A Symphony of Cicadas

Six



“It was a lovely service,” my mother told my father through her tears, her hand resting on his arm. “They would have loved it.”

I stood near them, hiding behind the doorway of my parents’ kitchen even though they couldn’t see me. My father looked older than his sixty-eight years, his eyes burning holes into the ground while my mother, the eternal hostess, checked in with him before flitting around the house once more to meet everyone’s needs.

My parent’s home was not known for holding so many at one time. Now it was brimming with dozens of people I had known at one point or another in my life. My son’s teacher sat on the couch, dabbing her eyes every now and then in between bites of a sandwich made from a croissant. A few of Joey’s classmates stood in the corner, looking out of place and uncomfortable in a room filled with grownups and few other teenagers. One girl sat bawling in a chair, her friend comforting her as best as she could. The boys, however, kept solemn looks on their face. They seemed afraid to do more than just stand there in silent and awkward observation lest they end up like the crying girl. I had a feeling that Joey would have been amused by the whole scene.

A few of my regular customers from the flower shop chatted among each other, reaching out to my sister from time to time to offer their condolences or a memory they had of me. I listened with amusement as a restaurant owner I had deemed difficult to work with described me to Sara as someone who understood the fine art of customer service and always went above and beyond to meet his needs.

“I still think you were a pain in the ass to work with,” I said out loud, amused at how my voice carried over the din of conversation and no one could hear me. “And your food sucked, too.”

Sara stayed silent for the most part, smiling as if on cue when someone would speak to her. But for the most part, she kept a quiet front. Her husband, Kevin, sat near their two daughters on the couch. My eyes welled up as I watched the young girls eating from a shared plate of fruit, both wearing the special dresses Sara had chosen for them to wear to the wedding. Megan, the older of the two at five years old, wore the flower girl dress we had picked out months ago. The only thing setting it apart from that of a wedding dress was the baby blue sash she now had tied around the waist of the white gown. Her two-year-old sister, Lily, wore a dress in the same color blue as Megan’s sash, splayed out over a pair of ruffled underpants. I would never get to hold them again, hear them giggle as they called me ‘Anchel,’ a name that stuck as a family joke when Lily dubbed that much easier to say than ‘Aunt Rachel.’ I wouldn’t be there as an escape from their parents in their teenage years, to offer them advice when they felt no one understood. I wiped away the tears from my eyes, realizing that there were many firsts they would experience, and I was no longer going to be a part of any of them.

“Oh, Rachel,” Sara whispered. She was now across the room, sitting far away from everyone on a couch in the corner, hiding her head in her hands and trying to make herself invisible. “Why did this have to happen? And why Joey? He was so young. I just don’t get it.”

I wanted to comfort her, but felt so limited. I tried to put my arms around her, but was unable to get close to her body. An invisible barrier seemed to exist between us that repelled me when I tried to rest against her. So instead I sat as close to her as I could and tried to comfort her through my presence alone.

“How are you holding up?” I took a sharp breath inward at the sound of John’s voice. I leapt up out of the way as John sat on the couch next to Sara.

The navy blue suit he wore hung a little loose around the edges, his face appearing thin under several days’ worth of whiskers. The dark circles around his eyes only added to his gaunt appearance.

“I should ask you the same thing,” Sara said. She gave a swift wipe to her tears, summoning a smile as she patted his knee. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks,” John replied, offering a wry smile before looking down. He raised his eyes for a moment to nod across the room at Sam who was pretending to sleep on the couch amid all the conversation surrounding him. “It’s Sam I’m worried about. The day the police came and brought the news, he broke down. I’d never seen him so vulnerable. But it’s like he turned off his emotions as soon as he could. Ever since then, he’s been totally stoic, no emotion at all. He moves around like nothing happened.”

“Give him time,” Sara advised him. “He’s always handled things much more internally than most. He’s probably processing everything in his own way.”

“I know. I’m trying to be more understanding. But it’s hard. I mean, they’re gone.” He paused for a moment and looked at the ceiling. His eyes filled with tears, mirrored in my own eyes as I watched him struggle for words. “They’re gone, and they’re not coming back. The house feels empty now, void of life. It’s as if everything died with them when they went down in that crash.” John wiped at his eyes, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to cry.”

“I think everyone would understand,” Sara pointed out. Still, she got a Kleenex out of her purse and handed it to him. “Did you eat anything?” she asked him. He shook his head.

