12. Black Saturday

What do you do, on the day of your mother’s death, after you’ve called everyone who needs calling? Before you select a picture of her to post on social media with a quick RIP, so everybody knows what just happened to you, out of the blue, on a Saturday morning?

I didn’t post anything for the first few hours; I wanted to let the news sink in for myself before I shared it with everyone else. I even thought, I’m not going to post publicly about my mom’s death at all. I’m going to be classy and grieve in an exclusive group of close friends.

So there was this lacuna. Lacuna matada. Lacuna lagoon, the gulf of gulfs. Bill and I sat on the couch with the cats and watched a documentary about the New York Times crossword. I smoked several joints and did a jigsaw puzzle with an image of horses in a stable. I was going through an intense jigsaw phase, when all I wanted to do was restore order to entropy, over and over again. I am still in this phase.

I started hearing the song “A Lot O’ Livin’ To Do,” the Sammy Davis, Jr. version, in my head.

Life’s a ball, if only you know it!
And it’s all just waiting for you!
You’re alive, so come on and show it!
There’s such a lot o’ livin’ to do!

Not the most appropriate song for the day of one’s mother’s death, but it was on a compilation CD I used to play a lot in the late 90s, back when we had things like CDs, and living mothers. And now here it was, at the top of the charts on radio station WJAN, spinning random shit at unfortunate times.

After the documentary, I didn’t know what to do. Bill hovered over me like a goalie, trying to anticipate my needs. It was around two pm on Saturday on the first holiday shopping weekend; the streets would be jammed.

You’re alive, so COME ON AND SHOW IT.

I started to read—I was halfway through The Old Curiosity Shop, avidly hoping for Little Nell’s grandfather to fucking die—but I couldn’t concentrate.

THERE’S SUCH A LOT OF LIVING TO DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

I went to Facebook. Saturday after Thanksgiving: Lots of family photos and anecdotes. I found a jpg of my favorite picture of my mother, the one I framed and displayed in my house for many years, before it got too painful to look at every day. I posted it with a quick RIP.

There. Now it was official.

Five minutes later, my phone rang. It was my friend Kelli.

Kelli said all the best things. Fuck, I’m so sorry, how are you doing, is Bill with you, have you eaten, can I bring you anything, I’m so fucking sorry, let’s check in later or tomorrow, I’m here for you, I love you.

Then Anne called. Melissa called. Mel texted. David called. Adam texted. Dana and Lana texted. Bruce and Mickey texted. Emilie called. People called and texted and told me they loved me, and I knew it, because I loved them back, and I was grateful. I’m okay, I was able to tell them, honestly. Kind of shocked, kind of sad, mostly relieved.

A series of three-minute phone conversations throughout the afternoon, while I busied myself with the cats, the laundry, smoking, answering emails, liking and thanking people on Facebook who commented with condolences. A lot of heartfelt Facebook Messaging.

The more I settled into the idea of my mother’s death, the more sense it made. I could stop dreading it, at least. She was out of harm’s way. Her life wasn’t going to get better — she was going to continue to live in poor health, barely mobile, with an animal-hoarding schizophrenic, in a houseful of waste. Surely, death was the preferable option.

What didn’t make sense: I didn’t hear from my very dear friend Hannah. No call, no text, not even a heart on the Facebook post. Not four hours later, not five or six hours later, not seven or eight hours later. Not late that night. It was aberrant behavior for Hannah, who lived on Facebook, adding daily pithy comments on our mutuals’ posts. Her absence was remarkable.

The morning after. No text. No phone call. The afternoon after. Still nothing. Maybe Hannah was traveling. Something must have happened. She must’ve had an emergency. Her computer broke, her phone was dead, and her internet was out. Or she was in the hospital. It was well within the realm of the possible. Hannah’s health wasn’t great. Maybe Hannah had died! On the same day as I heard about my mom! It was more possible than any other explanation. There was no other possible explanation.

Hannah couldn’t possibly be…just not talking to me. Not on the day I learned about my mother’s death.

Could she?