The hardest part about the funeral was seeing so many grown-ups cry. My mom always cries, so that wasn’t particularly sad. But my grandpa Fred, who’s never greeted me without a goofy grin or a new magic trick, sobbed into his handkerchief. (I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised, since this funeral was for his mom.) My great-aunt Janet (Grandpa Fred’s sister) buried her wet face in Grandpa Fred’s shoulder. Even Aunt Jess—who arrived at the cemetery on her Harley, her Mohawk freshly dyed black—was dripping tears that made her thick eyeliner run down her otherwise stony face.
Jaime and I stayed close to Dad. I was by his left pocket, which was unusually flat, meaning Dad hadn’t brought his video camera. That thing was usually strapped to his hand. I guess a funeral was the one thing he didn’t want to record and relive later.
I heard a couple sniffles from Jaime and a glance confirmed that he was, in fact, crying. Why? Was it because all the adults were so upset? Or did he feel some deep connection to Great-Grandma Anna that I couldn’t?
I got a lump in my throat, as if I’d swallowed a gumball whole, but it still wasn’t about Grandma Anna. I was worrying about myself. Am I some kind of cold, unfeeling monster? Jaime’s so sensitive, like Mom and the rest of her family. It’s almost like he inherited it for real instead of being adopted. I guess I could add “heartlessness” to the list of ways I’m different from my family. Does Jaime even feel different at all? If he does, he sure doesn’t show it. Add that to the list too.
Maybe, somewhere, I have a biological brother, and he’s just as cold-hearted as I am. Like me, he’d be more creeped out than sad about the big coffin right there, with our great-grandma in it, dead. We’d whisper to each other about there being people in coffins underneath all of this grass, and we’d both curl our toes in our stiff black shoes.
But in my actual life, the rabbi was talking about how hard it is to say goodbye to people we love. “Anna was no stranger to goodbyes herself. She had to say goodbye to everyone and everything she knew when she was just twelve years old. A child! But this brave child became part of a new family, and she grew up to create her own.”
What? I thought. A new family? I knew, vaguely, that Grandma Anna had an interesting history. She was born in Luxembourg, a tiny little country in Europe that I picked for International Day in fourth grade. (I wasn’t going to bother fighting for one of the popular countries like Italy or Australia.) I knew she came to America when she was a kid, maybe close to my age. But I didn’t know she’d gotten a new family. Was Grandma Anna adopted, like me?
I listened hard, blocking out the sniffling sounds, but the rabbi had moved on to naming Grandma Anna’s descendants. Then he switched to Hebrew for the Mourner’s Kaddish, one of the prayers I knew well from my bat mitzvah lessons. After that, Grandpa Fred shoveled some dirt onto the coffin, and my other relatives followed. Dad leaned down and asked quietly if Jaime or I wanted to do it too. We looked at each other hesitantly and both shook our heads. I knew it wasn’t the time or place to whisper back asking if Grandma Anna had been adopted. Dad probably didn’t know anyway. And then everyone was hugging and getting into cars for a silent ride to Grandma Anna’s apartment.
When Madeline’s grandfather died a couple years ago, my whole family went to pay a shiva call. I was really nervous on the short walk over, thinking everybody would be all sad and quiet, and I wouldn’t know what to say or do. But it was nothing like that. There were tons of people gathered, and everybody was sharing funny stories about her grandpa. Family photos—old-timey ones and new ones too—were laid out around the whole living room. The TV was even playing an old video, one where Madeline’s aunts and uncles had ugly clothes and goofy haircuts that made everybody laugh. There was tons of food too, and everybody kept telling me to eat more, so I did. Madeline’s family was sad, I’m sure, but someone passing by an open window would’ve thought they were gathered for a birthday party rather than a mourning ritual.
So this time, I thought I knew what to expect. But leave it to my mom’s family: It was the exact opposite. Great-Aunt Janet was a wreck. Grandpa Fred tried to be cheerful, but he just couldn’t muster it. Aunt Jess didn’t even come.
Even some of Grandma Anna’s elderly friends thought the whole thing was too big of a downer. “What’s with all the sadness?” an old lady whispered to me near the tray of bakery cookies (the kind that crumble into a thousand pieces on the way to your mouth). “Anna was eighty-five. I’m only eighty-two, and every day I don’t see my name on the obituary page, I consider it a success.”
I gave a weak chuckle, not knowing the polite response to an old lady telling you she might croak at any moment.
The lady pointed to the tray of cookies. “Are these sugar-free?” she asked me.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Ask your boss.”
I wrinkled my forehead. Then I looked where the lady’s bony chin was pointing, and saw a woman putting out more napkins. She was wearing dress pants and a collared shirt, and she was the only other person in the room with skin as dark as mine.
“I’m not working here,” I said dryly. “I’m Anna’s great-granddaughter.”
Now it was the old lady’s turn to chuckle weakly. I walked away and sat by Jaime on the plastic-covered sofa, leaving the lady to feel awkward.
“This sucks,” I muttered.
Saving grace: My parents felt the same way. Mom was going to stay and mourn with her family for the whole seven days of shiva. But Dad, Jaime, and I only stuck around for another lousy half hour. Then we put the giant bowl of uneaten tortellini salad in the trunk with our unopened weekend bags. We kissed everyone goodbye and took off for home. It was going to take all night to get there, though. The Holland Tunnel was an ocean of brake lights. “Who are all these people,” Dad said, “and where are they going?”
I looked at the people in the next car and wondered the same thing.
“Hey Imani,” said Jaime, “you want to play Pickle?”
“Not really,” I said.
“Picnic?”
“Nah.”
“The movie game?”
I sighed. Jaime always wants to do this little-kid stuff. “Can’t you just listen to your iPod or something?”
“I want to play with you.”
I leaned my head against the window. “Maybe when we get to New Jersey.”
Jaime groaned. “How long will that take?”
Dad sat back in his seat and shook his head. “How long is a piece of string?”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means,” Dad said with a chuckle, “that I have no idea.”