Hummed Hymn Excerpt

The motel room was dated but clean, with wood paneled walls and a freshly vacuumed pink rug that smelled like deodorizer. The bedspread was a cheerful butter yellow printed with large pink flowers to match the carpet.

Dan groaned and immediately fell face-first onto the bed, his eyes closed. I sat down by his feet and looked at him. The bedding cast a jaundiced glow over his face.

“That color makes you look sick,” I said.

“You know, I have been told I’m more of an autumn.” He reached out a large hand and grappled blindly until he found my lower back, and rubbed it in a sleepy, comforting gesture. “Do you think I’m more of an autumn?”

I laughed. “I think I don’t know what that means.” I laid back next to him and he pulled me into his arms, nuzzling his golden head into my neck. I closed my eyes and breathed in deep the smell of old wood, the decades of dust buried in the weave of the curtains. 

“Bet that girl at the desk thinks we’re having a nooner or something?” he said. "We didn’t even bring our bags up.” 

“Jesus, I didn’t even think about that,” I said. “Yeah, I dunno. Maybe. Who cares.” Another deep breath. I could feel the exhaustion seeping into my arms and legs. 

He sighed. “We probably shouldn’t stay too long anyway,” he said. “We need to get to the funeral home to get her—” He stopped.

“You can say ashes,” I said. “I’m alright, I promise.”

“Maybe I’m not ready to say it yet, Andy.” 

“You’re right. You’re right, I’m sorry,” I said. “Can we just take a nap or something first?”

“Are you sure?”

“I mean at this point, why hurry. She’s already dead.” 

………

When it became clear that the cirrhosis would kill her, my mother was not sentimental. We sat at the peeling formica table in her kitchen and discussed arrangements. No, she did not want us to move to be closer to her. No, she did not want to move to be closer to us. Yes, she had always hated Broken Lake. No, she would not leave it. 

It was Dan who had suggested she move. I hadn’t bothered. For years, from the time I left for college, I had asked her the same thing: 

Why won’t you come with me? Why would you stay here?

And the answer was always the same: 

I’m just not ready to go yet.

And somehow, even as she approached death, I knew the answer had not changed. She would stay in Broken Lake, the tiny speck in the wilderness where she had spent her whole life; where she had buried her parents and been abandoned by my father and finally drank herself into an early grave. She came to Syracuse once, for our wedding. That was the furthest she would ever make it from home.

In the time it took to smoke and extinguish a single cigarette, my mother had selected the nursing home where she would eventually die. In contrast to the other websites we had seen, Five Ponds Residential Living did not advertise a smiling fleet of thin, blond nurses. My mother felt this was more honest, and that was that. The will had been written long ago; as her only living relative, the house and what little else she had would go to me. She assured us that, when the time came, whatever funeral service the nursing home chose to use would be fine. She was to be cremated. 

………

DeKuyper Funeral Services was housed in a white converted Colonial, and it was three o’clock by the time we arrived to retrieve my mother’s ashes, still groggy from our nap at the motel. The sky was immaculate, the sunshine interminable, and a joyful chorus of birds vollied us up the porch steps to the polished oak doors. A small brass sign read, “For others’ privacy, please ring bell.” 

After a moment, a heavily pregnant woman with dark hair in a dark dress opened the door. “Andrea Holland.” Her face slid into a simpering smile. “I was wondering when I’d be seeing you.”

My jaw tightened. “Hey, Monica.”

“Please, come in.” Monica ushered us through the doorway into the foyer, softly lit by a chandelier hanging in the center of the room.

Dan shot me a curious glance as we went inside and I squeezed his hand. I could feel Monica’s eyes following us, looking us up and down in silent appraisal. Dan’s bedhead and worn t-shirt. My jeans, frayed at the hems. The dark circles under my eyes. 

“Oh Andy, I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“When I saw your mom’s name on the tag…” She shook her head and one hand fluttered to her belly. "But I suppose it couldn't have come as much of a surprise, could it?" 

Dan blinked, taken aback. “Um, I guess not.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said with a sudden breeziness. One hand remaining on her belly, she extended the other towards him.

“This is my husband, Dan Ferran,” I said, as Dan shook her hand.

“Oh, so I suppose it must be Andy Ferran now!” she chirruped.

“Nope. Still Holland.” 

Monica considered this for a moment, said “Hm,” and then said, “Right this way.” 

She led us into a large office off the foyer, with a large desk situated between two windows. She gestured for us to sit and walked to the corner where a bar cart by a side door held a crystal pitcher and glassware. She poured two glasses of water and handed them to us, then walked behind the desk and sat down heavily. 

“I’ll be honest, I think if I had to guess what you’d do after high school I don’t think ‘mortuary school’ would have been on the list,” I said.

“Oh God, no.” She laughed and shook her head as she sifted through files in the desk drawer.  “No, I married into it. It’s my husband’s family’s business. I just started helping with bookkeeping after I had my first, and, well.” She smiled and slid the file she had been looking for across the desk with a pen. “I guess I just have a flair for it. Just a few forms for you to sign.”

I began making signatures where required, avoiding reading the titles or any of the language. Initial, date, sign. 

“I’m Monica DeKuyper now,” she said casually. “You remember Carter DeKuyper?” Her eyes bored into me as she waited for acknowledgement.

Dan spared me a response. “Congratulations,” he said politely.

“Thank you.” She beamed like a debutante.

When he was sure she was looking away, he cast a sideways glance in my direction, one eyebrow raised.

