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  “Really, Joey? Now?”

  He sighs and retreats a few inches.

  I ignore him, unable to look away from that circle of grief on display.

  Mr. Kim comes up for air and grips Scott’s arm, wrinkling the perfect uniform. There is a stiff nod, a brusque pat on the back, and Keith leads Scott away to settle into a pew.

  The viewing line shuffles forward.

  “Are you ready for this?” Joey asks, his voice no longer intimate, but sad. His hand brushes mine, but I don’t reach for him. “Jude?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” I’m going for bravado but, as I say it, the line of classmates and relatives shifts, and I see why he asked.

  Hank was wrong about the casket. The Kims must’ve hired the makeup artist to the dead stars, because Maggie Kim is lying in state, just the way she always wanted, black dress, pale skin, and a host of mourners lining up to say their final farewells. A blanket of red roses drapes the lower half of the coffin like an evening gown.

  Just like that, I’m glad Joey’s with me. I’m not sure I’d want to face this alone.

  Mrs. Kim presses a hand to her daughter’s casket. She allows herself to be led away, leaning heavily against none other than Edina Rodriguez.

  Edina’s traded in her YMCA swimsuit for a Maggie Kim costume—her dress is identical to the one in the coffin. I’m glad I didn’t borrow it now. We would’ve looked like triplets. Her hair is pulled back into the tight Audrey Hepburn bun Maggie used to favor for formal dances. Maggie’s pearl choker is back around Edina’s neck. Just once, I wish the damned thing would live up to its name.

  Edina sees me and Joey coming down the aisle. The look she gives me is no less than triumphant. She pats Mrs. Kim on the shoulder and goes back to playing the most aggrieved friend.

  Joey and I follow the parade of mourners—Tallulah is there, Dane at her side, despite the traumatic breakup. The two of them look more like a Vanity Fair photo shoot than a couple of sad teens. I wonder if this is the start of a trend for them, a Catherine-and-Heathcliff affair that will leave them devastated, yet believing their love is inevitable. Maybe they just don’t know how to be apart yet.

  Like me and Maggie.

  When she died, I let Joey take her place.

  Behind them, Hank and Eppie have shucked off their wet suits long enough to pull on black outfits. They press their fingers, shaped into peace signs, to their lips and then to Maggie’s forehead.

  Joey and I move slowly forward.

  A decrepit old man is being wheeled down the aisle in front of us, pushed by a young nurse. Maggie’s grandfather or great-uncle, I can’t remember. The other uncle, the one with the tuna breath, is off the guest list.

  Then there’s Parker. He doesn’t approach the coffin, just sits there in his wheelchair. I wonder if he’s already said his good-byes or if he’s just sulking as usual.

  One respectful row behind him, Violetta is looking not quite herself in a black dress and shawl. From my vantage point, I can see she is texting beneath her wrap. But with whom?

  The thought passes as the old man is rolled away and Joey and I reach the casket.

  Maggie. I start to say her name and stop. Margaret Kim, beloved daughter and sister, lies in the satin-lined box. I recognize her the way you would an old friend years later. Familiar, but strange. Someone you want to trust but can’t because you don’t know them anymore.

  Margaret Kim is dead. But she’s not my Maggie.

  I sob in relief at the sight and Joey wraps an arm tight around me.

  The body in this coffin is not the girl I knew. In those moments behind my eyelids—laughing at me from the side of the pool, couched next to me on the sofa in front of her old black-and-white movies—Maggie lives on. Sitting on my geometry homework. Waving at Luke through the telephoto lens.

  She’s still alive inside me.

  I lean down and kiss her corpse good-bye, one cheek, then the next, pressing my lips into the pancake makeup inside the open casket. Its buttressed lid is the final proof that the cops are calling it an accidental death, and not a suicide after all. You shut the door on suicides. Accidents, on the other hand, are simply an act of God.

  “You did it, babe,” I tell her. “You made a beautiful corpse.”

  After a moment, Joey steers me back up the aisle, only to be flagged down by Mrs. Kim in the front row. I bend down into her embrace, careful not to kiss her cheek so soon after kissing Maggie’s.