“No. I’m not hungry.”

“John, you need to eat something. Starving yourself isn’t going to bring her back. Let me get you a plate of food, at least some of my mom’s quiche or something.” She didn’t wait for his reply, leaving him on the couch while she went to put together a plate of food for him. He wasn’t alone for long.

“How are you, John?” Edna, my parents’ neighbor, took the liberty of seating herself next to him on the couch. He looked up, and did a double take when he saw her. Her dress looked to be something straight out of the 1970s, with neon pink and orange flowers against a vivid green and yellow background. Judging by the musty smell, it hadn’t seen the light of day since the seventies either. Among the solemn hues and muted colors around her, the elderly woman stood out in her vivid dress. Even her wispy hair screamed for attention; more lilac than gray, it fluffed out like a purple dandelion in a fruitless attempt to conceal its sparse growth.

“I’m as well as can be expected, I guess,” John replied. He looked uncomfortable, and shifted on the cushion next to her. I saw it was an attempt to restore some of the personal space she had invaded, and noted that she confused his movement with an invitation to move closer to him.

“I remember Rachel as a little girl,” Edna gushed, waving her hands in the air to add emphasis. “She and her sister were always playing in the backyard, taking turns pushing each other on the swings. Whenever they’d see me in my own backyard tending to my garden, they’d beg me to let them come over and play with my kitties.”

I snorted a laugh before I could stop myself, covering my mouth as if anyone could hear me. I remembered things a bit different.

****

As children, Sara and I would often play in the yard. Edna, who had never had any visitors for as long as I remembered living there, would often come out when she saw us playing, telling us tales of her little cats she kept in the house. They weren’t allowed outside, so we were intrigued by the stories of these mysterious cats, letting our imaginations paint a picture of their softness and playful nature.

The first time we were old enough to come over when she invited us in, we followed her through the gate and into her home. On the outside, the house looked like every other house in the neighborhood, with a porch that expanded from the front steps and potted plants framing the entryway. But upon entering the house, the fresh air outside was replaced by an overwhelming stench. The flowery smell of air freshener fell short in its attempt to mask the soiled cat litter. The reek was only enhanced by the steady flow of hot air blowing from the heater vents, despite the warm spring day.

Older by two years, it was Sara who convinced me to forge on, taking my hand and pulling me forward. We entered a bright pink entryway, the walls a blinding hue of rose surrounding a tile floor covered with fuchsia throw rugs. It led to the rest of the house that shared the same color theme, layers of pink on pink that were so bright they made my head hurt.

“Muffin! Mr. Tinkles!” Edna cooed down the hall. She clicked her tongue against the top of her mouth, creating a quick sound that echoed around the house. From a back room we could hear a drop to the ground and a low meow.

Edna had described to us two balls of playful fluff when telling us about her cats. The way she talked about them, we were expecting adorable kittens that would chase string if we dangled it in front of them. What came out of the back room was the exact opposite of this image. Two emaciated cats emerged, hurrying over to Edna for food and affection. One of them had part of its ear missing, one of its eyes closed up tight, and an obvious limp as it walked. Its dark fur was brushed well, but missing in several patches as if it had been scratched bald. The other, appearing a bit younger than the first, had short black hair all over, except for an orange patch over its eye. Its tail stuck straight up, curved in a crooked hook at the end. While the first cat ignored us altogether, this second cat took turns swirling at our feet. I bent down to pet it and recoiled at the feel of its greasy hair.

“Look, Muffin likes you,” Edna exclaimed, bringing her hands together in glee. Muffin rolled over on her back, arching up as she rubbed her fur on the carpet. I took this as an invitation to scratch her belly, reaching down to pet the exposed underside of the cat. Muffin didn’t want any part of that, and she reached up in a sudden motion, leaving me with a bright red scratch on my arm. “Oooh, Muffin. Did the wittle girl scare you?” Edna chirped, scooping the cat into her arms. “That’s a bad wittle kitty. Don’t scwatch Wachel, she’s our guest.” Meanwhile, I rubbed at my arm to help the swelling go down, afraid to let on how much it hurt as I bit back the tears. “Sorry, Rachel, she just gets excited when we have company. Would you like a cookie?” I nodded, sure that a cookie would make the sting of the scratch less noticeable.

