Chapter 34
JetBlue has rules about ashes.
They need to be transported by hand, as a carry-on item, for one thing. They have to be in a clear container; that’s a TSA thing. And you have to declare them and show a death certificate.
I learned all of this two days later.
I went through the motions like a zombie.
I had nothing appropriate to wear for the cremation service, but the manager from the Marriott, whose name I learned was Alphonse, sent me to the Ralph Lauren store in the Renaissance Mall, and there I was able to find two pairs of black pants, one more casual than the other, and two black tops to accompany them.
I also bought a wide-brimmed, floppy black hat and a pair of oversized black sunglasses, because I was in mourning, and I’d be damned before I’d disrespect my mother even further by wearing some cutesy little sundress and hang out by the pool.
No, other than my time at the funeral home and at the mall, I stayed in my room right up until the service on January 3. I ordered room service for meals, sticking to small things that I could stomach, just biding my time until I could bring my mother home.
Bad news travels fast, but still, in the afternoon on the 3rd, I was surprised when my mother’s little funeral service was attended by people other than me.
Diego was there, obviously, but so was Edwin, and Alphonse as well.
And, perhaps the biggest surprise of all: Hugo, who brought a small bouquet of orange flowers and placed them on top of her coffin.
He came up to me, held both of my hands in his own, and said, “Tu madre era una mujer especial.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but I thanked him. “She really liked you.”
“Special lady,” he replied.
He stood in the back of the room for the rest of the service and quietly slipped out of the room when Diego concluded the service.
I remained seated the entire time. Diego’s words, which were in English for my benefit, were a patchwork, piecemeal compilation of bits of information he gleaned from me during our conversation.
It didn’t do her justice, but my intention was to give her a proper memorial service once we returned to New York anyway, so I didn’t fault him for it.
After the ceremony, Alphonse drove me back to the Marriott—a gesture I was most grateful for.
The following morning, I dressed in my more casual all-black outfit, put on the sizable hat and the sunglasses, and went to retrieve my mother’s ashes from Aurora Funeral Home. I asked the taxi to wait for me there, as the next stop would be the airport. He kindly obliged.
I guess the lady at the JetBlue counter took pity on me, because when I explained my circumstances, she checked my bags for free, upgraded me to first class, and gave me a pass for access to the International VIP Lounge.
I made my way through the various checkpoints, with my mother in a clear bag stuffed inside of what reminded me of a Chinese takeout container for a quart of soup.
I carried the ashes in my purse. I was reminded of our evening at the Chinese food restaurant a week prior, where her life forces were so huge that her heavenly voice and sparkling charisma had random strangers eating free food off our table.
Just thinking about it made me feel sick.
In the VIP Lounge, I gratefully accepted the free wine they offered, despite having never been much of a wine drinker.
I needed something. I hid under my hat and stared at the television through my dark sunglasses, hoping that if I just kept the world around me dark, I could disappear into it, and this nightmare would come to an end.
When it was time to board, first-class passengers went first, so I entered the plane without any kind of wait.
I had the very first seat on the aircraft, next to the window.
I was offered more alcohol before the coach passengers got on, and I gladly accepted it.
I just wanted to sleep, although the wine was definitely starting to hit me, making me feel a little loopy.
I fished through my bag, around my mother’s ashes and underneath them, until I located her hacky sack.
The feel of it in my hand created instant comfort in my body, like muscle memory existed for this thing I hadn’t needed since I was a little kid.
I looked out the window as the passengers filed in.
The flight attendant handed me two airplane bottles of rum, along with a plastic glass filled with ice, just as a guy who closely resembled Beckett walked past. But that wasn’t possible, because Beckett left two days prior, and this guy’s head was shaved.
So, I chalked it up to the sunglasses and the alcohol, noting that it wasn’t very nice of the universe to play tricks on a grieving woman.
As the plane took off, I squeezed the hacky sack, praying to my mom and to God that I could just sleep through the flight and make it home safely.