  “You will say something,” she says into my ear. “When the minister says, you will speak.” It’s not a request.

  I hesitate. Her arms hold me tight, as if she can make me agree by sheer force. A eulogy for Maggie. “Of course,” I say.

  If she’d asked me yesterday, like a normal person, I might have said no, or spent the night tossing and turning over what to say. But this is Maggie’s mother, and that girl never took no for an answer. They’re more alike than I would have guessed. Mrs. Kim nods, her hair brushing against my cheek, and releases me.

  Joey is waiting. We return up the aisle and find seats in the sixth row.

  A little while later the service begins. The minister goes on about unfairness, the prime of life, and God’s great plan. I bow my head, but I’m not listening. I’m wondering where Lukey Loo is.

  Then Joey nudges me. Maggie’s father is taking the stage.

  He looks dignified and drawn, as if he’s aged ten years since yesterday. I wonder if it’s taken this long for Maggie’s death to finally sink in, or if it’s a face he put on, the way his wife put on her makeup, to look the part of the grieving father. He buttons and unbuttons his suit coat nervously when he reaches the podium, and looks out across the audience with a weak smile.

  “It’s unnatural for parents to outlive a child,” he begins. His voice is hoarse, but grows stronger as he speaks. “We’ve fought against it for years with our son, Parker. So, you can imagine, after so much diligence with one child, to have Death come along and steal the other, it’s . . . unbearable.”

  He leans some of his weight on the podium, his breathing amplified by the microphone in front of him. There is a convincing amount of grief in his stance.

  After a moment, he straightens. “Margaret Hye-Sun Kim was our only daughter. Intelligent, lovely and, admittedly, very independent. Too independent, a father might say.” He laughs a little at this, giving the mourners permission to laugh with him. “We were proud of our daughter. Our little angel.” He removes his glasses, wipes his eyes. “Thank you all for coming.”

  The whole room seems to be waiting, wondering what comes next.

  I’m still chewing on the “angel” line when Joey nudges me again. “You’re up,” he says.

  The minister is standing at the pulpit, watching me with a professional sympathy. I put my purse on the seat beside me and rise, a thousand drums playing inside my chest.

  Heads turn. I feel eyes on me all the way up to the stage, my legs brushing against each other beneath the hem of my dress. I mount the three little steps, feeling the heat of all those eyes, and wrap my hands around the sides of the podium overlooking Maggie’s coffin.

  The last time I spoke in public, I was on the witness stand. The view is familiar, and so is the task. It’s time to testify.

  “Good afternoon.” I clear my throat, wishing I’d brought a bottle of water. “For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Jude. I was one of Maggie’s friends.”

  In the audience, I see Edina squinting at me. Her eyes widen when I don’t use the b-word, but “best friend” is hard to say when you have no idea why yours is dead.

  “Maggie’s parents asked me to speak today and, frankly, I didn’t want to.”

  In the pews, people shift uncomfortably. Joey looks at his lap, then up again. I can feel him willing me to do my best.

  “You see, Maggie was special. She could char
m a squirrel out of a tree.” I glance at Joey. He blushes. “She could look at the most unlikable person or the worst situation and find the good in it. In us.”

  Edina nods. Dane and Tallulah draw closer together. Eppie is crying on Hank’s shoulder. Parker looks at his knees, shaking.

  The hole is opening up beneath me again, the one that’s been there every quiet moment, every night since Maggie died. I recognize it now, here, from behind the microphone.

  I’ve fallen into this pit before. But Maggie pulled me out. This time, I’ll have to climb out all on my own.

  “So, I’ve been blaming myself for Maggie’s death. I was out of town when it happened, and I keep thinking, whatever happened that night, maybe if I had been there, I could have done something to help.” Heads nod in sympathy, or shake, expressing their own confusion. “But here, today, looking out across this room, I see family, friends, and classmates.” Each group nods in acknowledgment as I scan the crowd. Edina and Tallulah hold their chins up. Stiff upper lip, I suppose. Or pride. “You all loved Maggie too.”

