Vicky Skinner - We Are the Ghosts

I have a sex dream about James Dean the night I find out my brother is dead. I watched Rebel Without a Cause before bed, hours before my mother woke me in a panic, and its all I can think about while she tells me Lukes Mazda slid on a wet road, taking him right off the side of a bridge somewhere in Michigan.

I stare down at the dining room table, unsure of what to do. I want to tell my parents that they cant be saying this to me right now because its the middle of the night and I have to work in the morning. Instead of telling them this, I think about James Dean. I think of him in my mind yelling, Youre tearing me apart! instead of my mother telling me that someone from the police station in Ann Arbor called her an hour ago, after they found Lukes car upside down in the Huron River.

Ellie? Are you okay?

Later, when I think back on this moment, Ill focus on the fact that neither of my parents is crying. Shouldnt they be blubbering? Shouldnt they be crawling over each other to get to me, the only child they have left? It feels like it should be that way, like pictures of parents when theyve found out their children went away to war and never came back. But my parents arent crying. My father is staring down at the table, his eyes wide and unfocused, like hes not actually seeing anything, and my mother is just staring at me. What is she waiting for? Theyre not touching each other. My mother sits with her hands in her lap while my father keeps his arms on the tabletop. Neither of them reaches for me.

Ellie?

I know my mother is asking me a question, but I cant see her anymore. Or hear her. My world goes fuzzy, and I stand up from the table, holding my stomach because I suddenly feel like all my insides are going to come spilling out until Im nothing but a lumpy mess on the carpet.

My brothers body is lying on a slab in a morgue in Ann Arbor. I imagine it as I walk away from the table, his skin cold and pale the way they always portray it on TV, his chest cut open down the middle so that someone can do an autopsy. Maybe this is really how it is. Maybe it isnt. I dont really know.

According to my mother, its pretty clear that his tires slipped on the wet road, so I dont think theyd even do an autopsy. Luke never drove in storms. After that time he skidded on his way to school and ended up facing oncoming traffic, he did everything he could to avoid it. I want to tell her shes mistaken. That he slid off that bridge but some kind bystander dove in after him, pulling him free and performing mouth-to-mouth on the edge of the highway.

But that isnt what happened. No one saved Luke. Luke is gone.

Luke is dead.

Im chanting it over and over in my head as I move down the hallway toward the bathroom. I dont make it all the way there. I throw up on the carpet outside of my parents bedroom.

I dont want to go to the funeral. Its more than just everyone staring at me. Theyve been staring for the last week, making my skin crawl, making me feel like I should walk around with a black veil over my face or something, like Im on display.

And its more than seeing everyone I know in the church. I know everyone from Eaton High will be there. Theyll be there because everyone loved Luke and everyone knew him and now hes gone. To them, hell be the track star, the debate champion, the golden boy forever, a smiling face in the yearbook. What it must be like to be able to shed a tear at a funeral and then move on with your life.

But its more than the fact that its Lukes funeral. To me, funerals are some kind of social ritual, something you do so you can put your grief on display, but experts (apparently) say that not going to a funeral can stunt your grieving process.

Grieving process. Like its a science experiment.

I always thought of funerals happening on cold, cloudy days, people holding umbrellas or pulling their thick coats tight around them. But on the day of Lukes funeral, the sun is shining. Its a sweltering Texas summer day as we walk into the church with everyones eyes on usmy father, my mother, and me, trailing behind because Id rather be the one going in the ground than the one witnessing it.

When we get to the front of the room, my mother goes into the pew first, but my father gestures for me to scoot in before him. Theyre going to trap me between them like a child at a movie theater so that I cant make a run for it while their attention is diverted.

I keep my eyes away from the casket the whole time. Its closed, thank God, even though no one explained to me why. I cant bring myself to ask any questions. Too many graphic possibilities cross my mind. My hands tremble slightly, and Im not positive if its because of the attention, eyes hot on my skin, or the huge picture of Luke sitting on a stand at the front of the room. I keep my eyes off it, too, the picture from his graduation, even though knowing its there is enough to make something heavy settle right at the base of my throat. I think I can handle being watched by the whole city of Eaton today; I cant take being watched by Luke, too.

I dont sing the hymns. I dont listen to the scripture being quoted. My family isnt religious, but this is Texas and funerals happen in churches. I didnt go with my parents when they met with this priest for the service, but I imagine them picking out his eulogy like someone picking out a cool design at a tattoo parlor. The words are cold and generic. Im sure the speaker plugged Lukes name into the empty blanks on his handy-dandy eulogy form like Eulogy Mad Libs, though Im sure theyre supposed to be comforting.

He died too young. He was so loved by everyone. He was a good kid.

He was a good kid who walked out of our lives a year ago and never came back.

For one uncomfortable second, a picture flashes in my mind, the one that always flashes in my mind when I think about Luke, about the last time we were together. The two of us driving home from the Nova concert the night before he left, laughing, singing, acting normal. He was acting normal, even though he knew what he was going to do.

I rub my forehead, like I can force the image out, and look around the church. Family from out of town; business associates of my fathers; professors who teach at Tate University with my mother, the school that sits in the center of Eaton; and in the back half of the room, people from Eaton High School, some of them in my grade and some of them people who graduated with Luke. Most of them are now Eaton High School alumni and current Tate students.

I scan the faces for Wes, but I dont see him, which makes something in my chest ache. At the very least, I thought I would see Wes.

I dont see him, but I do see Gwen Garcia. I almost miss her, invisible in the corner of the room, standing behind two guys from the football team who are almost twice her size. She doesnt seem to have a problem with them blocking her view because shes not watching the service. Her eyes are squeezed shut behind her glasses, and shes crying quietly, her face puffed and wet, her hands clenching a pack of tissues that shes not even using.