Kristen Kemp - Breakfast at Bloomingdales

As most of you know, my grandmother and I were like conjoined twinsso what if we were fifty-eight years apart.

I am speaking from a wooden pulpit with a thick layer of shellac. Through a funeral haze, I smile, and I raise my index and middle fingers, pretending theyre glued together. I am wearing Ninas black satin gloves that go all the way to my elbows.

Im not nervous. Nope. Not one bit.

If we had been conjoined, it would not have been at our heads or hips. Instead, it wouldve been at our hands. We both lived to sew. I am hoping my speech doesnt suck as much as I think it does. Its my first eulogy, and its dreadful. Wait, I guess if we were physically connected, then drawing patternsnot to mention cutting themwouldve been quite difficult. But you know what I mean. We wouldve worked it out. We worked everything out. I sigh because I am sucking. Then I shoot a dagger glare at my mother, who is shaking her head in disapproval as usual. Its not like shes the one up here.

I wont let that mother heifer of mine get to me. I continue, So, metaphorically, Nina and I were connected at the inseams. I point to the inside of my knee, which is bare because Im wearing a short black dress. I hate panty hose except for fishnets, which would hardly be appropriate on this depressing sunny Friday in July. Its clear outside, but Im stormy inside. My smile is big, and I remain painfully cheerful. No one hereincluding myselfcould handle me right now if I got real.

Peoples mouths and eyes are shaped like sideways question marks, telling me they are confused. Oh, well. This isnt really for them.

The eruption of red roses, pink carnations, and orange orchids makes the room seem even smaller and more crowded. People likeI mean likedmy Nina. She was their personal expert seamstress and stylistalways fixing their clothes, creating new ones, and tossing in surprise accessories like leather clutches and arm warmers just for fun. She worked mostly for freenothing I ever said could get her to charge, not in money at least. Instead, we rarely had to pay in local restaurants, bars, hair salons, or tattoo parlors. She was adored in our small upstate town for her skills, her fashion tips, and the awesome all-ages parties shed been throwing since she was twentyone. Before that, like when she was my age, she lived in Hells Kitchen in New York City, and wed been planning to go back there ASAP. As soon as I finished this pesky rite of passage called high schoolwhich I was going to do earlyshe and I were supposed to set off.

Well, maybe. She said shed only go if she were still alive.

My shoulders are so heavy.

Upstate New York will be totally boring without her. I continue my off-the-glove speech with the clear and steady voice Nina taught me to use because she believed in girl power. I go on: Well all miss her daily premonitionsshe swore her dreams came true. Like the time her favorite kittyrest in peace, little Trumanspoke to her in her sleep and told her not to drive the next day. Turned out that the blizzard of 02 hit full force right when she was supposed to be getting her hair dyed. Her dreams saved her lifeand many of ours.

I change the subject: And Nina had the goods, tooyou all know what Im talking about. When I say our town of Queensbury will be boring without her, I totally mean it. Just think, who else in our midst made out with Frank Sinatra, Tommy Hilfiger, and Steven Tyler? Not all at once, of course. My voice is crisp, and my smile is almost genuine with memories. The water behind my eyes is genuine, too. I make those tears just dry up. Just. Dry. Up.

I pause. People stare like they hadnt been gossiping about Nina for all of her seventy-one years. My boyfriend breaks the silence with a forced laugh, a nice save as usual. Others go heh, heh, heh just to be polite.

Im having trouble conveying that Nina was my everythingmy best friend, my sewing mentor, my fashion design coach, my clothing company partner, my emotional Internet connection, my daily dining buddy. She could order some mean Chinese and Thai foodthe spicier the better. I dont know how to put a lifetime of feelings into silly things like words. I only know how to put my feelings into fabric. I am imagining a simple drape, an emotional silhouette, on a long gray chiffon dress. Anyway, I dont know how to speak in public since I always skip school on oral report days. Its not that Im scared or introverted as much as Im afraid of sounding stupid.

But here I go, anyway, adding another attempt at lightheartedness: If it hadnt been for her, I would be dead, and Im not being dramaticmy mothers cooking could kill anybody. I think the joke is funny but that could be because my boyfriend and I had champagne for breakfast, in Ninas honor, and now its only eleven A.M.

My mother heifers current live-in fianc, Russ, pipes in, muffling my hiccup, Ill raise a glass to that. What a wino.

I get a laugh this time, but its once again obligatory and uncomfortable. Heh, heh, heh, they say. So for the next few minutes, I just play it straight about how she was sweet, thoughtful, and one-of-a-kindthe standard eulogy stuff. No one here could possibly understand the real her, anyway.

Or me without her.

I keep going, saying anything I can think of to fill the space. My voice is still clear, not choppy or breaking: She taught me to drive when I was eleven. I straighten my shoulderson most days I have decent posture because I am short. With my black satin-gloved hands, I pull down my black Audrey Hepburn/Holly Golightly/Breakfast at Tiffanys-style sleeveless shift with the above-the-knee hem I made for this occasion. I am into this dress and, note to self, I should make it in all the mod colors. Shed like that. I smile again because people in the audience look sad, and I take that to mean that they care. Maybe this will cheer them up: We created patterns from Prada clothes when I was thirteen. She educated me on cool music. Her favorites were Billie Holiday, Madonna, and the Misfits. Muddy, my boyfriend, cues her favorite Madonna song, Beautiful Stranger. She was special. She will be missed. I bow my head as if Im about to cry, which I am.

Keep it together, I tell myself as I step off the stage and count to three. My mother steps on.

Nina would appreciate your love and support, she says, as if she were the one presiding and not me. Hmph. Id get my nose, eyes, cheeks, and hair all pulled out and rebuilt in an artificial heartbeat so I could look like anyone but her. But that would involve knives and bloodnot my favorite things. My mother heifer continues, My daughter put this program together herself, which is why she hasnt had time to fix her hair or wax her eyebrows. Thank you again. Oh, and I know Ive said it before, but please, everyone keep supporting our family by buying drip coffeemakers. Nina would appreciate it. A portion of the proceeds, of course, goes to the Pilgrim Psychiatric Center. (Thats where she works.)

She always undermines me. I want to scratch her with this jagged fingernail on my middle finger, but shes not even worth taking my gloves off for. I dont tell the crowd that someone had to do this funeral service. I dont tell the crowd that it would never be her. She has a reputation. They know shes a shrink and a fruit loop. Shes super-duper into abnormal psych and drip coffeemakers. Shes one of those moms who never really wanted to be a mom, resenting me from binky to first bra to now. She passed me off to my grandmother and went her own way.

After my speech, people come up to me and hug and kiss and sniffle. I dont crylike everespecially not in public. I just hug them because they want to feel better. The tattoo artist named Kenneth, who kisses like a robot, tells me Ill be okay, then wisely runs off.