God Hates Us All

18

“AT LEAST SHE DIDN’T SUFFER LONG,” says Dottie, apparently disregarding the twenty-two years my mother was married to my father, who seems as numb and detached during her funeral as he’d been during her life. Not that anyone shows much life during the solemn and humorless service. My dad’s temperament or lack thereof matches the demeanor of my mom’s stoic relations, several of whom have flown in from the Midwest.

The obvious exception to the emotional void is Tana, an absolute wreck before, during, and after the service. When the service ends, she grabs me in a hug. “I’m so sorry,” she says.

“Walk with me while I smoke,” I say. By unspoken agreement my father and I have avoided lighting up in front of my mother’s family, so as not to remind them of the lung cancer that killed their nonsmoking relation.

“It’s weird,” I say upon reaching a thicket of trees that offers some privacy. “I think I always saw her as a two-dimensional character—you know, Mom. She lived a whole life inside of her mind that I never gave her credit for. That I’ll never know. I guess it’s true what they say: We all die alone.”

“What the hell is wrong with you guys?” Tana asks.

“That depends on what you mean by ‘you guys.’”

“Men. You all say the same stupid shit. ‘The world is meaningless. We all die alone. Nothing means anything.’”

“If anything meant anything,” I say, “my mother wouldn’t have died of somebody else’s disease.”

“My point is that she didn’t die alone,” says Tana, staring at the mourners filing out of the cemetery. “Maybe we’re all out there, floating by ourselves in some big black void. But we build connections, you know? We build our own worlds with the people we love. Your mom didn’t die alone. She had friends and she had family, and even when they let her down, she always felt like she had a home.”

Tana is bawling again. I hug her again. “I’m sorry,” I whis-per into her ear.

“Me too,” she replies. “But let’s not fucking dwell on it.”

I hold Tana tight, two lone figures surrounded by trees.