Tilt

  to wake me here on the couch,

  where Gram and I talked long into

  the night with Aunt Andrea.

  Planning for after. Yes, there will

  be an after. Calls to make:

  the funeral home

  relatives

  friends

  acquaintances

  Beyond that, there is Dad’s request

  that Shelby’s room be emptied,

  boxed

  scrubbed

  painted

  carpet replaced

  All these things whirl around in

  my head. And then I hear,

  no

  no

  sobbing

  weeping.

  In the Recliner

  Aunt Andrea stirs from her dreams.

  Gram comes from the kitchen.

  None of us hurries. We know there

  is no reason, and Mom and Dad

  deserve a few private minutes

  of mourning. I don’t have to look

  through her door to know Shelby

  is gone. It’s like her energy was sucked

  from her room, leaving us all in

  a vacuum. Conflicting emotions

  tug-of-war inside my head, my heart.

  Shock. Certainty.

  Grief. Relief.

  Joy at her escape to freedom. Anger at what might have been.

  Gram Goes to Make the First Call

  This early on a holiday morning,

  an answering service person is

  the first one to hear that Shelby

  has died. The funeral parlor

  director is doing his Labor Day

  thing. It will take a while for

  someone to come collect my

  sister’s shell. Meanwhile, Mom

  refuses to let go of her hand.

  Why is she getting so cool?

  I don’t want her to be cold.

  I have to keep her warm.

  I want to help Mom, but have no

  idea how. I want to put my arm

  around Dad, cry into his shoulder.

  But we haven’t shared that kind

  of intimacy since I was a little boy.

  And anyway, he’s propping up Mom.

  Death Is Awkward

  Despite all the talking, all the planning,

  no one really knows what to do. I glance

  around the room at all the specialized

  equipment we won’t need anymore.

  For years, it’s been the heartbeat

  of this house. It has been silenced.

  The hush is stunning. Finally, Gram

  asks, Did you note the time of death?

  We were instructed to write it down

  for the death certificate. Mom shakes

  her head, but Dad says, Six thirty-eight

  a.m. None of us asks if he’s sure. What

  does it really matter, anyway? I want

  to call Alex, but it’s so very early.

  I can’t do anything more in here, though,

  so I go into the living room. Outside

  the sliding glass doors, storm clouds

  simmer up, black over the hills. Fitting.

  It Is Ten A.M.

  Before they arrive with a gurney.

  Shelb’s last trip in a stander of sorts.

  I smile,

  thinking about the times

  Alex and I pushed her back

  and forth between us.

  I cry,

  remembering the cruel words

  “retard” and “alien.”

  I wonder

  for not exactly the first time

  how much Shelby was aware

  of everything around her.

  I wish

  she could have told us,

  helped us understand. If

  I knew

  for sure, I would sleep

  better tonight.

  Alex Shows Up

  Just as they wheel Shelby out

  of the house. I didn’t even call

  him. It’s like he just knew. Mom

  is still holding on to Shelby’s

  hand. Please don’t let her be cold.

  Please? Promise me. Dad has to

  pull her away. Let them go now,

  Missy. They’ll take good care of her.

  I can’t stomach the thought

  of what will come next for Shelby.

  Thank God Alex is here. Dad leads

  Mom past me and off toward

  their bedroom. I hope she sleeps.

  She needs to fall down into some dark

  quiet place. Somewhere warm. Alex

  waits for the corpse carriers to load

  Shelbs into a plain white unmarked

  van. Guess they save the hearse

  for the actual funeral. As they drive

  away it hits me. I didn’t say goodbye.

  It Isn’t Until

  Alex and I go inside and pass

  the bedroom emptied of her,

  body and spirit, that it really

  sinks in that she will not ever

  be coming home. She is dead.

  And all that talk about dignified

  death was total bullshit. I didn’t

  want her to die. Period. What

  I really wanted was for her to live

  whole. Well. Capable. Happy.

  But that was not in my power,

  nor in the power of any human—

  no doctor. No surgeon. No researcher.

  All we could do was try to make her

  comfortable. To allow her a few

  joyful hours beyond the many

  she spent lying in bed. Mom tried

  to give me a reason why a true

  omnipotent God would create

  something so broken, and send

  her to us for such a short season.

  But I really don’t understand it.

  If there is a God and He did this,

  I don’t think I like him very much.

  Hey, God. Are you listening?

  The door to my room is open.

  But Gaga is in her usual spot

  on my pillow. Did she not know

  she could venture out into the hall—

  into the larger world? Or was

  she afraid to? Shelby never had

  the chance to venture out into

  the larger world, at least not on

  her own. Did she miss being able

  to? Would she have been afraid to?

