The Baddest Girl on the Planet Read online

  “I have to go soon, or I’ll miss my flight,” she says. She scratches your back.

  “Do you think we should break up?” you ask dully. “Why would we break up?” Charlotte asks.

  “Because we’re not the same people anymore.” You bury your face in a pillow. It smells musty.

  “It wouldn’t be any fun if we stayed the same,” she says.

  You’re not so sure. You miss the Charlotte you knew at the National Seashore campground; the Charlotte who watched Disney movies and ate Pop Rocks instead of discussing the commercialization of fairy tales in a heterogeneous society and the evils of high-fructose corn syrup. And you miss the Evie who turned wild cartwheels in strangers’ front yards and imagined the campground into the plains of the Serengeti instead of answering phones at Outer Banks Realty all day; the fearless Evie who would’ve made out with Freddie instead of just letting him touch her hip. You miss them both.

  In the end, do you:

  A.) Stay best friends with Charlotte.

  B.) Break up and go back to the imaginary friends of your childhood, Mulan and Jack the Golden Retriever, who sit and patiently wait, unchanged, for the Evie of the National Seashore campground to come and play.

  C.) Realize you’re different people, but when you’re together, parts of you will always be those little girls on the beach eating sno-cones and making sand mermaids; parts of you will always be the same, no matter how much you change, and you’ll always bring each other Imodium and pretend to be superheroes and swim topless and not let one another drown. And maybe that’s okay; maybe that’s enough; maybe that’s all you can expect.

  The answer is C. The answer is always C.

  Five

  The Big Book of Funeral Etiquette

  — 2015 —

  I stand over the body of my Aunt Fay, the body of the one constant presence in my life, and she looks nothing like herself. Aunt Fay never, not once in her life, wore thick pancake makeup with circles of rouge on her cheeks like a china doll. She slept flat-out on her stomach, not primly on her back, hands crossed neatly one over the other. Her hair was wild and windblown, sticking out in frantic tufts, not perfectly positioned in stiff, starched curls.

  Prologue: Be advised that dead bodies may not fully resemble the people they once were.

  Her death was expected; what wasn’t expected was the wrenching pain in my chest when she went, the absolute, utter finality of the separation cleaving into me. I didn’t expect to scream and hold on to her like a toddler when they took her body away. I didn’t expect to recede inside myself. I didn’t expect that at all. And so, I stand over her body, the dutiful niece, and begin to feel like I’m in a bubble, in the midst of a gaping emptiness.

  My hair is pulled back neatly from my face, and I’m wearing a crisp black suit. I wonder, idly, if I can recycle the suit when I finally get my real estate license, or if that’s just plain bad taste. Do real estate agents even wear crisp black suits?

  “Mom,” Austin, says, tugging at my hand. Austin is now six years old. I don’t know if that’s old enough to understand death, to understand that Aunt Fay’s not just sleeping, that the creepy, pallid body in the polished box is not her. Austin wiggles his tie and tugs my hand again. “I think Walter just bit Grandpa.”

  I look away from Aunt Fay, across the dimly lit room crowded with people. It’s warm, and the air smells of thirty different perfumes. Over by the guest book, Charlotte, who has flown in from Boston where she teaches poetry, tugs at the tiny, black, snarling mass that is Walter, Aunt Fay’s beloved but ill-mannered dog, Yorkshire terrorist extraordinaire. Walter lunges at my dad and barks, sharp and high-pitched, and the hum of conversation stops. Walter latches on to Dad’s pant leg and growls, shaking his head. For a moment the air is filled with nothing but sad, sad organ music. On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross. Dad kicks his leg until Walter lets go. Then Walter’s posture changes, softens. People start talking again. My dad gives Walter a dirty look and goes across the room to hug someone. Walter glances up at Charlotte and wags his stub of a tail, as if he’s expecting praise, then sits down and licks his chops. He never did get along with my dad.

  I send Austin to my mom and walk over to Charlotte, my heels sinking into the too-soft carpet. I’ve never read a book of funeral etiquette, and I certainly don’t know if there is one that covers proper behavior when the deceased’s beloved Yorkie, specially instructed by pre-arranged agreement with the deceased to be present during funeral home calling hours, starts attacking mourners. For a second I picture a funereal massacre—scattered limbs, Walter’s muzzle wet with blood, people stumbling over one another in search of missing body parts. Aunt Fay loved that stupid dog. When her diagnosis changed to stage four, she made me promise to bring Walter to say goodbye. She thought it would help ease his adjustment.

