In Presence of Absence

With every ounce of strength, my black high heels dug into the first step. "Okay, Marissa, you got this," I whispered to myself. One step at a time. I dropped my head, let out a heavy sigh, and summoned every bit of energy to move my right leg onto the second step. I glanced up, and a white halo blurred my peripheral vision, centering on Newie and Alejandro. They were only two steps ahead, their hands intertwined, with Newie playing the role of the supportive girlfriend.

I tucked my bleach blonde hair behind my ears and looked down at my trembling hands, shaking so much they seemed to belong to someone else—someone perhaps disabled with an aggressive tremor. My empathy goes out for those people. How do they get through each day? It's really damn hard right now. Trying to steady myself, I grasped the hem of my black Calvin Klein dress, pulling it away from my knees to create some space to breathe. Each step felt like it stretched on for decades. "Just one more," I urged myself. My heel finally touched the last step, and just as I thought I could collapse from exhaustion, a crackled voice sliced through the tense, silent air.

"Hey guys, this is my girlfriend, Newie." Alejandro's arm wrapped around my best friend's back, ushering her forward. She took one step, and her black shoes sent the dark wood beneath us creaking. My painted red nails, which I had just told Tyler about two weeks ago, gripped the railing, and the sight in front of me sent my heart plummeting. Beyond her was a group of guys dressed in black, but not just any group—they were his high school throwing friends.

I spotted Reilly first. His jaw dropped as he glanced at me, then he whispered something to John, whose eyes widened when he looked in my direction. I tried to form a half smile, but they quickly looked away. The situation was incredibly uncomfortable, especially given the circumstances. He had told me he used to brag about me to his friends, and now he’s dead.

He once told Mark during orchestra that he “drank fancy wine with me” one night and “took me out to dinner.” He told Reilly I was “bird girl” as a joke, proud of pulling a woman with the corniest pick-up line. Now, I saw Jacob and Mark leaning against the farthest right side of the funeral home porch, shoulder to shoulder. He had told those two my nickname was “Assiram,” just my name backwards, but you can read between the lines why they liked that one.

Finally, I was putting faces to the names, and so were they. It was weird and surreal, the intersection of past stories and present reality. They used to know me only through his words and now, under these grim circumstances, we were face to face. It felt like stepping into a parallel universe, where the people from his stories were suddenly real, and everything was achingly uncomfortable.

Their suits were probably damp from the misty rain this afternoon. He really liked the rain. I bet his spirit is here right now, happy it’s raining, happy that all the people who were important to him are now officially connecting, crossing paths, among this sick and twisted situation. I bet he’s next to his buddy Dan right now, who’s leaning on the opposite side of them all, hands jammed into his pockets, head lowered but dark, cold eyes meeting Newie’s in polite acknowledgment. 

Newie slowly inches toward the center of the throwers, greeting all of them from a considerable distance. Her second-hand distraught expression, lips once penciled in a flat line, switches to a forced smile, almost as if she had to put pins at each corner to keep it in place. Damn, she’s killing it.

Alejandro launches forward in front of me, and to support my shaking legs, I reach for a wooden post to find balance. He goes first to Dan, long arms open for an embrace. For a brief second, I notice Dan lift his chin, mouth quivering at the sight of Alejandro, teary-eyed. He digs his head into Alejandro’s black button-up long sleeve, and Alejandro returns his sorrows with a few hearty back slaps.

Obviously, Alejandro is not going to introduce me. I know these people, and they know me. I wipe the sweat from my palms against my black dress and stumble forward, reaching for Reilly’s hand with every last ounce of strength. “Hi, I’m Marissa.”

He takes my hand and smiles weakly. “Hi.”

I turn to Mark and notice he has his arms and legs crossed, fighting his own grief, not wanting to really talk to anyone new. His face is a mask of pain and resistance, a silent plea for emptiness among the group. I politely wave and take two steps back. “It’s nice to meet you,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. Mark barely nods. His eyes are distant and filled with withdrawal. 

I glance around, the reality of the situation settling heavily on my shoulders. This isn’t just about me or my grief; it’s about all of us, each person carrying a piece of him with them. The sight of familiar faces, the shared expressions of anguish, makes the pain more real, more immediate. It's overwhelming, and I can feel my resolve weakening.

“So, we should go in, right?” Alejandro turns to me. His voice breaks through my thoughts, pulling me back to the present. I glance at the two dark brown doors and then back at Alejandro. But I don’t think I have any strength left. Seeing his high school friends, seeing Dan in tears—it’s all too much.

“Yeah.” I clear my throat, trying to steady my voice, to avoid any shakiness. The word comes out more firmly than I expected, but inside, I’m trembling.

