Home Is Where the Bodies Are

by Jeneva Rose

Death reminds us that life isn’t infinite and that one day, our time will come too.

Knock, knock. Don’t worry. It’s not for you . . . this time.

The hospice nurse said she’ll pass by the end of the day. It’s odd. Some people never see it coming, others have a countdown, and I don’t know which is worse.

“Eliza . . . beth,” my mother calls softly from the living room. She says my name the same way she consumes her Werther’s candies: slowly, deliberately. It’s like she’s savoring it. My shoulders drop, sinking to a place familiar to those who have faced defeat. I know I’ll never hear her say it again—my name, the one she gave me. I wish I could reach out and grab it, stow it away in a safe place, like some sort of family heirloom. But it belongs to this moment. Like her, it’s not something I can keep forever. I take a deep breath and release the knife from my hand. It thuds against the cutting board. It’s time to say my final goodbye.

There are even pictures of flowers hung in frames behind her hospice bed. She told me flowers reminded her of life—beautiful, delicate, and short-lived.

Her graying skin is like the bark of a tree, deep creases from a lifetime of stress and grief. She embraces them, though. She always has, proudly saying, “The wrinklier the skin, the harder the life.” It’s a badge of honor for her, evidence of her hardships.

Her chest barely rises and falls. I watch it closely just to be sure she’s still breathing. She keeps her eyes on the setting sun, and I can hear what she said to me a week ago, before it became too difficult for her to utter more than a word or two. There’s not many things you can count on in life, but that . . . is one thing you can count on. It will rise and it will fall—no matter what. Don’t matter if you’re sick or sad. Don’t matter if there is war or there is peace. Don’t matter if you see it or you don’t. That sun. You can count on it.

I always knew the only thing that would bring me home was death. I just didn’t know whose it would be.

When you shine brighter than the sun, it’s hard for others to look at you, so you have two choices: look and be blinded with resentment or look away.

He’s used to the finer things in life. I wonder what that’s like. But I’d rather not know. It’s better to be unaware of what you’re missing out on, those things you’ll never have access to and how the one percent lives—especially when you know it’d only be temporary.

I’d imagined it. Wishful thinking, I guess. Or I’m going crazy. I’ve actually never understood that saying. Going crazy . . . because crazy isn’t a place you go, it comes right to you.

Money changes people the same way death does. If you don’t know how to manage every aspect of it, it’ll bring out the worst in you.

“I mean, do we keep Mom and Dad’s secret, or do we tell someone?”

His eyes follow my finger first to Beth who is making out with her boyfriend in front of the whole damn town, and then to Nicole, who is seated at a picnic table, sipping a beer. I take a step forward, ready to march over and yell at both of them, but Brian stops me. “I’ll take care of it, Laura.” Letting out a heavy sigh, I throw my hands on my hips. “Those girls are going to send me to an early grave.” “Now you know how your mother felt when you and I were that age and sneaking off, knocking boots, drinking beer down by the nature trail.” Brian waggles his eyebrows. “Oh, stop. We weren’t that bad.” He kisses my forehead and whispers, “I remember you being pretty bad.” I giggle and smack my hand playfully against his chest. For a moment, it feels like we’re teenagers again. But I like what we have now more—the deep connection threaded through decades, children, a home, and a life we’ve built together. I wouldn’t give it up for the world.

The rising sun seeps through the window in the living room, bathing the stacks of boxes with a warm glow. They’re spread out all over the floor, some empty, some open, some still sealed. We got through about a third of them, but none of the contents gave us any further insight as to what happened the night of June 15, 1999—except that tape. It sits on top of the VHS/DVD player, exposed and out in the open. Anyone could walk in, pop it into the player, and see a buried truth. I consider hiding it or stowing it away, but I don’t have the energy to hide anything else, and maybe I want someone to see it. This secret feels almost too heavy for the three of us to shoulder.

Last night I watched that tape twelve times, searching for a clue, something to tell me what happened before Dad led Mom to Emma’s body or what may have occurred after the recording stopped. I thought the more I watched, the more I would be desensitized to it. But I wasn’t. Each viewing shocked and rattled me more than the last. I guess there are some things you can’t get used to.

I thought I knew everything about my mother until I started reading her journals. You can know a person your whole life but never really know them. Because they only have to show you what they want you to see. I didn’t know she felt insecure as a mother. I didn’t know she was afraid she’d raise us wrong, make a mistake that would permanently damage us in some way or another. I didn’t know she blamed herself for my addiction. And I didn’t know how much she truly loved us. She doesn’t write about the night of June 15, 1999. She alludes to it, but the entry is hieroglyphically cryptic. She refers to it as the night everything changed, the night that made her question every moment of her life that led up to it, the night that shook her faith, and, most terrifying of all, the night she realized monsters walk among us.

She wrote, I’ve learned there’s a lot of things you can bury, but the past isn’t one of them.

The world passes by me in a blur, not because of how fast I’m traveling but because I’ve only just learned that everything I’ve ever known has been a lie.

My hand trembles as I extend it to her. It’s withdrawals, my body craving a drug. It used to scare me when my body quaked because I wasn’t strong enough to stave them off without giving in. But I’m not scared anymore. I’m stronger than I ever gave myself credit for, and I know chasing the high is the equivalent of running in place. With each stride, dirt gets kicked up and all that happens is you end up digging a hole beneath you. If you dig long enough, you’ll eventually get buried in it.

Grief makes you do things you normally wouldn’t do, the kind of things that splinter your soul.

I smiled at each of them, and I remember asking myself how I got so lucky. I really took in the moment, not realizing I’d never have one like it again.

After learning the truth, that’s what disturbed me most of all—that nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

They say it’s the truth that will set you free, but they never specify whether telling the truth or knowing the truth will give you your freedom.

I didn’t know what to do. But I knew what Brian would want me to do. He spent his whole life trying to protect his children. Death wouldn’t change that priority.

They say the love you have for a child is unconditional. I don’t believe that anymore. There are conditions.

Sometimes you become the monster and sometimes the monster becomes you. Our intentions were just that . . . intentions, and I’m sorry for ever having them. I’m sorry for what I’ve done, for what we’ve done. I’ve taken these secrets to the grave, but that’s as far as I can take them.

I can’t help but reflect on what our parents did. They weren’t bad people. They were good, and they loved with every ounce of their being. They wanted the best for their kids. All parents want that. But they made poor decisions in an effort to protect their children. They were human, and they were flawed. Sometimes we do the wrong thing for all the right reasons. I don’t blame my parents or hate them for what they did. Because as I look at my own children, I know I would do the exact same thing for them.

“I mean that it allowed me to give myself grace. I didn’t excuse myself. But I forgave myself for all the things I’d done wrong, just like I forgave my parents and my brother.”

“Anger is easy, Rebecca. It’s the most rudimentary of human feelings. Babies experience anger. Psychopaths experience anger. People with little to no brain activity experience anger. But compassion and forgiveness are challenging. They’re the most complex of all the emotions. So, no . . . I’m not angry with them.”