  Charlotte kneels down to Walter, but he dodges before she can pick him up. “I think he’s still out for blood,” Charlotte says. She stands up. Walter takes his leash in his mouth and barks around it.

  I wave my brother, Nate, over to Charlotte’s corner. “Take Walter outside,” I say to Nate.

  Nate looks suspicious, or maybe that’s just the look he gets on his face whenever Charlotte’s around. Six years ago, Nate and Charlotte had a thing. Now what they have is a history. “You’re the only one he doesn’t bite,” Nate says. I want to say “nuh-uh,” to stamp my foot and insist that Nate do it. Being around my brother brings out the latent brat in me. He’s right, though. Walter’s a nutbag, but I can make him behave.

  I take Walter’s leash from Charlotte and walk outside. It’s a windy spring Hatteras day, chilly and sharp, with a blueberry sky. Aunt Fay would’ve laughed at me if I’d said something like “blueberry sky” to her. She had no patience for fanciful language. “ This is this and that is that, no two ways about it, kid.” Walter huffs and looks up at me, expectant, as if he wants me to say, “Go for a walk?” He paws at the ground like a bull. “Not now,” I tell him. I sit down on a stair step. My crisp black suit will get dirty, and my hair’s already been messed up by the wind, but I don’t care. The parking lot’s full of cars and trucks, rusty old island vehicles with North Carolina plates and fishing poles sticking out everywhere. Charlotte’s rental, a BMW with Virginia plates, looks slick and shiny and out of place. I want to take off my heels and run away. I want this fissure in my chest to stop pounding. The emptiness I first felt looking at Aunt Fay spills out again and seals around me, a sticky Grief Bubble. I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this all day. I don’t know what to do.

  A car pulls up, and Royce Burrus steps out of it, polished loafers, adorable Buddha belly, and all. Chapter 1: Funeral Visitors. For the bereaved, the arrival of one’s former illicit lover may add an extra layer of complication to the grieving process. Try to maintain composure when coming face-to-face with the bodily incarnation of a past bad decision. I’ve been thinking of Royce lately, mainly because whenever I drive up and down Highway 12, which, between going to work, picking up Austin, driving Aunt Fay to doctor appointments, and going to Nags Head for real estate classes, I do about eight thousand times a day, I see big signs that say, “Make Royce your choice.” Royce is running for county commissioner. Two years ago, I made Royce my choice, and that obviously didn’t end too well for me. Royce walks across the parking lot to me. He’s carrying a bright yellow bouquet of flowers and the largest card I’ve ever seen. If he’d mailed that thing it would’ve needed ten stamps, I swear.

  Royce sits down on the step. I rein in Walter’s leash and put him on the other side of me. “Evie, honey,” Royce says. He always did like to call me that. “I’m just really sorry. I know you and Fay were close.” Royce pats my back. The ghost of our affair hovers between us, the ghost of all those times he touched me.

  “Thank you,” I say. Then I think that “thank you” sounds off. It’s not like he just complimented my hair. “Thanks for coming.” Only I don’t know if I mean it. I stand up, and Royce and Walter
and I go inside. Royce holds the door for me, and the warm, sicky-sweet air turns my stomach. Royce balances the giant bouquet and signs the guest book. I don’t get the whole guest book thing. What do we do with it after? Charlotte catches my eye, and I mouth Royce and jerk my head toward him. She grimaces and comes over to steer Royce to a group of older men in fishing waders. Yes. Waders.

  Chapter 2: Suitable vs. Unseemly. Even if the deceased did indeed enjoy both fishing and the company of fishermen, waders are never appropriate funeral attire. Walter and I walk over to Austin and Nate, who’re both wearing dark suits and blue ties. They sit side by side, and I’m struck by how much they look alike. Maybe it’s the outfits, or the way Austin adjusts his posture to match Nate’s. I sit beside them, resisting the urge to pull Austin onto my lap. I pick up Walter instead.

  “How’s my kid?” I ask. I’m worried. Austin’s never lost someone.

  “Hungry,” he says.

