My aunt Audrey died recently of Alzheimer’s disease.
Thank God.
No one should have to suffer like that.
For a second there, I looked pretty insensitive, huh?
Truth be told, Audrey was weird; so weird, in fact, that when she got the disease, no one noticed. The woman was this paranoid, secretive hermit who wouldn’t let anyone in her apartment under any circumstance and would only visit others unannounced. It became a running joke that my grandmother feared every knock on her door would be accompanied by the phrase, “Special delivery. It’s your sister.”
Once Audrey did show up to something, she’d make a big deal out of the smallest things. She’d bring plastic grocery bags to fold and sit on because she didn’t want her pants to get dirty. She’d apply Ajax to every surface of the house. She’d constantly question if we were cold, then surprise us with the gift of Totes sleep socks. Then, just as dinner was to be served, we all realized that Audrey had left, having slipped out to walk to the nearest bus station.
Audrey never got married, never had kids, and had a crappy job working for the phone company her whole life. Her only conversational topics were how terrible every city was when compared with San Francisco and the importance of lower body exercise. She ate cinnamon rice cakes several times a day, she never bought a bed, and according to my grandfather, only managed to break up the monotony of her life by giving blowjobs to his musician friends.
It’s true. He was going through a book of trumpet players once, pointing to photos, like –
Grandpa: “Audrey blew his horn, too, you know what I’m saying?”
Unless it wasn’t a euphemism and she really could play hot cross buns. But I’m pretty sure the musicians just wanted her hot cross buns, if you know what I…all right…not a way to speak of the dead.
* * *
Anyway, I picked up my aunt’s cremains the other day. I pulled into the parking lot of this church in my car, and I – sexpot that I am – drive a red Audi TT convertible (when my mom lets me borrow her car).
I put the top up, parked, and went inside where I met this very pious-looking…well, I guess priest. He had the white here {point to neck}, the white here {reference cross on the cap} and the white here {circle round crotch}.
Okay, I’m sorry. Easy target. (“That’s what the priest said.”)
Anyway.
Josh: “Hi, I’m here to pick up Audrey.”
Priest: “Friend of yours?”
Josh: “Ahhhh…sort of. She’s dead. I’m here to pick up the cremains.”
Priest: “Oh.”
Josh: “Yeah, sorry if that was unclear.”
He went into the back room to look for them…and then moved into another room…and then another.
Priest: “It’ll just be one more minute.”
Jesus, I’m thinking, the woman’s still slinking away even after she’s dead.
Five minutes later, the guy came out with a mauve box.
Priest: “Are you Patricia?”
Josh: “No. She’s my grandmother.”
Priest: “Oh.”
He got this very nervous look on his face, as though I were the infamous ashes thief. Odd reaction. Honestly, what does he think I’m gonna do? Smoke them like a rockstar?
Josh the Rock Star: “It’s been rad, Audrey.” {snorts up a line}
I explained –
Josh: “I’m going to bring them to her. To Patricia.”
Priest: “Oh. Okay.”
He handed me the paperwork to sign. I looked at the “Relation” box.
Josh: “If she was my grandmother’s sister, does that make me her great nephew?”
Priest: “Yes.”
Josh: “Cool.”
Priest: “Did you…know Audrey…at all?”
Josh: “Yeah.”
I grabbed for the box, but he held on.
Josh: “I have them.”
Priest: {deadly serious} “I saw your car outside.”
Josh: “Mm-hm.”
Priest: “Be careful.”
Josh: “I’ll keep the top up.”
What a weird thing to say. I may have been driving a nice car with the top down when I came into the parking lot, but I’m a bespectacled wuss who drove up listening to PRI’s Selected Short Stories.
Anyway, I walked out with the box and suddenly felt a strange desire to talk to it.
Josh: “Well, Audrey, we’re going to go get some groceries… I’ll keep you in the front…that way I won’t stick you amidst all of the weenies…even though you spent most of your life there, apparently.”
I strapped her in and put on the jazz station. Audrey liked jazz. My grandfather would tell you she preferred “jizz,” but…all right, all right.
* * *
When I get to the market, I question leaving her in the hot car. She certainly can’t melt, but…I don’t know. That priest got to me.
Now Audrey and I are perusing the aisles of Albertson’s, and I must look nuts, because I’m still talking to the box.
Josh: “What do you think, Audrey? Should I get the raisins or the craisins? Are craisins just like crazy raisins?” {pause, then} “You doin’ okay in there?”
Suddenly, I realize I have to pee; so, I leave the cart in the frozen foods aisle, and say –
Josh: “Audrey: uh…don’t move.”
When I come back, the cart is gone. I’m thinking –
Josh: “Oh my God. Somebody stole my fresh bananas.” {pause} “Oh shit, and Audrey!”
I run up and down aisles, not finding anything, so I rush to the front, surely sounding nuts –
Josh: “You gotta help me. I think somebody stole my Aunt Audrey.”
Worker: “When did you last see her?”
Josh: “Probably my graduation.” {then} “Oh, right. That’s not what you meant.”
We check the surveillance videos and I watch as this old woman – I’m assuming accidentally – takes my cart.
As I run out to the parking lot, I imagine everything that might go wrong. The old woman might have driven away. By the time she gets home, she might think Audrey is some sort of spice. She might cook Audrey. Oh, the irony. What if the woman knows how to make cinnamon rice cakes?!
What will I put in a new box to look like Audrey’s ashes? Regular ashes? I don’t even know what “cremains” are. Are they just crazy remains?
Please God, please don’t let the next 24 hours become a bad road trip movie where I have to call my wacky friend David who will inevitably conflict with my neurotic personality by being the zen Buddhist. Please don’t make me reminisce along the way about all of the good things Audrey did for me, finally coming to understand that not only did I really love her, but that a person’s essence isn’t found in the physical remains, but what memories the deceased leaves you with. Please don’t let it be titled Cremains of the Day.
Luckily, the old woman is still in the parking lot. I stop at her car, panting.
Josh: “Excuse me. I think…you stole…my aunt.”
Old Woman: “What?”
Josh: “My aunt Audrey. She’s…in that box. Give her back…please.”
* * *
I drive the box back to my grandmother’s house. Because I don’t have a key to the front door, I knock. My grandmother approaches –
Patricia: “Who is it?”
Josh: “Special delivery. It’s your sister.”
