The worst part is that my getting emotional scares Tommy. He’s sitting in the front row, dressed exactly like me because Portia also bought him a funeral suit and accessories, and I can tell that Portia doesn’t know whether she should keep holding Tommy’s little hand or come to me. Finally, she comes to me, which makes me feel weak, since my nephew who lost his mom is handling this better than me. She rubs my back and whispers, “You’re okay,” in my ear over and over.
“I should have put the pieces together. I should have saved her—”
There are maybe two dozen people seated in rows of chairs facing me, and I feel like it’s my fault that my sister’s funeral isn’t better attended, like I’m the reason her life turned out so pathetic and ended much too early.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I say through tears.
“You’re doing fine,” Portia says.
I look over at the casket and see Danielle looking almost blue and waxy. The coroner found track marks up and down the inside of her thighs. She’d been using for weeks, the knowledge of which hasn’t done much to ease my conscience. But it’s not time for guilt. I need to make it through today. I have the rest of my life to deal with guilt.
A few people stand and tell stories about Danielle, none of them all that interesting. Diner patrons who always asked to be seated in her section, a few exaggerated tales about how much fun Danielle was to drink with at the Manor. Tommy talks about singing with her, and Portia tells a story about being in Mr. Vernon’s class with Danielle, but most of it doesn’t really register in my mind. I keep glancing over at Danielle and thinking that a decade or so ago it could have easily been me in that box. Why wasn’t it? My fists clench as I think of Randall Street.
When there are no more stories left to tell, people make their way to their cars, and I ask the funeral director if Tommy and I can have a private moment.
They clear the room and close the doors.
Portia leaves too.
I do my best to keep it together as I say, “I want you to take a good look at your mom, Tommy, because when we close this lid, you won’t ever see her again.”
He looks at Danielle. “It doesn’t really look like her.”
“I know, but it is. And she loved you so much. She just did a dumb thing, and now Aunt Portia and I will take care of you.”
“Aunt Portia wore the ring on her finger today,” he says. “She wasn’t wearing it before. Why?”
“I’m not sure. We’ll have to ask her later.”
“Will she be my mom now?”
He’s looking up at me with this very concerned look, and it wrecks me.
“You’ll always have your real mom with you in your heart,” I say, at the same time thinking, What the hell am I telling the kid? What does that even mean? Having someone in your heart, like religious people say about Jesus. “She’ll always be with you. And Portia and I will be with you too. I’m trying my best to make sure Portia becomes your official aunt, and I’m pretty sure that will happen, but I will never ever leave you, Tommy. Do you hear me? I’m with you for life.”
“I know,” he says, and then looks at his mom.
“It’s okay to cry,” I say.
“I did already, when you weren’t looking.”
“You can cry when I’m looking, Tommy. Didn’t you see me crying earlier? It’s okay. Real men let it out. So go ahead if you need to.”
Tommy leans his little head against my thigh. “Can I kiss her good-bye just once?”
“Sure, but it’s not going to feel like her, okay? Just so you know.”
“Okay.”
I hold him up so that he can reach, and he kisses Danielle on the cheek once. I hear him whisper, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of Uncle Chuck.”
After I put him down again, I say, “You don’t have to take care of anybody but yourself. You hear me? And we’re going to take care of you. You are the little kid. You get to be taken care of.”
My voice is stern, but I want him to get the message.
He nods once, and then the tears come.
“I don’t want my mommy to die,” he says before he throws himself at me and then cries into my brand-new tie.
“I know. I know. I know,” I keep saying over and over, because I don’t know what else to say, and it’s all I can do to contain the rage I feel whenever I think about Randall Street. “I don’t want your mommy to die either. But we have each other still, and we are going to kick ass living together, you hear me? Absolutely kick ass.”
He just keeps crying into my shirt, and so I rub his back until it’s all out.
We put my sister in the ground without any religious fanfare, eat sandwiches at the Manor, and then Portia and I lower the futon in her office and get Tommy to sleep by lying on either side of him and telling him stories about when his mom was a kid, teasing her hair out like Axl Rose. The little guy manages to laugh a few times, which makes me proud, although he checks several more times to make sure his Quiet Riot mask is hanging above his makeshift new bed in Portia’s apartment.
It’s there.
We made certain.
After he’s out, Portia and I watch the kid breathe for a long time, making absolutely sure he’s sound asleep, before we leave him.
And then I’m finally alone in the kitchen with Portia, who has poured herself a glass of wine.
“You’re wearing your engagement ring, I see.”
“Let’s talk about this later. We just buried your sister.”