  Nate ruffles Austin’s hair. If I did that, Austin would have a fit. “We’ll break for lunch soon and head back to Grandpa and Grandma’s,” Nate says.

  Austin uncrosses his arms. He squints up at Nate. “Uncle Nate, can I ride with you?”

  Nate doesn’t answer because we’re hit by a wave of condolence-givers, Nate’s friends. He stands and shakes hands. A grasp and one solid pump. A back slap given. A back slap returned. I busy myself with Walter so I don’t have to hug any of them. This batch of Nate’s friends is the sort to carry soda bottles as portable spittoons.

  “Honey, I want to give you this card.” A hand on my shoulder. Kind eyes. Royce. “You open it when you get home.” Royce massages my shoulder, his hand staying a fraction longer than comforting requires. Hitting on mourners at calling hours is a faux pas; anything beyond the standard three-second pat is unsuitable and should be avoided.

  Nate slaps the last of his friends on the back and turns, extending his hand to Royce. “Thank you for coming,” he says. Nate knows that Royce and I used to work together. He probably knows we had an affair, but he doesn’t know it from me, and he doesn’t show it, thank God. I know I should run interference between Nate and Royce. Chat about real estate. Talk about the time Fay brought my lunch to work and we all ate crabby patties outside. But all I can do is run my fingers through Walter’s soft fur. That’s all I can do for now.

  Chapter 3: Providing Food for Mourners. When bringing a casserole to the bereaved, it is fundamentally inappropriate to include special directions related to the food container. I toss the pink 3 × 5 card bearing the words DO NOT BREAK along with Emma Midgett’s address in the trash and sit down beside my mom at the inn’s long dining table. Dad’s set out casseroles, and Nate and Charlotte have stopped being awkward long enough to eat. Do not take it personally if the bereaved discovers that the triple chocolate cake, the macaroni and cheese, or the green bean almandine all taste, in his or her distress, like lumps of wet cardboard. Across from me, Austin stuffs lasagna in his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in six days. I have a moment of panic—what if I was so trapped in the Grief Bubble that I forgot to feed my son breakfast? Then I remember fixing his Golden Grahams. Not too much sugar, but still tasty.

  “Remember the time Fay bought that awful bus?” Mom asks. She’s drinking her third mimosa, probably left over from the inn’s Sunday brunch. It is unwise to mix alcohol and grief when another set of calling hours awaits.

  “Only Fay,” Charlotte says, putting her hand on my mom’s just for a second. See Chapter 2 regarding Appropriate vs. Inappropriate Touching. Charlotte’s good at this sort of thing. She always has been. If Aunt Fay were here, she would’ve defended her bus. “That bus was damned practical,” she’d have said, slamming her fist on the table. “How many hours of enjoyment did your kids get out of riding that thing up and down the beach?” She’d have been pissed that we made the executive decision not to take Walter to afternoon calling hours. Out the window, the Pamlico Sound is all whitecaps and sunshine, and I just want to be outside. Or maybe it’s that I want to be outside of myself. I don’t know how to escape the Grief Bubble, how to think about anything else. I feel trapped inside it. If I were a mime, I could place my palms against its sticky, waxy surface. I contemplate this as one of the funeral book illustrations: Mourner Trapped in Grief Bubble. Then I remember Royce’s card. I excuse myself and go out onto the deck and sit in a swing.

  Chapter 4: Cards and Gifts. If you haven’t been in a relationship with the mourner for the past two years, it is generally considered unsuitable to bestow a large, glittery card bearing dueling proclamations of sympathy and abiding love. Proclamations of love may substantially impair the mourner’s fragile mindset, causing her heart to pound with something other than grief. I tuck Royce’s card back in its giant envelope and tap it against my teeth.

  The door opens, and Charlotte comes out. She sits beside me, and her skirt blows around her knees in the breeze. “How is it we’re not nineteen anymore?” Charlotte asks. She tucks her skirt under her legs.

  “How is it we’re not nine?” Charlotte puts her arms around me, and I breathe in her vanilla-Charlotte scent. “I think I might have sex with Royce tonight,” I say.

  “Royce, the sequel?” Charlotte asks. She sits back in the swing but keeps one arm around me.

  I play with a strand of my hair. It’s getting long. “I can’t stand this.”

  Charlotte’s quiet for a while, but not in a judgy way. We rock on the swing.