  Suddenly, it strikes me that I don’t

  know how she felt about stuff.

  I could tell when she was happy.

  But was she ever sad? Scared?

  Did she even know I loved her?

  My Eyes Sting

  No, goddamn it, I can’t. Men don’t cry,

  not even gay men. Right? Alex, who has

  totally let me get mired in my musings,

  notices my gay slipping out. He opens

  his arms, entices me into them. Go

  ahead and cry. I’m so sorry, Shane.

  I want to shout, “What the fuck for?

  It’s not like you did anything.” But my tears

  won’t let me. I’m sad. Pressed down

  by sorrow. I’m angry. Pissed at God,

  if there is one, and the way things are.

  I’m scared. Confused by the whys.

  Why are we here? Is there, really, some

  intelligent design? Why do we cry for

  someone who leaves us if there’s some

  Grand Pearly Gate in the sky? Why worry

  about how we build our lives if the ultimate

  ending for all is death, a single breath away?

  Alex

  Death

  Of course I think about it.

  But death as a worry is not

  exclusive to people with HIV.

  Who

  but a total innocent

 
hasn’t considered their final

  breath? And who really

  knows

  what that means? Philosophers

  muse on it, but find no answers.

  Ministers preach propaganda—

  what

  a person must do on earth

  to reach some mythical heaven.

  Seems to me religion’s true motivation

  lies

  within the offering plate.

  I wish I had answers, wish

  I could offer Shane solace

  beyond

  the comfort of my arms.

  But until we get there, we won’t know

  for sure what’s on the other side.

  Harley

  I Wish

  People would stop treating me

  like a little kid. I’ll be fourteen

  in a couple of weeks. I’m not a child.

  Even my mother, who claims

  to know me better than anyone

  else in the universe, did not respect

  me enough to tell me the reason

  she was so distracted last weekend

  was because my cousin was dying.

  She never said a word until after

  Shelby died, and when she finally told

  me, I lost my temper. “I had the right

  to know,” I pretty much yelled. “I had

  the right to say goodbye. God, Mom.

  I’m not a baby. I understand that

  people die. Why do adults try to hide

  the ugly stuff from their kids? People

  die. People fall out of love and get

  divorced. Or they fall out of love

  and stay together when it’s obvious

  they shouldn’t, like Bri’s mom and

  dad. All they do is fight. It’s stupid.”

  They had a whopper when Mrs. Carlisle

  got back from Vegas. I didn’t give

  details, but Mom acted all shocked

  anyway. How do you know they fight?

  She and Bri’s mom are tight. How could

  she not know? “I’ve got ears, Mom,

  and so does Bri. Her dad thinks her

  mom is sleeping around. And guess

  what else. He still doesn’t know

  Mikayla is pregnant. Don’t you think

  someone should tell him before

  baggy shirts can’t hide it anymore?

  Especially since she’s going to keep

  the baby.” Mom just sat there, gawking.

  Which Made Me Even Angrier

  If Gram hadn’t called right then,

  I might have said something really

  mean. Like, is her head up her butt

  or something? Of course, later

  I felt bad about how mad I got.

  Everyone in the family is kind of in

  shock. I guess I knew Shelby

  wasn’t going to live a long time.

  But she was only four. Little kids

  shouldn’t die! I wasn’t, like,

  close to her, even though she was

  my cousin. Even if she hadn’t been

  sick, she was a lot younger

  than me, so we wouldn’t have

  hung out together. She was sick,

  though. Visiting her was kind of

  creepy, and the smell gagged me.

  But now I feel sort of guilty that

  we didn’t do it more. I bet

  Mom feels the same way.

  She’s sitting next to me, staring

  at the coffin. Shelby is inside,

  or something that looks sort of

  like her. She’s so still and white

  she could be made of wax.

  Her hair is curled in ringlets,

  and she’s smiling in her deep,

  forever sleep. Did she die

  smiling? Or did someone mold

  her lips that way? Is she real?

  People are still coming in as

  the music starts to play. I wave

  to Bri, who just got here with

  her family. As usual, her dad

  and mom are miles apart, even

  though they sit side by side.

  If Mom Can’t See That

  She’s totally blind, and she’s def

  checking them out. When she turns

  back around, she looks sad. But

  everyone looks pretty sad, especially

  when the minister starts to talk

  about how Shelby is home now,

  and whole in God’s arms. So weird,

  thinking about how some energy inside

  you might escape when your body

  dies. That it might go someplace,

  become something different. An angel.