Sometimes, prayers are answered. This, thankfully, was one of those times.
When the flight landed, I took out my cell phone and turned off airplane mode, and messages began rolling in.
A zillion text messages from a group chat at work wished everyone a happy New Year, a new pizzeria somehow got my number and texted some coupon codes, and there were three new voicemails.
I dialed in to the voicemail box while the plane was being situated at the gate, unsure of how I would feel hearing Beckett’s voice on the other end of my phone.
The first message was an appointment reminder for a cleaning at the dentist I’d already missed.
The second was from my principal at work.
And the third was from Mr. Ludwig. It wasn’t like me to not show up at school without calling, he said.
He expressed concern and asked that I get back in touch with him as soon as possible.
I deleted the voicemail, realizing there was nothing from Beckett: No phone call. No text messages.
Nothing at all.
I was just a booty call. A vacation fling.
I was wrong about everything.
It was a punch in the gut, and it hurt something awful.
I deserve that, I thought.
I blocked Beckett’s number and slid my phone back into my purse, wondering why he even gave me his number in the first place if all he was looking for was a fuck buddy. I hugged the ash-filled purse to my chest and deplaned, feeling emptier and more alone than I ever had in my entire life.
I managed to go through the motions at JFK Airport. I retrieved our bags. Got in a cab. Shlepped everything into the apartment. I placed Mom’s luggage in her bedroom and closed the door.
The week that followed was the worst. I had to inform everyone of what had happened, starting with my school—where I hadn’t even called out of work the prior two days.
Thankfully, the administration was merciful.
To be fair, they were actually heartbroken.
Especially Mr. Ludwig, who shared the bond of having spent that day in the hospital with me following Mom’s heart attack.
My father said he was really sorry to hear about my mom, but he didn’t offer to come to New York or help with logistics or anything like that.
I became a pro at funeral services. It wasn’t all that hard, really.
I went to Fox Funeral Home because it was on the outer perimeter of Forest Hills Gardens, an area that my mom was very fond of, with its old money, cobblestone streets, and charming Tudor-style homes.
I explained that really, all I needed was a proper urn, and that I’d like to have a service for her.
They expeditiously agreed, and I paid Forest Hills Gardens prices for the prettiest urn they had, which was made of mother-of-pearl and could be engraved.
I chose to personalize it with her name, her dates of birth and death, and the chorus from her breakout song, “Love Is a Melody”:
It’s the ballad of a soul
It’s the tune that makes you whole
It’s the verse
Unrehearsed
Of a hymn you can’t control
It’s the anthem in the night
It’s the song that just feels right
It’s fidelity
Your love… Your love is a melody
The day came, and pretty much the entire faculty of Forest Hills High School came to the service, along with some neighborhood friends and distant relatives.
My people came, too, of course. Evan sat next to me the entire time, guarding me as if it was a literary event instead of a funeral.
Jax paid her respects, and the New York publicity team from Cabaret came out as well, which I hadn’t anticipated.
Dad sent an arrangement of flowers and so did other members of the band she’d been part of many moons ago.
The expectation was that I would write a proper eulogy, and because writing has always been my therapy, I tried my best to put into words what she meant to me.
The thing was, she was more than just my mother.
She was my best friend, and in the entire English language, there weren’t the right words to adequately describe a love that big.
Grace is the attribute that lets you be less than you’d like but still be enough.
I believe my mother was the one who delivered me grace that day.
I heard her voice in our apartment when I was getting dressed.
Clear as day, just humming a song. There was no mistaking the sound; it was definitely her.
“Mom?” I asked.
“I’m right here, Pretty Girl.”
“You are?” I was so confused. My doctor had moved me from Klonopin to Lexapro, but I hadn’t heard anything about side effects including auditory hallucinations.
“I’m always here, sweetheart.”
“Oh,” I said, and she went back to humming. I assumed I was losing it, so I put on music to drown out the sound.
Later that night, after the service, I heard it again.
