Louisville Magazine is Louisville's city magazine, covering Louisville people, lifestyles, politics, sports, restaurants, entertainment and homes. Includes a monthly calendar of events.
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Grief By Nikita Perumal "D ying is something we human beings do continuously, not just at the end of our physical lives on this earth." — Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, creator of the Kübler-Ross Model of Grief Denial — Roger, the brother Te plane to Buffalo is chilly and quiet. I welcome the relentless rumble of propellers at my ear, the frothy interruptions from the intercom. Te captain apologizes for the tur- bulence: It's just the way the wind is buffet- ing the wings, folks. Buffeting is a nice word, I reflect. I order a Sprite and skim through a briefing, like I always do when I fly. Every three pages, I glance out the window at the blinding acre of sifted cloud that skims our bloated, metal belly. I swallow the light un- til my eyes water in protest, and tendrils of cloud scorch themselves into my eyelids — and then I read again. Te sun disorients me a little. It's too nice of a day, I think. It should be sad. Te sky should be six shades grayer. Just once, in between charts, I try to imagine Will's still body lying in a gleaming casket — but I can't. Te picture eludes me, slipping through my grasp with a laughing, light-hearted portent. By the time the taxi pulls up to the tall, skinny house I called home for 17 years, I have finished both my briefings, and percent- ages dance sluggishly across my brain. My arrival is exactly as I had anticipated. Tears. Flowers. Mugs of tea. Te whole thing takes an hour and a half. I hold my mother as her sobs shake my shoulder, force Amelia to sit down, and then float upstairs to deposit my bag in my old bedroom. I slam the door quickly on the memories clamoring to escape the confines of my childhood blankets and train tracks. I can't deal with them right now. When l return downstairs to sink into my armchair — a contraption of unsightly, tex- tured plaid, my favorite piece of furniture in the world — I feel the weight of numbness sink down with me. It settles contentedly onto my lap, like a dog. I am surrounded by cold air and concerned well-wishers: I am completely alone. Te heartbroken murmur of Dad and Charlie making funeral prepara- tions washes over my aching body, and the glimmering, blown-up photograph placed in the center of the living room blurs before my unfocused eyes. My jaw is no longer stiff or set against the pain; it feels at ease. Te pain is less. Te pain isn't there at all. I guess I was always slow on the uptake. Will was the quick one — quick to grasp cal- culus, quick to shoot a goal, quick to explore, to laugh, to live. Perhaps it was this speedy vivacity of his that made it so hard to com- prehend my loss. Perhaps it was memories of his lopsided smile. Perhaps it was that I didn't want to let my big brother go. "Roger, sweet, could you set the place mats?" my mother inquires softly, tenderly, hesitantly. Her voice, still raw with grief, pulls me from my armchaired stupor. I stand oblig- ingly (Grief stands up with me, its cold eyes fixed on my back) and cross the room in three long strides. Te old placemats are in the mahogany ar- moire; as I rummage for them amongst the could you leave? — trail across my mind le- thargically. I feel as though I have a hurricane lodged inside me, somewhere in between my chest and my head, perhaps nestled in my swollen throat or gasping lungs. Te rainy ca- cophony on my roof stirs the storm further, scatters fierce droplets atop the pain of unre- membered memories. I sit up so quickly that the crisp burgundy comforter practically crackles. I am a wreck, a 45-year-old widow with puffy eyelids and only three black outfits in my closet. Lividly alive and irrationally angry. I feel myself shrug on my ratty green robe, feel myself wiggle my toes into the silk slip- pers you gave me seven years ago. A birthday present. My feet shuffle across the floor, glid- ing me to the clunky dresser that sits a few feet from our — my — bed. I crouch down unceremoniously and give the bottom drawer a forceful tug. And there it is. Sticky with dust, and yet When l return downstairs to sink into my armchair — a contraption of unsightly, textured plaid, my favorite piece of furniture in the world — I feel the weight of numbness sink down with me. It settles contentedly onto my lap, like a dog. clutter of candlesticks and never-used linen napkins, I glance out the window, across a lumpy yard of childhood exploits. My eyes light upon the old tree house — wood rot- ting, rope ladder straggly and limp. I almost expect to see a young, tousle-haired Will peeking his head through the knotty boards. Tis doesn't feel right. He doesn't feel gone. I tear my eyes away and turn to the table. I drop mechanically into a seat between James and a bleary-eyed Lucy; my brain is over- wrought, cold, dazed. As Amelia, eyes hard and face powerfully composed, serves lunch, my eyes rove the table. Amid distant conver- sation and the chinking of knives, I observe impartially — as though I am watching the scene from the ceiling fan — that I have laid out one place mat too many. Anger — Amelia, the widow I hate this bed. Hate it. It overwhelms me, swallows me whole into a stuffy, blanketed vastness. It's raining, pearls of water slam- ming with dull regularity into the unoblig- ing roof. You loved the sound of raindrops, the tip-tap pitter-patter. You said it sounded like the sky was drumming us up a war chant. (You always said the most perfect things.) On our second date you kissed me softly amid a haze of drizzles and umbrellas. Today, though, I can't stand the din. Biting thoughts — why the hell do they even make king-size beds? Is rain always this loud? How the gold-embossed letters set into its cover still glimmer in the half-light of the room. William and Amelia, it says, coupled with a portrait of the pair of us, all youth and glow- ing smiles. Tis is the first time I've looked at this book in nine years. I was never sentimen- tal. You were, but I always had this strange feeling that it was all a bit silly. As though someone were watching when you tried to kiss my hand during a midnight showing of It's a Wonderful Life. Looking back, it doesn't seem silly at all. Looking back, I should have let you. I peel through each page gingerly, absorb- ing the smell of cologne and the grit of dust between my fingers. Tere I am, 23 years old. Radiant and dark-haired, taking halting steps down the aisle. Tere I am, gloriously happy. Tere I am, luminous with the prospect of growing old with you. Against my will, I feel the sting of hot, bit- ter tears on my fingertips; I wipe them away with a wizened, 45-year-old hand. "I'm angry," I say out loud. I don't care if I wake anyone up. I'm tired of being strong. "You said you would never leave me. I hate you for doing this to me. I hate you for go- ing away." I snap the book shut. My face is hot; I want to fling the entire dresser across this perfect bedroom-for-two, hear the fulfilling shriek of glass on wood. I'm not just angry with you. I'm angry with the God you believed in so fervently. How could this happen to us — 11.12 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE [81]