Edna dropped the cat to the floor and walked into the kitchen to get us each a cookie. Muffin sat where she landed, licking herself and eyeing me with a wary look as if she were the wounded one, and not me. Mr. Tinkles, on the other hand, was lying on his side in a patch of sun. He was either sleeping or dead. I was tempted to walk over and nudge him with my shoe to see which one was true, but decided too much of my foot was exposed in my saltwater sandals to risk another swipe at my skin.

“Here you two go,” Edna said, placing a napkin with a single cookie on the countertop for each of us. She also poured us each a small glass of milk. I followed Sara to the chairs that lined the countertop and she helped me to get up on a tall barstool before climbing onto her own. I picked up the cookie with eager anticipation, taking a mental note how many chocolate chips there were in it. And then I bit down. Rather than a moist, delicious dessert, the cookie crumbled like sawdust in my mouth. It tasted just as bland as sawdust, as well.

“It’s my mother’s recipe,” Edna boasted with pride.

“Did your mother make them?” I asked the elderly lady, receiving a sharp kick from Sara under the counter. But I really was curious, wondering if they had been made a long time ago to be this horrible. I had never tasted a bad cookie before, always spoiled by my mother’s baking skills. In my mind, it just wasn’t possible for a cookie to taste anything but delicious. While Sara placed her cookie on the countertop and took a delicate sip of her milk, I kept nibbling at the edges of my cookie, trying to find the one spot that would taste delicious. It was no use; I kept coming away with mouthfuls of sawdust.

“Oh dear, no. I made those months ago and just pulled them out of the freezer. That way they always taste fresh.”

“I think my mother wants us to come home,” Sara blurted out, taking my hand and pulling me to come off the barstool.

“So soon? Well then, the kitties and I will be here the next time you come to visit,” Edna said, leading us through the pink entryway into the fresh air outside. Both of us took a deep breath in once the door had closed, replacing the stench of the house that filled our lungs with the smell of sunshine and fresh grass on the wind. Sara looked at me.

“Never again,” she said in her seven-year-old wisdom. I nodded in solemn agreement.

****

Edna had just finished telling John her version of our childhood when Sara spotted them on the couch.

“Oh Edna,” she gushed. “My mother has been eyeing your gladiolas and wondering how you got them to bloom so well. She says it’s how much you water them, but I bet you do something special to make them so pretty. Do you mind sharing your secret with her?” Edna’s eyes widened as she got up with determination.

“Everyone knows it’s what you do with the fertilizer. Honestly Sara, I could teach you a thing or two in your little flower business.” She made a beeline for my mother across the room. I watched with amusement as my mom, who had invited the old lady, looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Leave it to my mom to invite someone none of us cared for just to prove she was the perfect hostess. A few moments later, she shot Sara a dirty look across the room as Edna waved her arms while giving a rapid lesson to our mother.

“She’s either describing how to compost the soil, or how to swim across the Pacific while being chased by rabid sharks,” John said. Sara covered her mouth in silent laughter.

“That woman is bat-shit crazy. You know that she had her cats stuffed when they died?” Sara giggled. “They now stand at attention on her kitchen counter. Creepiest thing ever!” She handed John a plate that held the quiche my mother only made for company, along with various appetizers that threatened to cover it. “Sorry, I didn’t know what you wanted so I got you one of everything.” He nodded, putting a cracker with a small shrimp on it in his mouth. He took a long time to chew his food before swallowing, and then moved a few of the other pieces of food around on the plate before setting it on his lap.

“I don’t really have much of an appetite these days,” he apologized. “But maybe I’ll want to eat this in a little bit.”

“It’s okay,” Sara said. “What about Sam?” she asked. They both looked at him on the couch where he had been pretending to sleep. Sara’s younger daughter, Lily, was trying to wake Sam up without actually telling him to. As she placed a few of her toys on his chest, he inhaled, raising his chest in deep exaggeration to knock them off and not give up the ruse. Again, she picked up all the toys and lined them up on his chest once more. Sara started to get up to lead her away, but John stopped her.

“He’s a big boy,” he whispered to her. “Besides, this is more interesting than anything else going on here, even more than Edna describing her cats.” In a final act of frustration, Lily grabbed one of her tiny dolls and slammed it on Sam’s chest. He sat up with a start at the action, glaring at John and Sara who were doing their very best to hide their laughter from the mourning room. Conceding defeat, he swung his feet over the side of the couch and listened as Lily garbled the rules of play to him, handing him a doll so they could have a tea party. He glanced sideways at his father, his face a determined expression of bitterness before he gave in to an amused smirk. He then turned back to Lily and followed her directions on how to drink tea from a plastic cup with proper etiquette.