“Hello?” I whispered.
“Hi, my love.”
I swallowed. “Today was hard.”
“I know, Pretty Girl, but you were perfect.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You are.”
I didn’t know what to say. “I miss you,” I finally mumbled.
“I know,” she replied. Then she continued to hum quietly. This time, I found it comforting.
One day, about a week later, I got home from school, and the house phone was ringing.
It had been raining, so I was all wet. I tried to kick off my shoes and drop my umbrella in the foyer and run to grab the call in the kitchen, but the voicemail picked it up.
Mom liked to keep the volume loud, so her happy voice filled the apartment.
“Hi there,” she sang. “I’m so sorry you missed us!
There’s an us here now since my beautiful daughter moved back in—so if you’re hoping to leave a message for Birdie—”
“—or Melody—” I interjected.
“You can do so at the—” she announced, and then the voicemail filled in a long beep.
It was a solicitor.
I ripped the telephone out of the wall socket and began to cry.
The next day, I cut off service to the house phone. I packed up the old cordless unit and put it in the back of my closet.
Evan came to Forest Hills to check on me, which was a big deal for him because, in his words, “Queens is not my jam.” He met me at the Tower Diner one Saturday for brunch a few weeks later.
I told him about an ominous “guy” in Aruba and how the whole thing with my mom went down, but it was an abbreviated version, because the wound was still very raw.
I wasn’t myself. I knew it, and he knew it.
He asked what he could do for me as my friend, and I told him just showing up was more than enough.
Then he asked what he could do for me as my agent, and I said, “Please, just put everything and everyone on hold. Right now, I just need to focus on getting out of bed every day, going to work, managing this new day-to-day rhythm without her.”
“Of course,” he promised.
“If anyone needs me, they can wait. I’ll write when I’m ready.”
“Absolutely, Mel. What about people who reach out to me through your website? What should I tell them?”
“If they don’t know enough about me to know what I’m going through, don’t even bother responding.
The people who matter to me are aware that I’ve been through a life-changing event, and they wouldn’t be contacting me via my website.
” I sighed. “And if it has anything to do with subrights, they should be directing those inquiries to you anyway.”
“So, off the grid. Roger that.”
I started having nightmares and began taking melatonin to help my body sleep. When that didn’t help, I downloaded books about grief onto my Kindle. One of them said something that I decided to hold as a mantra of sorts.
Grief is the manifestation of the soul healing itself.
Some time passed, and when I couldn’t get the nightmares to subside, I decided to go to therapy.
It was less about the grief and more about the guilt, since things with Beckett felt entirely unresolved.
My therapist, a nice lady named Lucy, took little time in identifying the fact that I wasn’t only mourning the loss of my mother but the loss of Beckett as well.
She told me I should write about it.
So I did.
Holiday Island was my attempt to write about the best week of my life and spin it into a romantic comedy with a happy ending.
My characters, Skye and Nash, met on vacation in Curacao.
Skye was there with her mom, who was healthy as a horse in my version.
Nash was there for a destination wedding and decided to extend his stay a few extra days.
It was light and fluffy. They had dinners together, sure, and, yes, Nash won a bunch of money at the casino.
There were three sex scenes, all open door, and they mirrored the ones that had happened on my trip.
It felt good to remember Beckett through my writing, felt good to remember how happy we’d been, even if it was only for a week.
So I wrapped it up with a nice, neat little bow: instead of staying the night, Skye went back to her hotel room after the bungalow sex with Nash.
The next morning, he overslept and missed his flight, and the act three business was them trying to find each other once they were both back in the States.
Which they did, successfully, in the last chapter.
Now that I’ve read Beckett’s book, I can see how readers would be upset, especially considering his is so gut wrenching, and mine is just a typical, spunky rom-com. But that’s what Cabaret expected of me, so I tried to stay in my lane.
Fiction is just the truth, hiding in plain sight.
But the same truth can look very different from one author to the next.