  There are murmurs of agreement. I clear my throat. “The difference is, all of you were here. And she’s still dead.”

  Gasps. Edina scowls. Maggie’s mother has a hand over her mouth, her husband’s arm around her. Parker is staring fixedly at nothing. Tallulah starts crying, Dane looks blank. Eppie and Hank are hunched together now, shoulders shaking. From tears, or laughter, I can’t tell.

  In the sixth row, Joey is shaking his head at me. Make nice, for Christ’s sake, I can hear him saying. It’s a funeral after all.

  I take a deep breath and force myself to continue.

  “So . . .” I pause and let the indignant mumbling die down. “So, now I’m thinking, maybe you can’t save anyone. No matter how much we might care for someone, it’s not always up to us. Could any of us have helped? Maybe. We’ll never know.”

  Behind me, the cross on the wall creaks as the building shifts, a passing truck or a tiny earthquake making the foundation shudder. Temblors happen here all the time. There’s just no way of knowing if it’s an aftershock from some long-ago event, or a precursor of things to come.

  I take another deep breath. Everyone is quiet now, not sure if I’m the enemy or just a kid who’s hurting.

  Frankly, I’m not so sure either. Because I’m realizing something, standing up here in front of Maggie’s dearly beloved. The sort of thing that makes you feel like you’re falling out of a Ferris wheel because it means there’s no difference between holding on for dear life and letting go. Hold on and you’ll eventually be crushed by the wheel; let go and gravity does the rest.

  “We’ll never know. But it doesn’t matter,” I say, “whether we could have helped or not. Because it’s over. Maggie’s gone. And now we have to let her go. Thank you.”

  I turn away from the podium and walk back down the steps, each one bringing me closer to the bereaved. Maggie’s mother reaches out for me, eyes red, a real handkerchief in her hand. She pulls me into a hug and thanks me. Her father nods his head but says nothing. Parker’s got his eyes on the middle distance. His jaw is clenched. Mine is too.

  I make my way back to the pew where Joey is waiting. He pulls me into the seat like he’s rescuing me, and maybe he is.

  Maggie was my Ferris wheel. I can see that now. It was a ride with a view of everything I could never have found on my own. And now it’s over.

  I reach into my purse and pull on my sunglasses. That’s enough sharing for today.

  It’s time to move on.

  17

  The service ends without further incident. There’s an awkward reception in one of the peach-and-chalk-colored event rooms at the church. Everyone loves the brownies. Parker uses Violetta like garlic at a vampire ball to ward away the crowd. Something about a nurse and a wheelchair, people keep their distance. Joey gives me a nudge. I could force the issue, try to get her alone. But I find I’ve lost my appetite.

  When we leave the church for the long drive to the cemetery, Maggie’s mother detaches herself from Edina and wraps her arms around one of mine. “No, no, you ride with us.” She tugs me down the wide flight of stairs to a waiting limousine.

  “I don’t want to intrude,” I say. A glance tells me Edina very much wishes she could.

  “Don’t be absurd. You are family,” Mrs. Kim says. I nod and tell Joey I’ll see him at the grave site.

  Violetta has just finished wrangling Parker into the backseat when I climb in.

  “Ah. Welcome to the family, new sis,” Parker greets me.

  “Mom says I can have your room,” I reply.

  Mr. Kim scowls at his son, but it doesn’t last long. “Now, children,” he says, “let’s all get along.”

  It’s my turn to smile. Role playing is catching, I suppose.

  We pull out into traffic behind the hearse. Through the tinted windows, I can see the blazing headlights of the cars behind us, glaring like cell phones held up at a concert, telling the world to step aside.

  I look ahead to the hearse carving its way through traffic, black doors and chrome trim shining in the sun. I can just make out the top of Maggie’s coffin and I wonder who feels colder, the girl inside that box, or me, trapped in my own padded crypt with her family. The AC blasts us from the front vents, drying sweat and the remnants of tears.

  And I think religion got it wrong. Maybe Hell is a frozen tundra.

  We ride in silence to the cemetery.

  All my suspicions, my clever inquiries forgotten.