“You know, he really is a good kid,” Sara said in all seriousness. John nodded in agreement.

“He has a good heart. Your mom tells me it’s just his age that makes him so hard to reach lately,” he said. “But sometimes I don’t think I know what I’m doing with him. He can be so cold and distant at times, and is almost more of a stranger than he is my son.”

“I know I was a rotten kid to my parents around his age. That’s about when I became serious in my discovery of boys. About the same time, my parents turned into rambling idiots. They didn’t fully regain their intelligence until I moved away,” Sara laughed.

“I think that gives me about four more years until I can claim to know anything about raising a kid, right?” John joked.

“Something like that,” Sara said. “Has he found a girlfriend yet?”

“Not sure. At least, he won’t tell me. I’ve heard him speaking to someone who I think is a girl when he’s on his videogame headset. Normally he’s loud and crass when he’s on the system. But when he’s speaking to her, he talks much kinder and has more patience. However, when I asked him about it he just shrugged me off.”

“He’ll come around,” Sara promised. “After all, he’s going to want to know what to do once things get serious.”

“Maybe,” John said, lacking conviction in his voice. “He acts like he has everything all figured out, and I’m just in his way. He’s been like this since his mom and I split up. In fact, he didn’t start breaking down the walls until I met Rachel. But now that she’s...” he broke off as tears entered his eyes once again.

“It’s okay,” Sara whispered.

“It’s not, though,” John whispered back. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without her, without them. It’s like everything suddenly made sense when I met Rachel and Joey. Everything seemed to just fall into place. And now that they’re gone, I’m not sure anything will ever make sense again.” He rubbed at his eyes, feigning tiredness to conceal the tears he was wiping away. Sara remained silent, her hand resting on his knee in a gesture of compassion. “I mean, what if he never talks again? Rachel had this way of skirting around his stubborn ego, breaking through to reach the Sam no one else got to see. We became a real family, and she was the one who helped to bridge the gap that had been widening before she and Joey walked into our lives.”

“But Rachel always described Sam as a kid she had difficulty getting to know,” Sara noted, curiosity in her eyes.

It was as if she were mirroring my thoughts. When I had first moved in, Sam spent most of his days shut off in his room. Despite the fact that John and I had been dating for three years before I died, I didn’t know the kid very well. It took some time and lots of patience before he began opening his door and joining in on the conversation with us. However, it always seemed like there was this invisible barrier he kept in place to bar me from getting too close. As a result, I felt like I had to walk on eggshells around him to keep from breaking the already thin layers of our complicated relationship. It was an exhausting song and dance we played, and I would try to hide my sense of relief whenever it was time for him to visit his mother, knowing that life would feel effortless without him in the house for a few days.

“She definitely felt at odds with Sam,” John admitted. “But I don’t think she understood just how unreachable he was before she moved in. We lived more like roommates than father and son. There were days he barely said two words to me. And many of those days, I decided it was easier to just let it be than to fight him to hold an actual conversation with me. But Rachel, she had this way of not taking his silence as an answer, showing him she cared through her consistent efforts to reach him. Maybe it was just because she wasn’t jaded by the negativity he’s held onto for years. But through her persistence, she managed to change his habits from isolating himself into becoming a real part of this new family we were creating.” He paused, taking a deep breath in. “But now...” he trailed off, his voice wavering. “It’s only been a few days since they died, but it seems like all the good Rachel did since she and Joey moved in with us a year ago left with them.”

“I know,” Sara murmured. “It’s still so hard to believe they’re both gone. The other night I missed Rachel so bad I actually listened to an old message she’d left on my voicemail at least a dozen times just to hear the sound of her voice. And Joey…” Sara wiped at her eyes, being careful to dab at the corners to ensure what was left of her eye makeup would remain in place. She looked up at John and smiled. “Did you know that I was there in the room when he was born?” John shook his head. I had never gone into much detail with him about those early days, pockets of the hurtful memories sometimes even hidden from me. “Tony had since taken off, and Rachel had moved in with our parents. She asked both me and our mom to be there with her when she went into labor with Joey. I got to see Joey’s first breath of air in this world, hear his beautiful cry, see him open his eyes for the first time. I remember him looking right at me as the doctor held him up, and I instantly fell in love. I had never known that about children, that they have this ability to make you fall in love with them at first sight.” She took in a deep breath, looking over at her kids playing across the room. “It was Joey who gave me the desire to be a mother. Before him, I didn’t think I ever wanted children. But seeing him for the first time, and then being there with Rachel as he took his first steps, said his first words, loved me as Auntie Sara…He was just such an amazing kid.”

