by Christina Brown
As we wait for our table of five, I realize I forgot I was supposed to wear black. I didn’t think about it until I looked over at my mom’s dramatic, lacy black duster and black boots. Luckily, as a very scene 14-year-old, all of my clothes are black. My boots are black, my jeans are black, my t-shirt is black, and my hair would be black too if my mom would let me dye it. The host comes and seats us before my sister gets there, and we order our drinks while we wait. I order her a hot chocolate, even though it’s September. I know she likes it here.
I’m still looking at the menu when my sister walks in. We all get up and hug her, then sit back down.
“What are you gonna get?” my dad asks me. He’s wearing the same black short-sleeved button up he wears to funerals and Thanksgiving, and I wonder if he forgot about the customs of the occasion too. I’m not sure what to order at a funeral. I’m staring at the page with pictures of the “Moons Over My Hammy” and the “Grand Slamwich,” which are two phrases I feel would be in very bad taste to say outloud in this situation. I usually get breakfast at Denny’s, but is that appropriate?
“I don’t know…” I look to my mom for guidance. After all, he was her dad.
“I wish they still had that soup I like.” She’s acting really normal, so it’s probably okay for me to get French toast.
My brother, sister, and I all get the same thing: The French Toast Grand Slam with French toast, eggs scrambled dry, and bacon. I suspect there is no real difference between regular and dry scrambled eggs, but whenever I forget to say dry my mom corrects me. That’s how she likes her eggs.
After we order, my mom pulls a bunch of envelopes out of her purse and hands them out to each of us. My dad looks just as confused as the rest of us, but we go with it.
“It’s not really a eulogy, but I wanted you guys to know some more information about your grandfather.” She states it calmly, matter-of-factly. It sounds likes she’s assigning chores for the week.
We open the envelopes and unfold our copies of the non-eulogy. “James Raymond Winter,” along with a birth and death year, is listed at the top.
“I thought his name was Ray,” I immediately regret saying it. I only meant to think it. I had met my grandfather several times. I used to spend weekends at his house in Santa Barbara when I was a kid. I would go to the fiesta parade and rodeos with his wife, my Nana. She and I would play dress up and have tea parties. She would cover me in heavy jewelry, hold her cup high, and ask how the children were. I didn’t have children, but she said to pretend. I didn’t get it.
“That’s what he went by,” is my mom’s concise explanation. “Would any of you like to read it out loud?”
My sister and I hold our breath, but my brother raises his hand. Oh no. He’s still learning how to read out loud. My mom gives him her patronizing smile, and I can tell she’s about to suggest I read it. He looks too hopeful though. She hesitantly nods, and he begins.
“James Raymond Winter was born in North Dakota on November 13, 1945….” my brother struggles through the first line. The waitress comes to refill my dad’s iced tea. I wonder what she is thinking about all of this. I look around; we are all in black. Am I the only one who forgot? Joshua keeps reading, a little bit too loud.
He goes through all of my grandpa’s military rankings, slowly and painfully. I wish we could popcorn read or something. My sister and I look at each other, she’s bored and I’m uncomfortable. I’ve felt my cell phone vibrate at least three times since we’ve been sitting here. I wouldn’t check it if we were in a church, so I think that means I’m not supposed to check it here.
My dad pretends to read along, but I know he can’t see 12-point font without his glasses. He holds the paper up to his face anyhow. His eyes are moving down the page much faster than my brother’s mouth is.
The eulogy feels like a Wikipedia page. My mom listed the dates that he married and divorced her mother, and the year he married Joan. She has his colleges on there, and the year he retired from the air force. I didn’t know he had a PhD.
“He thought he wanted to be a college professor,” my mom explains, “Before he started selling life insurance.”
That’s the next paragraph in the eulogy. Then his retirement from New York Life, then his death. She didn’t put the year she, his daughter, was born, or the year he adopted her half brother Daniel. Or the year he unadopted him.
The food comes while my brother is still reading the penultimate paragraph. The waitress awkwardly places the warm plates and side bowls and syrup between our elbows and under our Word documents. She puts my plate right on top of the envelope that my copy came in, leaving a warm damp ring on it. I hadn’t noticed that my mom had written my grandpa’s name on the envelopes, but now I can see the blue ink running.
This goes on forever. I swear we did not order this much food. Joshua, oblivious to the rest of the world, continues to loudly stammer through the last few lines about my grandfather’s legacy. He leaves behind three grandchildren, his daughter, and his wife. I glance at my mom and see that she is tearing up. Should I cry too? I normally cry at funerals, even if I don’t know the person who died. It’s really embarrassing. But now it’s embarrassing that I’m not crying. Lily and I stare at our papers fixedly, trying to respect my mom, but I can see that she doesn’t know what to do either. She leans back to give the waitress more room, so she’s obviously paying some attention to the world around her. But we have to pretend we aren’t.
My dad smiles at the waitress awkwardly. He would probably say sorry or thank you but he doesn’t want to talk over my brother either. I can tell Joshua isn’t absorbing what he’s reading, or he would be crying. He reads everything in monotone, with the occasional puppet inflection that I think they taught him in school. The food gets cold while he finishes.
When he’s finally done, we all nod. I don’t know why. We look at my mom, who is carefully folding her paper back up into thirds, to fit back in her envelope.
“I know this is kind of untraditional, but thank you guys for coming,” she says. “Go ahead and start eating.”
I didn’t really have a choice about coming; I don’t have my own car. But I appreciate the sentiment.
“Can you hold mine, Mom?” I ask tentatively. “I don’t want to get syrup on it.” I carefully fold my own paper and hand it to her to keep in her purse. I hope I never get old enough to have to carry a purse.
My dad got a Super Bird sandwich, and my mom got chicken noodle soup. She keeps complaining about how it used to be creamier, but eats it anyway.
I don’t know what to talk about. Usually at family dinners we go through cycles of awkward conversation and really funny jokes and roasting each other, but none of those feel appropriate right now. Neither does my French toast.
My mom’s phone rings. She pulls it out and checks the caller ID. “It’s the flower place again. We probably have another bouquet to pick up.”
My grandpa’s wife didn’t want to put together a funeral, and my mom didn’t know who to invite or what he would have wanted, so we didn’t have one. Since there’s no church to send them to, people keep sending flowers and fruit baskets to my house. It’s actually really depressing.
My mom puts her phone away. Her phone continues to ring, contributing to the restaurant noise. She looks around, clearly unaware.
“I wanted to come to this one because I came here with my dad once. He brought me here to meet Joan.” I didn’t know that. My mom hasn’t gotten along with her stepmother for at least a decade or so. I haven’t been allowed to visit her in a long time, and I haven’t really wanted to.
I zone back into my mom’s speech for the end. She says that her dad always loved Denny’s.
We wait for the waitress to bring the bill, but instead she brings out an ice cream sundae. I think it’s the same one they bring when it’s your birthday. At least she didn’t bring a candle or have someone come and sing something.
“It’s on the house,” she smiles, and hands my dad the check for the rest of the meal.
“That was nice of her,” I say, and my mom nods. We all look at the sundae but no one eats it.
