May We Be Forgiven

coolers marked “Human Tissue” or “Organ for Transplant—Human Eye.” They come and they go. Through the large glass window of the cafeteria, I see a helicopter flying in, landing in the parking lot, and then taking off again.
    Her heart has left the building.
    On one end it’s like time has stopped, and on the other, time is of the essence, people are gearing up. Where do you go when it is over, when it is done? With every hour, with every part taken, she is a little further gone. There is no going back. It’s over. Really.
    “It’s good she can help others, she’d like that,” her mother says.
    “Her heart and lungs shouldn’t go to waste,” her father says. “Her eyes were good, so beautiful, maybe someone can use them; maybe someone can have a good life even if hers turned to shit.”
    “Don’t talk like that in front of the children,” her mother says.
    “I’m hardly talking at all. If anyone wanted to hear what I’d really like to say, I could give them an earful.”
    “I’m listening,” I say.
    “I’m not talking to you. You are a shmuck, as much responsible for this as your son-of-a-bitch brother. Slime balls.”
    And he’s right—it’s unfathomable that this is how it ends.

    T he sister’s husband is going to pick out a coffin. He wants me to ask Nate if Nate wants to come along, to help make the arrangements. I ask, but he doesn’t hear me, he’s got his headphones on. I tap his shoulder. “Do you want to be part of the arrangements?”
    He looks at me blankly.
    “Arrangements. It’s another word for funeral plans. Susan’s husband is going to the funeral home to pick out the coffin—do you want to go? I did it for my grandmother,” I offer, as if to say it’s not so bad.
    “What do you do?”
    “You look at coffins, you pick one, and you think about what your mother should wear as her final outfit.”
    Nate shakes his head no. “Ask Ashley,” he says. “She likes to pick out things.”

    T hat night Nate comes to visit me on the sofa. “Have you Googled Dad?”
    “No.”
    “He didn’t just kill Mom, he killed a whole family.”
    “He had an accident. That’s what started this whole thing.”
    “Everyone hates him. There are postings about how he ruined the network, about what a bully he was at the office—especially to women. It says that there were numerous claims settled quietly with regard to harassment of female employees.”
    “It’s not new,” I say to Nate. “People have always had strong feelings about your father.”
    “It’s hard for me to read about it,” Nate says, almost hysterical. “It’s one thing when I think he’s a jerk, but another when strangers say mean things.”
    “Do you want some ice cream?” I ask. “There’s half a Carvel cake in the freezer.”
    “It’s from Ashley’s birthday.”
    “Does that mean it can’t be eaten?”
    Nate shrugs.
    “Would you like some?”
    “Yes.”
    Using an enormous serrated knife, I saw off chunks; the ice cream is old and gummy and hard as a rock, but as it melts it gets better, and by the time we’re done, it’s delicious. When we’re finished, Tessie licks our plates clean.
    “She’s the prewash,” Nate says.
    Nate lies with me on the sofa, his head on the opposite end, his stinky feet near my face. When he’s asleep, I turn off the television and put the dishes in the washer. Tessie follows; I give her a biscuit.

    A long black limo pulls up to the curb outside the house. The children gather, dressed in their best. I stuff my pockets with Kleenex and snacks.
    “I’ve never been to a funeral,” Ashley says.
    “I went once, when the kid of someone Dad worked with killed himself,” Nate adds.
    At the funeral home, two men hold the doors open for us. “The immediate family is receiving to the left,” one says.
    “We are the immediate family,” Nate says.
    The man leads us down the hall. Jane’s parents are there, the sister and her husband.
    There’s something excruciating about this part. Strangers, or, even worse, friends, crouch at the children’s knees, touching them, hugging them, stressed faces one after another pressing into theirs, faces like caricatures. There is the awkwardness of people feeling the need to say something when there is nothing to say. Nothing.
    I’m sorry for your loss. Oh, you poor babies. What will become of you? Your mother was such a wonderful woman. What does your father have to say for himself? I can only imagine. Is your dad