John put his arm around her. She smiled up at him and patted his knee.

“I’m sorry. If I’m having such a hard time coping with losing both of them, I can’t even imagine what you’re going through,” she sympathized.

“Oh, I think you can,” he said, placing his hand on hers and squeezing. “How about the flower shop? Is business going to be okay?” he asked her.

“I closed up shop for the next week. I had to transfer some of our orders to our competition, which just kills me. But there’s been a lot of understanding from our clients about the situation. It’s going to be really strange doing this without Rachel, though. I know I’m eventually going to have to hire another body for the floor, and I’m really dreading it. No one can replace my sister.” She was having a hard time fighting the tears, a few escaping before she could catch them with her tissue.

“Sweetie,” Kevin interrupted, “I think Lily has reached her breaking point. Think we can start heading home?” Across the room, Lily was sitting near her toys, rubbing her eyes. Sam had found interest in the food table and had abandoned her in favor of piling his plate with whatever was within his reach. Lily, in the meantime, was trying to conduct her tea party on her own. We all watched as Megan came over to try and help, only to be shouted at by Lily for touching her toys.

“Mine, Megan!” Lily squealed, pulling her dolls out of reach and spilling the whole tea party to the floor. Her face began to contort, twisting into a silent scream of protest before letting out the siren’s howl.

“Uh, yeah. I think it’s time,” Sara chuckled, sniffing as she shifted from mourning and went into mom-mode. She went over and scooped up Lily from the floor while Kevin picked up all the toys that had spread out across the room. Right on cue, Lily stopped crying, stuck her thumb in her mouth, and rested her head on Sara’s shoulder. She let out a little shudder of a hiccup from her crying spell, and kept her eyes wide open as she surveyed the room and everyone in it from the comfort of her mother’s arms.

“John, if you need anything man, we’re here for you,” Kevin said, extending his hand. John shook it before ending with a semi-embrace.

I giggled from the sidelines, remembering John’s explanation of a Man Hug, the handshake that transitions into an embrace meant to last only a second or two. “There are rules to these things,” he’d told me.

Many of the guests took Sara’s and Kevin’s departure as their invitation to leave as well. My mother stood close to the door, ever the hostess, as she greeted the guests one last time and thanked them for stopping by.

John put on his game face as he was approached by guests before they departed. I could sense how much he didn’t want to be there as he gave a distant smile towards anyone who wanted to tell him how sorry they were.

“Are you going to be all right driving home?” my mother asked after the last guest had left. “We have a guest room if you would rather stay the night.”

“No, I’ll be okay. It’s only a forty-five minute drive. Besides, I think Sam would rather sleep in his own bed,” John said as he gave my mother a hug goodbye.

“John, you know you’re family,” my father said as he extended his hand. “I know you didn’t get a chance to marry my daughter, but in my book...” he trailed off. “You two are welcome in our home anytime you’d like,” my father told John as he tried to keep himself composed.

John had told me once that my parents felt a lot like they were his own parents. Both of his parents had died a decade earlier. His father had suffered a sudden heart attack in his early sixties. His mother followed soon after, her mental capacity going downhill fast before passing away in her sleep. But of the scattered details I’d learned about them, I knew they had never been prominent figures in John’s adult life. So while I sometimes regarded my parents’ active involvement in my life as intrusive, John regarded it with admiration, embracing it to fill the void his parents had left in his life.

John embraced my father, forgetting the rules to his Man Hug in what seemed like a final goodbye.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. He walked out the door with Sam right behind. My mother pet Sam’s hair and gave him a hug. Sam returned the embrace, but appeared awkward in the obligated gesture. I could see his body relax with relief when they parted ways, bounding down the steps to join his dad at the car. And the two of them drove away, leaving the little neighborhood in Sonoma, to head back to the loneliness of their overcrowded city.