  A whole other person. I don’t know.

  But I’m sure there’s nothing left inside

  the Shelby-looking thing in the casket.

  I’ve never seen a dead person before.

  Now people get up to talk about her.

  Gramps goes first. He calls her

  a little blossom who nourished

  us with the nectar of her laughter.

  Our lives are enriched because of her.

  Gramps is a poet. Who knew?

  Now Gram says a few words,

  and Mom does, too. And then

  Shane’s boyfriend, Alex, stands.

  I’ve only known the Trask family

  a few months. But I am grateful

  for the short time I had with Shelby.

  She brought light into my life, and

  wherever she is now, it is a brighter

  place because she’s there. I miss you,

  Shelbs, I . . . But his throat knots

  up. He can’t go on, so he returns

  to his seat beside Shane, whose face

  is in his hands. Almost everyone

  here is crying, the one huge exception

  being Aunt Marissa. She looks like a marble

  statue—hard, white, unmoving. In fact,

  she could be dead, too, except every now

  and again she blinks dry eyes. Maybe you

  only have to die inside to turn into a zombie.

  After the Words

  And Disney Channel music are finished,

  the casket is closed. Shane, Alex, Gramps

  and Uncle Chris carry it to the hearse

  and we form a car parade to follow it to

  the cemetery. Will you please ride with

  Gram and Marissa? Mom asks me. I want

  to talk privately with Gramps. She offers

  no other explanation, leaving me totally

  wondering, again, what’s up with her.

  More too-adult-for-me-to-know-about

  stuff, no doubt. But what can I do except

  say, “Sure.” I sit in the back with Gram.

  All of us wall ourselves up into invisible

  boxes of silence. It’s a fifteen-minute

  creep-along ride, and I steal a few to text

  Lucas. FUNERALS SUCK. CAN I C U

  TOMORROW? I have no idea how I’ll

  sneak away, but I’ll think of something.

  In the past week, we’ve seen each other

  three times—the day after the rib cook-off,

  when he and Kurt came out to Washoe Valley

  and picked up Bri and me at the 7-Eleven; and

  twice after school. I’m glad he has a car.

  Each time, we found a private place to park.

  He keeps trying to get me stoned, but

  so far I’ve been good. What I’ve been bad

  about is making out. He’s the best kisser

  in the world. The last time I even let him

  go to second base. Amazing! But the days

  I don’t see him just seem so long. Especially

  since they’ve been all about death. I need

  a big injection of life. It will have to wait

  for a w
hile, though. Right now, I get out

  of the car, follow the people procession

  to the gravesite where what’s left of Shelby

  will be left to decay beneath Nevada sand.

  A Gentle Slant

  Of September sun spotlights

  the casket as they lower it

  into the ground. At the cemetery’s

  edges, the rabbit brush is blooming.

  The air is thick with its pollen and

  its bittersweet scent mixes with the perfume

  of Gram’s citrusy shampoo. Together,

  they smell like rotting oranges. The coffin

  hits dirt with a soft whump. I watch

  them pull the canvas straps out of the hole.

  The minister says some final words,

  invites us to take a single purple rose

  from the vase beside the grave, toss

  it inside. Tink. Tink. Tink. They hit

  the casket lid. My ears go hypersensitive.

  A jet landing. A dove moaning.

  Sniffling. Distant traffic. A train passing

  nearby. Music. A symphony of death.

  After the Dirge

  We go to party. The wake is at

  my house. Whoopee. I think

  it’s weird that people celebrate

  dying. Is that something I’ll get

  when I’m allowed to be grown-up?

  Gram and Gramps spent all day

  yesterday cooking. I ride home

  with them, ahead of the rest, so we

  can start putting food out on the long

  table Mom borrowed. Everything,

  from the tablecloth to the napkins

  to the centerpiece flowers, is purple

  and pink. Shelby’s favorite colors.

  It was a nice ceremony, says Gram.

  Don’t you think so? Gramps and I

  mutter agreement. I mean, how nice

  can a funeral be? People start arriving

  within a half hour. Oh, good. There’s

  Bri, with Trace, Mikayla and their dad.

  Mrs. Carlisle isn’t with them. Not into wakes?

  Bri and I Load Plates

  Leave Trace and Mikayla surrounded

  by talkative adults, go back into my room

  to eat. I take the time to check my cell.

  No text messages. No voice mails.

  “Wonder what’s up with Lucas,” I mumble

  around a bite of Gram’s homemade pizza.

  Mm-mm-mmh, is the best Bri can do.

  Then she swallows. But before she can

  comment on Lucas, she notices something