“Dan, I’m so sorry we aren’t meeting under better circumstances,” Monica continued with treacly concern. “Although honestly I was surprised that I haven’t run into you guys any sooner! Town this small, you know.”

“We only got in today,” Dan said. 

“Oh!” she said with feigned surprise. “Well I guess that explains it. I just would have assumed you would have come up sooner, you know. To spend some time.”

“She didn’t want us to,” I said. “Said it would be stupid to interrupt our lives just because hers was over,” Initial. Date. Sign. “Or something like that. So we didn’t.” Monica of course knew we hadn’t been there. She would have had too. Town this small.

“I understand,” she said, even though she clearly did not, and then changed the subject. “Have you thought at all what you want to do for the memorial?” 

“Not really, we haven’t had much time,” Dan said. 

“Of course.” She gave a slow, exaggerated nod, as if speaking to a child.  “I know so many families find this process overwhelming. If it would be helpful, I would like to give you some information about our service offerings—”

“We’re not having a memorial,” I said quietly, gaze fixed on the pages in front of me. In bubbly, girlish handwriting, someone had printed Sarabeth Holland on the line marked deceased. 

Monica faltered for a moment. “You aren’t having a memorial?”

“We’re her only family.” Initial. Date. Sign. “And we can remember her just fine by ourselves.”

“Well,” she said slowly, still overly sincere, “A memorial service is a good way for friends—”

I slid the completed forms across the desk toward her and smiled thinly. “Monica. We all know my mom didn’t have any friends,” I said. “Let’s be honest, I think the only person she really liked was Alex Trebek.”

“And he’s dead too,” Dan added.

“And he’s dead too.” I nodded in agreement. “And like I said, we’re her only family. So. Just seems like a waste.”

Her face flickered as her mouth opened briefly in surprise, then slid back into a mask of practiced sympathy. Knit brows. Soft, sad smile. “Of course,” she said again. And then, “I’ll be back in a moment.” She gathered my forms from the desk and walked from the room through a side door.

The door clicked shut behind her and Dan looked at me, biting his lip.

“And he’s dead too?” I repeated in a low whisper.

“Well, he is,” he said.

Then we looked at each other, and then despite ourselves, we started to laugh. Sitting in the funeral home waiting for my mother’s ashes, exhausted and nearing hysteria, we laughed until the tears ran down our faces and we could barely breathe:; the desperate laughter of two people in pain.

When Monica returned to the room she must have thought we were crying. “Oh, Andy. I’m so sorry,” she said. Her voice was an insipid murmur. It almost sounded victorious. In her hands was a small gold urn.

My breath caught in my throat as I took the urn in my hands. It was lighter than I expected. I could not look at it. I thanked her in a voice I did not recognize as my own. 

For a moment we sat in silence. And then when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I stood up. “Is that it?” I asked.

“That’s all I need from you, yes.” 

I nodded slowly. I felt Dan’s hand find its way to my lower back.

“Thank you,” Dan said, when it became clear that I was unable to say it myself. I gripped my mother’s urn tighter and looked at the polished wood floor.

Wordlessly, Monica nodded and ushered us from the office back into the foyer. Standing bathed in the incandescent glow of the chandelier, she was radiant. I wished it would fall and crush her. 

“My condolences, again,” she said, and then turned to Dan. “Here’s some literature about our service offerings,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper, gently pushing several pamphlets into his hand. “In case she changes her mind.” She winked at him and I grimaced.

Dan thanked her stiffly and bent down to my ear and whispered, “Time to go.”

We made our way to the front door and he opened it for me, papers clutched tightly in his hand. The smell of flowers wafted in on the breeze. He nodded his head nearly imperceptibly toward the parking lot. 

I hesitated in the doorway for a moment and turned back toward Monica. “Good luck with your baby,” I said. “You seem happy.”

I shut the door and walked quickly toward the car, Dan following at my heels.

We climbed into the car and shut the doors. The cab was sweltering in the sun. I stared out the window at the dirt road in front of us. There wasn’t another car in sight. “Turn the air on, please,” I said.

Dan turned the air on, and shook his head as he put the car in gear. 

I looked back out the window and drew my knees up to my chest in the seat. The urn in my lap dug into my sternum. For a few minutes, we drove in silence.

“Well,” he said. 

“Yeah, she’s always been—”

“Kind of a weird bitch?”

“She wasn’t always weird.”

“Yeah, well that was fucking weird.” He sighed and shook his head again. And then, “I thought you wanted a service.”

“I did,” I said. “But I couldn’t. I can’t. Not if it’s gonna be like that.” 

He sighed. “Well.” 

Outside, the trees rolled past, dense and dark as the afternoon sun began to dip below them. Our car rumbled over the empty road back toward the motel. A shitty Corolla covered in dust. 

………

We weren’t sure what to do with the urn. It didn’t seem right to leave it in the car, and it didn’t seem right to leave it out in the motel room. My mother perched next to the television. My mother on the bedside table, looming over the tangle of our bodies in sleep. 

Dan suggested the drawer in the bedside table, which seemed even worse. Tucking her away with the Gideon Bible. Maybe if she were the praying type.

My mother was not the praying type.

I wanted to put it in the bathtub, but Dan insisted he needed a shower, and there wasn’t a cabinet under the sink.

Eventually, we placed it on the window sill, between the curtain and the glass where we didn’t have to look at it. My mother, standing vigil over the motel parking lot, as the sun floated into twilight, into dusk, out of the sky. Darkness and fireflies. Cicadas calling endlessly into the night.