Sorry to Disrupt the Peace
Patty Yumi Cottrell
1
September 30th, the day I received the news of my adoptive brother’s death, I also received a brand-new couch from IKEA. To clarify, I was the only one who happened to be physically present the day my roommate Julie’s brand-new couch arrived at our shared studio apartment in Manhattan. That day my phone did not stop ringing because my roommate Julie listed my phone number as the main contact for the furniture-delivery company instead of her own. The delivery driver called multiple times because he could not find the apartment building. There was a mix-up on the invoice or the address of the apartment had been smudged into a black thumbprint, also, at the time, a large green trash receptacle the size of a dump truck was placed in front of the building, which blocked the view of the numbers above the front door.
It’s strange, I said to the driver on the phone, it’s as if there are all these unseen forces out in the world actively working against us.
What do you mean? said the driver. Listen ma’am, I’m just trying to deliver a couch.
By the time the delivery driver had located the building, by the time the couch had been delivered, unpacked, and assembled, by the time multiple forms on a clipboard had been signed and shuffled away, I was so physically drained, I collapsed onto my roommate Julie’s brand-new piece of furniture and proceeded to sweat into the leather cushions and I nearly threw up from the stench of the cowhide mingling with the scent of my own sweat. As soon as I collapsed and sweated onto the couch and felt nauseous, my phone, somewhere across the apartment, began to ring again. I ignored it for a moment, unsure if I would be able to stand up. I was shocked by how large the couch was, how it nearly swallowed up my roommate Julie’s entire side of the apartment. When I finally stood up and located my phone behind an empty box, I was surprised to hear a rough and masculine voice, a voice that had traveled across deserts, a voice that had swallowed up countless scrolls of sandpaper and parchment.
Is this Helen? It’s your Uncle Geoff.
Uncle Geoff, what a surprise, I said pleasantly. I thought you refused to own a phone. I laughed a slight and friendly laugh. Wasn’t that your quirky thing, to refuse to own a phone?
The voice let out a sigh. Your mother wanted me to talk to you. To tell you what happened.
Go on, I’m listening.
The voice broke out into sobs.
What? I can’t understand you.
A few seconds passed as the voice attempted to control itself.
He’s gone, said the voice. Your mother wanted me to tell you.
Who? I said. And what do you mean by gone, exactly?
…
…
Your brother died last night, he said.
I was looking at the row of boxes that the brand-new couch and its pillows had arrived in, the boxes that the furniture-delivery company did not bother to break down and recycle because they were running late, the now-empty boxes I had arranged so neatly, stacked directly across from the brand-new couch. I had cut off the flaps with an X-acto knife and I was now staring at the flat and even sides as my brain attempted to absorb the information.
He died? I said. Was he sick? What are you talking about? No one told me he was sick!
The voice on the other line stopped speaking and started to wail and it sounded like a thousand rusty needle tips scratching across an endless sheet of metal. As soon as I heard it, I was confident the sound would haunt me for the rest of my life.
It was unexpected. He died unexpectedly.
What is that supposed to mean? That means nothing to me!
It means he took his own life, said the voice.
The boxes I had placed so neatly across from the couch moved closer to my eyes, closer to my brain, and then they melted into a smooth and flat box-colored screen. The needle-scratching sound started up again.
Where are they? I shouted to try to get the sound to stop.
Who? Where’s who?
My adoptive parents!
They’re at their house. I’ll call you later with the funeral arrangements, if you decide to come.
What kind of funeral? I said. Is it a Catholic one?
I’m not sure, said the voice, slightly wavering. No one’s going to force you to come, if you have other things you need to do. Whatever you want. It’s up to you.