“Okay, someone go in first.” Alejandro looks at me, his eyes searching mine for a sign of readiness. I look at Newie. She nods, her hands clinging to the golden door handles. She’s trying to be strong for all of us.

As Newie opens the doors, revealing lines of people stretching through three rooms, all there to see him one last time, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The sight is both comforting and heartbreaking. So many faces, each one evidenced by his impact, his reach. I don’t know if it makes me happy to see how loved and supported he was by so many people, or if it just underscores the tragedy that he didn’t feel or know that himself from others.

This is the cruel reality of mental illness—it blinds you to the love around you, isolates you in a prison of your own mind. I feel an overwhelming sadness, not just for my loss, but for his suffering, for the depth of his loneliness and despair that brought us all here today. This is the aftermath, and as I step forward, I can only hope that somewhere, somehow, he knows that he was never truly alone.

I step through the entryway and I’m immediately enveloped in a world dedicated entirely to him. Every room meticulously showcases his life, from his early childhood to his final days. We inch slowly to the left, surrounded by yellow flower wallpaper and portraits of him and his family when he was a little boy. I see letters and collections of notes. People around me are crying, their grief visible. I should be crying too. What the fuck is wrong with me? Instead of tears, my body betrays me with uncontrollable shaking, like I have Parkinson's. Why am I so disabled today? Why can’t I cry like everyone else? I feel like I’m breaking down inside, but nothing is coming out.

My heart feels like it’s being squeezed by an invisible hand. Every step I take feels heavier, each image of him piercing through my facade, but still, no tears. The room is filled with muffled sobs and whispers of memories, yet I stand here, frozen, shaking. My body feels alien, betraying me in the worst possible moment. I keep asking myself why I can’t cry, why my body refuses to release this pain in a normal way. It’s maddening, this disconnect between my emotions and physical reactions.

“Do you think he’s in the next room?” Newie asks, cracking her knuckles. Her voice pulls me back to the present. My eyes widen. No fucking way he better not be. Alejandro looks ahead, sees there are three heads before we reach the next entryway, and the usher with a bald head in a black suit and tie who will send us to the next room.

Panic grips me. I look down at my knuckles, trying to move my thumbs into my palms, but they feel paralyzed. Suddenly, pins and needles shoot through my hands, an intense, tingling sensation that makes me feel even more helpless. My breath catches in my throat as I fight to regain control, to push through the physical manifestation of my grief and fear. The closer we get to that room, the harder it becomes to breathe, to think clearly. All I can do is focus on putting one foot in front of the other, hoping my body will somehow catch up with my mind.

God dammit. “Newie, I can’t move my fingers.”

She squeezes my hands, and my heart starts pounding uncontrollably in my chest. I thought a glass or two of wine was supposed to take the edge off. It’s not working, clearly, because there are stars floating around Newie’s panicked face. I swallow a dry gulp, closing my eyes. It’s okay, Marissa. You need to be here. You drove four hours to be here. He would want you here. This is closure.

We inch forward, and now we are one head behind the usher. Each step feels like an eternity, the anticipation building and compounding my anxiety. The air feels thick, suffocating, and I can feel the weight of the room pressing down on me. I try to take deep breaths, but they come out shallow and shaky.

“Okay. Let’s sing a song or something,” suggests Alejandro. A great way to distract ourselves.

“Good idea. You pick it,” Newie says. 

The usher extends a hand, guarding the entryway. He gives us a peace sign with his fingers, signaling we have a few moments before we can get through. I glance at Alejandro and try to distract myself. “Okay, lalala…” I whisper, attempting to sing along. Alejandro chuckles softly, the sound a brief respite from everything else.

"Helplessly Hoping" begins to play through the speakers. Instantly, a mountain forms in my throat. A flashback hits me—the day after my birthday on August 6th. He had called me and shared that this was his favorite song. He had added it to his Spotify playlist. Do you think he was planning for this to happen? Do you think he was planning a funeral playlist? That conversation was like his own goodbye? Like this was intentional? I fucking hope not.

The usher glances back at us, and I can see the sympathy in his eyes, the understanding that we are all struggling to hold it together. He nods slightly, a small gesture of reassurance. I grip Newie’s hand tighter, drawing strength from her presence.

Finally, the usher beckons us through, and luckily, that playful banter gave me a lick of courage to leap my shaky legs through the door. Inside, another line of people fills a square, enclosed room with purple walls and low lighting, but no music. I let out a sigh, partially in relief that it’s not the final room yet.

I turn my head and see a hanger with his track varsity jacket from Morris Hills. A huge monitor at the front of the room flickers to life, showing footage of him throwing shot put in high school. His mother’s voice cheers from behind the phone as she records, her claps breaking up the footage. His poor mother. The raw, unfiltered pride and love in her voice stabs at my insides.

