Whatever you want, or whatever you would have wanted

On the night I get the call, the one that I’ve been putting off in my mind as though I had any control over the matter, I’m already tipsy. I’ve just applied my mascara, separating my lashes as I thicken them. I only answer because Jill has called from her home, where the phone number is blocked from caller ID. “Unrestricted” on the screen of my pale pink Razr tempts me to unflip my phone because it feels like a dare.

I hear Jill’s voice. It’s full of truth. I am, it seems, instantaneously leaking from the eyes.

The thing is, these aren’t drunken tears drowned in white wine. They aren’t even the obligatory tears that I expected to shed when I answered this anticipated phone call. Jill says that she has called because she wanted to let me know, “Dad died tonight, just a few hours ago,” and I say “Oh babe,” though I’m thinking, “Why now, why now? Why tonight? I just put on my mascara.” I say that last part, the part about mascara, the part about a type of cosmetic that smells sour when it’s gone bad, out loud.

I hold the length of my left index finger against the lower lid of my left eye while Jill explains the logistics of her father’s peaceful passing. After she mentions the date of the funeral, I stop listening. I can think only of what I will clutch in my hands during the ceremony. My free hand falls away from my damp face and opens and closes in my lap. I admire the precision of the inky line of mascara streaked from the knuckle at the midpoint of my index finger, down the metacarpal, clear to my wrist. My hand looks quite thin. I realize this with distress, not vanity, and in the same moment I recognize the mixture of grief and gratitude in the pit of my stomach.

Jill is the next one to say “Oh babe.” I chuckle, though my voice is heavy with the tears clinging to the back of my throat, and say, “I know, I can’t believe I’m crying and you’re not.” She admits that it hasn’t hit her yet. The grief, the reality for which she has tried to prepare herself, hasn’t hit her yet. I tell her to call me the moment it does, as soon as she needs to, as soon as she needs me. She says that someone from the funeral service will be arriving at the house soon. She has to get off the phone because her mother needs to make a call.

I tell her to give her mom the largest, longest hug that she can. “And tell her it’s from me.” I’m crippled, even as I give these instructions, by the understanding that I cannot describe over the phone the sort of hug that I intend. There isn’t time to talk about this hug. There might not even be time to give this hug. There is one for Jill, too, though I don’t even bother to tell her about it, because I know it won’t be enough. And even if it were, I’m not there to give it to her.

We hang up and it takes a minute for me to realize that it’s up to me to call my own family and tell my mom what has happened. That it has happened.

I have never shared this sort of news. I can’t remember a time when I’ve had this type of responsibility, this much responsibility. I don’t feel old enough, tactful enough, brave enough, anything enough, to be making this phone call. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? While the phone rings, I try to figure out how my mom would tell me what I am about to tell her. She answers right as I remember all the calls that Jill is making tonight.

There is no right way around, so I just say the words. The weight on my heart doesn’t lessen when I pass the heavy knowledge on to my mom, nor when she relays the news to my dad, who I can picture sitting at the computer or in the recliner by the window, curious about the phone call at this hour.

We talk for a few minutes before I start to cry again, and then I cry for a few minutes before I flush out all the wine laden tears and gulp a couple of raw sobs. When mom says, “oh babe,” I practically interrupt her to confide that I’m glad it’s not me. My lungs start to shudder. She tells me it’s okay, I’m okay. “We’re fine,” she says, an answer to an unasked question. “We’re all fine here.”

For the moment, that’s enough, because it has to be. The statement offers little comfort, only confirmation. It doesn’t change anything.

I tell my mom that I’m still going to go out with my roommate. She says there’ll be plenty of time for tears in the coming week and next weekend. We exchange our usual Love You’s before hanging up.

My roommate has been waiting in the living room, watching the TV on mute. When I come back down the hall, she looks up and says, “I’m sorry, Em.” I expel a great sigh, squash the heels of my hands right into my eye sockets and rub, blotting cosmetic powder and gel and grease across my cheeks.

“I’m just going to wash my face and start over.” I flip open the compact mirror I keep in my purse. We’ve spent a few minutes in silence before I miss the company of the scripted dialogue. I wag my hand toward the television. “Unmute it. Come on, unmute it.” I welcome the renewed source of sound, but I don’t hear the words. I only hear the three trembling notes to the refrain in a song I was listening to earlier, while I tried to figure out what to wear. I have to make a conscious effort not to hum out loud while I apply a new coat of mascara.