Come As You Are Page 2

As I pulled into the driveway of my childhood home, Sennett Funeral Home, the large sign erected in the front yard reminded me of my shortcomings in life. There was no “& Sons” on the sign as my father and mother had hoped to have happened by now, but much to my dismay “& Arthur” still had not been added either.

  The house itself, though terrifying in its own way, was as beautiful and grand as it had ever been. After spending nineteen years seemingly trapped inside, I had made it a point to avoid returning there as much as possible in the five years I had been gone. I would come around for Thanksgiving and Christmas, but often would suggest holding birthday parties or other family gatherings at secondary sources so as to not have to go home again.

  I sat in the driveway, engine running, hoping my mother would just come out of the house with her bag packed, hop in my car, and we could be on our way. No such luck existed though. She did walk out of the house with a bag in her hand, but instead of getting in my car, she motioned for me get out and meet her next to the newest of Dad’s two hearses.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  Biting my lip, I killed the ignition and stepped out of my beat up 1985 Volkswagen Golf that I had affectionately named Rusty. I purposefully left my overnight bag in the car though, hoping I could convince my mom to take my car instead of the hearse.

  “Hi, honey,” she said. Though her face was momentarily dry, I could tell it hadn’t been long since she had been crying. It seemed strange to me that she would shed so many tears after having found August. She really hadn’t cried that much the entire time he was missing. “Did you pack a bag?” she asked.

  “Yeah, Mom,” I said. “It’s in the backseat of Rusty.”

  She gave a small laugh as I used my car’s nickname, but it faded away quickly with her smile. Her eyes were watering up again and at that moment, I was sure she had gone insane. No one should spend as much time crying as Vada Sennett had in the past couple of hours. “Your father gave me the keys to the new hearse. He said we could take it and that he would use the old one for business until we get back.”

  I tried to hide my frustration and just go along with it, but it seemed so morbid to be driving around, especially crossing state lines, in a brand new hearse.

  “Seriously?” I asked.

  She simply nodded, not making eye contact with me.

  Frustrated, I chose not to choose this battle and walked back to my car, pulling my bag from the backseat and slinging it over my shoulder as I made my way back to my mother.

  “Should I drive?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “Is Dad going to see us off or anything?” My father wasn’t the most sentimental of men, but I at least thought he’d come outside and say goodbye to his wife and oldest son as they were about to drive two states’ distance to bring back his youngest runaway.

  Mom hesitated, knowing what she was about to say might anger me, or upset me, or bring forth some other unknown emotion. “He’s downstairs with a client… but he asked me to send you in before we took off.”

  Shit.

  “It’s the least you can do,” she stated firmly. This was the mother I knew. At first, she had been hidden under the sobbing mess of a woman I’d encountered on the phone this morning, but now the true Vada Sennett was emerging, even if only to remind me of how much I owed my father for breaking his heart.

  Again, I didn’t even try to argue with her and immediately turned in the direction of the front of the house. Walking up the porch steps, I felt as if the house were pulling me in, devouring me without any chance of escape. It was a monster with ferocious, sharp teeth, dying to rip me limb from limb the closer I got to the front door. I could feel my back subconsciously arching away from the entrance as I reached forward and turned the brass handle in front of me.

  Of course, it was just a house and the only monsters inside were my own memories that, given my way, would have long since been repressed.

  The foyer of my former home was what anyone could describe as humble yet immaculate. Everything was made of dark cherry wood, including the enormous staircase that stood on the far wall. The entire first floor (and basement) of the house was dedicated to the funeral parlor, but the second floor was where my family had lived for generations.

  As I looked from room to room on my way to the skinny door in the far corner, I could recall countless times I’d been forced to stand, dressed in a suit, consoling grieving aunts, sisters, mothers, and widows as they laid to rest their loved ones. It was a painful, dirty feeling that not even my relentless sarcasm could brush aside.

  All while giving it too much thought, I opened the door and took the first step onto the staircase that would lead me downstairs, and though the entire area was well-lit, my heart began to race and perspiration appeared on the palms of my hands. “Dad?” I asked, trying not to let my voice shake.

  “Down here,” he called back in as monotone of a voice as I’d ever heard him speak in before. I wasn’t sure if it was a common trait of funeral directors, but my father wasn’t one to show emotion. He was as much of a brick wall as my mother was a gushing waterfall.

  The room at the bottom of the stairs was not what anyone would expect from the basement of an old house built in the 1930s; it had a sterile look and feel to it, as if doctors would be coming in to perform surgeries at any moment. The lights were bright and fluorescent. The floor was a bright white and had been recently mopped. The walls were lined with cabinets that were filled with various kinds of chemicals and embalming fluids while two sleek, metal operating tables occupied the center of the room. One of the tables was occupied, and my father stood over the corpse, preparing it to be embalmed.

  “Hi,” I said, not taking another step into the room, my hand planted firmly on the banister.

  He looked up from the body to acknowledge me, and I realized he looked exhausted. I hadn’t seen him for a few weeks, but I could only assume work had been running him ragged. He had given Arthur time off to visit his family in San Diego, and I could only assume he was having trouble running the entire parlor by himself. If only he had a son willing to pick up the slack…

  “Do you remember Mr. Baxter from the ice cream shop down the street?” he asked, gesturing toward the nearly-nude body lying between the two of us. “He died two days ago from a heart attack. He was closing down the shop when all of a sudden…” He trailed off as if in deep thought, letting the rest of the story tell itself.

  “So, Mom and I are going to be heading up north pretty soon. She said you wanted to talk to me. Did you just want to talk to me about Mr. Baxter?” I asked apprehensively. I didn’t want to come off as uncaring, but seriously, I didn’t want to hear about my father preparing for burial the man that had slipped me free scoops of Superman ice cream as a child.

  “No, no…” Dad said, trying to find the correct words. “We need to talk about August.”

  “What’s there to say?” I asked.

  The truth of the matter was that no one should have been blindsided by this. August was a rebellious kid, and what did rebellious kids do? They ran away from home from time to time. Of course, he’d made it further than even I would have guessed for someone at his level of social awkwardness.

  “I just feel really bad about what happened between us. I was never expecting it to go this way. I was never expecting him to run off and try to abandon all of us. I’m just so ashamed.” I couldn’t tell if he was ashamed at August or himself. After all, he had helped cause the situation by not being there for August when he needed a father most.  How was this at all shocking?

  “Dad, being honest, I think August did what anyone in his position would have done. Something went wrong, really wrong, and he took off. He was scared and didn’t know what to do,” I argued in my brother’s defense.

  “But look where it got him.”

  “He didn’t know that running off to Aberdeen was going to lead up to him falling off a bridge,” I said nonchalantly. “We just have to accept it at face value
and move on. We have to learn from all the mistakes.”

  I was surprised at how intelligent I had just sounded, but the expression on my father’s face proved he wasn’t buying it. He looked near tears. By this time, he had moved from behind Mr. Baxter’s body and had made his way across the basement.

  He looked up at me and placed his hand on my shoulder as I tried not to cringe, thinking of how only minutes ago he had been touching a dead body, albeit wearing gloves. “Just bring him home for me,” he said, his voice cracking.

  A cold chill ran down my spine as if a ghost had just passed through the room, and with the amount of dead bodies that had spent time there, I wouldn’t have been surprised had that been the case. I could only nod my head in agreement with him as he turned and walked back to Mr. Baxter. I knew our conversation was over, but I still felt as if I should say something to close it out. The best I could come up with was, “I’ll see you in a couple of days,” which, knowing our relationship was a big step.

  Chapter 3