I take a step back, accidentally stumbling on Newie’s toe. “I’m so sorry.”

She delicately brushes my arm, encouraging me to take that step forward again. Her touch is grounding, a reminder that I’m not alone in this, that we’re all navigating this tragedy together. I steady myself and look back at the monitor. The image of him, youthful and vibrant, contrasts sharply with the harsh reality of the present.

I turn to my left and see a booth with a black tablecloth, showcasing his high school and college medals and trophies from all of his track meets. I walk over, my fingers brushing lightly against the cool surfaces of the awards, feeling the weight of his accomplishments. It’s wild seeing these pieces of his life, snippets that showcase his passions. It makes me ache for what could have been, for the life that was cut short.  As I take another step forward, I whisper to myself, “You need to be here. This is for him.” I feel Newie’s reassuring presence beside me, and with a deep breath, I resolve to keep moving forward, to face the final room head-on. 

And then we reach the final room. I gaze across the white empty chairs in the center, with few bodies praying, while lines of people wrapped around them. Newie looks up, and although I don't want to follow her gaze, I do. She opens her mouth slightly, probably at the sight of the casket. I quickly look down at my feet, trying to keep myself upright.

“Are you okay?” A muffled question comes through the ringing in my ears. I can’t look up. If I look up, I don’t know what will happen. But I don’t think I know how to hold myself together anymore. I have to do this. My neck raises, and across the room lies him. It’s not anyone else. It wasn’t a lie, it wasn’t fake. It’s real. He’s dead. And this is it. This is the last time I will ever see his face, the last time I will ever say goodbye. No. I don’t want to say goodbye. I could just turn around right now and leave. Avoid his mother, run from his father who he used to speak so highly of.

My honey brown eyes watch his parents and siblings lined up beside him. I see a tall, lanky, soft-spoken parent in his 60s, mouthing short and sweet words like “hello” and “thank you.” Suddenly, I start seeing double. Uncontrollable tears start running down my face, and I have to wipe them from my chin to stop the dripping. Alejandro reaches for the tissues and hands me one. His poor father. He loved his father. His father stands with his hands folded together at his waist, while his mother strikes up conversations with every person who finishes praying at his altar.

“Okay, guys, huddle time.” Newie’s arms reach for both Alejandro and me, whose glasses are starting to fog up from the tears of this final moment. “You guys are strong, you can do this.”

She’s right. I’m in deep, and I can’t just give up now. That would be so stupid. I need to say goodbye.

We reach the front, and I see this room is a poignant representation of his final moments. Hanging next to his casket is that same Ithaca track and field hoodie, the one he wore when he told me his beloved Jeep, Jenny, had been sold. The sight of it brings back a flood of memories, a tangible link to our last conversations. As two boys walk away from the altar, I realize it’s my turn.

My legs are shaking so much that I don’t kneel; I rest my cold, sweaty hands against the altar. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, my hands trace the cross on my forehead, chest, and each point of my shoulders. I let out a huge breath, open my eyes, and see white sheets covering the marks left on his neck, his eyes closed, brown hair left in the same place as I last saw him—straight and parted to one side. Except this time he’s pale. Really, really pale. I cover my mouth, and a lone tear runs from my right eye down to my cheek and onto the outside of my hand. He does look really peaceful, though.

Okay, my last words to you. Here you go. I clasp my hands together, knuckles facing the ceiling as if, for one second, I’m trying to believe that I am praying to some higher power and that his spirit is floating above him, watching me, listening to me.

Hey bud. I am so sorry this happened. I shouldn’t have let this happen. Thank you for being a great friend and, sometimes, a lover these past six years. I think of the girl I was when we first met at the Randolph YMCA, and I don’t even think she exists anymore. And yet, we still hung out this past summer like nothing had changed. That says a lot about how strong our connection was. No more tickle fights, but you can bully me from above. You may not have felt your best throughout your time here, but I’ll say you look great now. Get some rest; maybe I’ll see you later. Amen.

I perform the cross sign on my body, ending the prayer. My eyes linger on his blank, tired expression. His goddamn lips are purple, and I can see it through the makeup. Ugh.

I can’t believe he did this.

My hand slams against the altar, and I spin around, darting straight to the front entrance. The room blurs around me, and all I can hear is the pounding of my heart and the rush of blood in my ears. The pain, the anger, the disbelief—they all crash over me. I need to get out. I need air. I need to escape this suffocating reality.

As I reach the door, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Newie. Her eyes are filled with tears, but there’s a determination in them that steadies me. “Marissa. He would want you to stay strong.”

I nod, swallowing hard, trying to gather the shattered pieces of my composure. With a deep breath, I turn back towards the room. I can’t run from this. I have to face it, for him, for myself, for the closure we all need.