely ruined, nothing is ever going to be okay again, and I can’t even afford to give my brother the memorial service that he deserves.
I go back to the apartment. I’ve spent the past few days with Max, but I need to be by myself. There’s part of me that knows, without even having to do the math, that there is no way I’m going to be able to continue paying rent here. I might be able to scrape together enough for another month, but with all the utilities, too? No way. It’s impossible.
I’m lying on the couch, staring off into space. I don’t know how long I’ve been like this—could be a few minutes, maybe a few hours. The phone is ringing. Perhaps it’s been ringing for a while or perhaps it just started. I pick it up and look at the screen, expecting it to be Max wondering how I am, wanting to know if he should come over, but it’s not Max. It’s a number I don’t recognize. I pick it up because I am suddenly certain that it’s Vaughn, that there’s been some sort of mistake, that he’s not dead, that there was a horrible mix up and he lost his phone and he’s calling me now from this unknown number.
“Hello?” My voice is little more than a whisper in my throat. “Vaughn?”
There’s a pause, and then the person on the other end clears their throat. “No,” the voice says. “Is this Essie Floyd?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Arturo Mendel.” There’s another pause. I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t, so I do instead.
“I think you have the wrong number.”
“I sincerely wish I did, my dear, but I’m afraid I don’t. I’m contacting you about your brother.”
My breath catches in my throat. I sit up quickly, body protesting at the sudden movement, but I ignore it. This Arturo Mendel suddenly has my full attention. “What? What did you say?”
“I’m calling on behalf of Aidan Callahan.”
Through the haze that’s permanently been clouding my mind, something sparks and catches. Some spark of recognition.
“Mr. Callahan asked me to offer his most sincere condolences to you in light of this tragic accident,” Mendel continues. Meanwhile, I feel like I’ve swallowed a wasp and it’s stinging me repeatedly in the throat. “Aidan would like to help you, Ms. Floyd. We’re aware that…” he trails off awkwardly. “We’re aware that your brother’s body is still at the county morgue.”
“That’s none of your damn business,” I whisper.
“We know how…expensive these things are.” He says these things like it would be impolite to say the word funeral. Like it’s a dirty word. “It’s Mr. Callahan’s most sincere wish that you would allow us to cover the costs of your brother’s funeral.”
I clench the phone so hard my hand starts to shake. A buzzing fills my head, like static electricity.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but Mr. Callahan’s brother was the one responsible for killing my brother, wasn’t he?”
“Alex and both his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Callahan were in the car, yes. Aidan knows that no amount of money is going to bring your brother back. No amount of money will ease your pain. His thinking is merely that a little assistance in this terrible time would perhaps ease your—”
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” I cut him off mid-sentence, pure rage rising inside me like a tidal wave, consuming me from head to foot. “No! Absolutely not. I’m not taking shit from Mr. Callahan. My brother is dead. He is fucking dead because of the Callahan family. I don’t want anything from you. From him. I don’t—I can’t—” I’m hyperventilating, my breath growing shorter and shorter with each passing second.
“I understand this is a very difficult time for you, Ms. Floyd,” Mendel says softly. “That’s why you shouldn’t have the added stress of worrying about your finances right now. The funeral service, the coffin… let us take care of it. You want to honor your brother, don’t you?”
“Do you know me? Have we ever met before?”
“I don’t believe so, no.”
“Then how the fuck would you have any idea what my finances are like? And yes, my brother deserves the best and most beautiful memorial service in the entire fucking world. He was an amazing person who sure as shit didn’t deserve to die in a fucking wreck because some asshole fell asleep at the wheel, but I am not taking money from you. No fucking way. Do not call me again.”
I hang up the phone and fling it across the room, where it impacts with the wall and falls to the ground with a cracking sound. It’s undoubtedly broken. I don’t have the money to have it fixed or get a new one, but I honestly don’t give a shit. Not having a phone means Arturo Mendel can never call me back again, and right now that’s the only thing keeping me sane.
******
I don’t get up off the couch for the rest of the day. I lie awake all night, unable to sleep, unable to do anything but think about my brother, think about the fact that I’m never going to see him again. I watch through the window as the sky begins to lighten, as the sun begins to rise.
There’s no ceasing the incessant barrage of thoughts hitting me one after the other. What am I going to do? How am I going to get the money together for Vaughn’s memorial service? I finally force myself up to retrieve my phone off the floor. By some miracle, the screen hasn’t cracked after all. It’s still functioning. Well, I guess that’s one tiny thing I should be grateful for, though mustering up gratitude isn’t something I’ll be realistically able to do any time soon. I call the funeral home.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Floyd, but we can’t come down in cost anymore than that,” the director tells me. I’ve pled my case, and it’s fallen on deaf ears. He must hear this sort of thing all the time. He’s sympathetic, but he’s also running a business. With bizarre detachment, I find myself wondering how he sleeps, making a profit of the pain and suffering and loss of others. Probably on a mattress stuffed with hundred dollar bills.
His final figure is still way more than I will be able to afford.
“So are you seriously telling me that everyone else can afford a funeral? I am the only person in the world who can’t?”
“I’m not saying that at all. Many people have trouble paying for funeral costs. Many people don’t realize how expensive funerals can be. You’re not alone.”
“Oh, I feel so much better.”
“You don’t have any relatives that could help you out?”
“No. The only relative I had left was my brother, and now he’s dead. And all I want to do is be able to bury him, and you’re telling me that I can’t do that because I don’t have enough money.”
“We do take all major credit cards.”
“Which doesn’t help me because I don’t have any credit cards.”
There’s a pause. “I’m sorry, Ms. Floyd. I’m not sure what to tell you.”
I hang up the phone. I feel nothing, and at the same time, I feel everything. I feel worse than I have ever felt, yet nothing I do will change that. My brain buzzes. Everything seems so goddamn surreal. I’m devastated, so completely hollow, that when Arturo Mendel calls back later that day to try to convince me to change my mind, I accept his offer. I mean, what other choice do I have?
I want to climb into Vaughn’s Callahan-bought coffin and be buried right alongside him.