  Maggie is gone and I couldn’t save her. Now it’s too late to try.

  • • •

  We bury Maggie at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, just a few blocks south of Sunset Boulevard, in the heart of Hollywood. That, at least, makes sense. The graveyard holds the likes of Douglas Fairbanks, junior and senior, Vampira, and Cecil B. DeMille. Add to that a tradition of screening old movies for crowds of hipsters and cinephiles every summer, right up against the mausoleum wall, and I feel like Maggie’s getting the kind of pajama party that lasts an eternity.

  I wonder whose idea it was. I raise an eyebrow at Parker, but he looks away, staring out into the gritty streets where liquor stores and discount uniform warehouses vie for immigrant dollars in a clash of languages.

  The park is beautiful. An oasis in the concrete jungle. A swan pond graces a stretch of green grass, and crypts rise up like temples to forgotten gods.

  Maggie gets a strip of green across the road from the screening lawn, no trees or headstones to block the view. I keep my sunglasses on, and throw a rose on Maggie’s coffin with the rest of the family. The Kims’ gaggle of church friends is still droning hymns in Korean and English when I turn and walk away.

  Joey finds me under the spread of a chestnut tree alongside the flat black road that winds through the park. Cars line the curb like gemstones in the sun. “How was that?” he asks.

  I’ve convinced Mrs. Kim to let Joey drive me home. I’ve had enough of walking in Maggie’s shoes for one day. I shake my head at Joey’s question. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Not just yet,” he says. I look up from the car door handle to see why. Luke Liu perches in a tree overlooking Maggie’s open grave, using the limbs as a tripod. He’s still taking her picture.

  “Hey.”

  I turn around. Edina Rodriguez is standing there, looking more than a little uncomfortable. She glances at Joey, then back to me.

  “Hello” is all I can think of to say.

  Joey takes a step back. If Edina has something on her mind, it’s for my ears alone.

  “I didn’t lie to you earlier,” she says. “About the necklace. Maggie did give it to me.” I notice it’s not around her neck now. She’s clutching it in her right hand.

  “She said I could borrow it. Asked me to hold on to it, actually, for two weeks. She knew I loved it and lent it to me. Ju
st for a little while.” Edina is repeating herself, but I let her.

  I look at the pearls in her hand, round and luminous. Her nails are bitten to the quick. “I’ve still got a week to go, but I don’t want it anymore.” She thrusts the necklace at me.

  I take it, feeling the hardness of each little pearl. They’re cool to the touch. A string of perfection.

  Edina’s eyes are red now. She blinks. “Poor Maggie.” She looks up at me for comfort. I have none to give. “I . . . Poor Maggie,” she says again, and after a moment’s hesitation, she walks away.

  “What was that about?” Joey asks, rejoining me.

  I show him the pearls and put them in my clutch purse. “She claims Maggie asked her to hold on to them. Maybe she just doesn’t want to be Little Maggie Kim anymore. It’s no fun idolizing the dead.”

  Joey puts his arm around me. “Tell that to Marilyn Monroe.”

  “Is he coming down?” I ask, my eyes searching the branches for Luke.

  As the last mourners depart, Luke lowers his camera and waves at us. I see him fumble for his phone. A moment later, mine vibrates with a text.

  Slides in. Be right there.

  • • •

  “Why didn’t you call us?” I ask. I’ve kicked off my shoes and tucked my feet under my skirt. It’s a bit too tight for me to curl up in a chair comfortably, but we’ve come to a coffeehouse rather than someone’s home and I’m still in my Sunday best.

  Luke blushes, pouring sugar packets into his iced green tea. “The developer called this morning. I knew you had to get ready for the funeral and I wasn’t going to be missed if I came late, so . . .” He shrugs.

  “You were missed,” I say, and he blushes more deeply.

  “I . . . I don’t think I could have handled the service anyway.”

  “You couldn’t have. They had an open casket after all,” Joey tells him.

  Luke pales, staring hard at the table. “How weird was that? I mean, dead people never look . . . right.”

  I turn my head and try to think of something sunny. Nobody speaks. Finally I clear my throat. “So, what’ve you got?”