  “If I sleep with anyone else, it’ll up my numbers,” I say.

  “That’s not really fair to Royce,” Charlotte says.

  I don’t know how to explain it to her, how to say I need something, anything, to make me feel like me again. “Could you please not be so mature right now?”

  Charlotte pinches my arm. I poke her in the side.

  “You’ll regret it if you hurt him,” Charlotte says. “Trust me.”

  Nate pokes his head out the door. He’s wind-tousled in two seconds.

  Charlotte stands. “Round two?”

  Nate nods. “Time to go sit in that room and cry some more,” he says.

  Chapter 5: Small Talk. Fitting topics of conversation to engage with mourners include, but are not limited to, the weather, fishing, games involving balls, the fullness of the life of the deceased, and happy memories. Unseemly topics include, but are not limited to, the last will and testament of the deceased, queries about putting down the deceased’s bad dog, statements regarding the lovely appearance of the corpse, statements regarding how the deceased is in a better place now, and queries regarding the suffering of the deceased. She had lung cancer. Of course she fucking suffered. I just want to smack Loretta Gray in the head. How is that okay to ask? For the first time in Round 2 of calling hours, I cry. And this stupid black suit only has fake pockets—nowhere to stash Kleenex. I find a box of scratchy, generic funeral home tissues, but it’s empty. I wipe at my eyes with my arm, smearing foundation on my suit sleeve.

  Loretta Gray has me cornered. She’s one of those women who wears pastel polyester suits. “What did you tell little Austin when she died?” she asks.

  For the bereaved: try to retain your composure when faced with idiotic questions. “I told him Aunt Fay’s body got sick and stopped working, and that she died,” I say. “That’s what all the websites said to do.”

  Loretta tsk tsk tsks and tips her head to the side. “Poor fellow. Do you think he understands?” She gazes over to where Austin sits on the carpet playing with race cars.

  Let me just go over and ask him, Loretta: “Son, do you understand that Aunt Fay is dead and that we’ll never, ever see her again? Do you get that, kid? That she’s dead, dead, dead? That she’s never coming back?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  Loretta purses her lips. She shakes her index finger at me. “What you need to do,” she says, “is pick him up and show him the body. Make him hold her hand for ten whole seconds so he doesn’t think she’s just sleeping.”

  “Why would I
do that?”

  “You don’t want him to think he’ll go to sleep and not wake up, too.” Loretta looks at me, eyes wide like I’m the dumbest parent in the world. “He needs to understand that Fay has gone to rest in the loving arms of Jesus.”

  “Right,” I say.

  She pats my arm. “The Lord never gives us more than we can handle,” she says. “Keep your chin up.” And she walks off to assault my mom.

  I go to the coat closet at the front of the funeral home and root around in my purse for my cell phone. I’m going to call Royce and get out of here. I rustle and shuffle, and I can’t find it. I can’t find a goddamned thing. I pull out a brush, a tampon, a race car. I throw them all on the floor, and then I throw the purse down. “Very dramatic, kid,” Aunt Fay says in my head. I kneel down beside my pile of crap and lean back on my heels. I feel empty, turned inside out. I shove everything back in my purse and sit down on the floor.

  “Okay?” It’s Nate. He’s got his thumbs hooked in his pant pockets. Nate holds out a tissue. I take it, and he folds himself down be side me. We sit in the coat closet. When I look up, I see that Nate’s face is red. I lean my head against my brother’s shoulder and I don’t say a word.

  The preacher, Dr. John, thinks it sounds extra holy to overenunciate the word Lord so it sounds like Loo-ard. I shift in the folding wooden chair and glance around. Dad leans forward, elbows on his knees like he’s engrossed in a particularly tight football game. Austin gazes at the ceiling, his mouth moving in an absent ba ba ba motion like he’s singing under his breath. Charlotte’s hair falls over her face as she rubs her forehead. Nate slouches. And my mother heaves with full-on, shoulder-shaking, snot-running sobs.

  Chapter 6: Weeping. While funeral rituals provide a socially sanctioned space for public displays of grief, mourners are obligated to weep in a manner that is not melodramatic. The Melodramatic Weeper may feel the need to be in the spotlight of the comforting action. I put my arm around my mom. She weeps into my shoulder. My black suit, which hasn’t felt crisp in the last five hours, gets wet.