By Catherine MacLeod
Winter 2017 Kaplan Award Winner
The floor was a sea of black fabric as I tore through my closet trying to figure out what to wear. It had been one week since I got the text: “Dashiell died in a car accident on his way back to WSU.”
Are you supposed to wear black to a memorial service, or is that just for funerals? Is there a difference?
I was preparing to travel to Bainbridge Island to help set up the memorial service at the local community theater that we all grew up in. Dashiell was nineteen years old. I hadn’t talked to him since I left for college and stopped stage managing the improv troupe he was in. I knew Dash’s parents, Dinah and Arthur, better than I knew Dash.
~
I settled on a black t-shirt and cardigan. I looked underdressed, but I had woken up late and already missed two ferries. I rushed down to the terminal and got on the 10:35 AM ferry. I felt a pit in my stomach. What’s the right way to mourn in this situation? I felt so much grief for his loved ones, but it didn’t feel like I was losing a friend. I wanted to be supportive. I didn’t want pity.
~
After picking up some Mr. Clean Magic Erasers per my mother’s request, I arrived at the theater. Four hours until the service started. I held my breath as I walked through the doors, nervous to meet the eyes of a community full of grief.
“Hi Catherine, how are you doing?” It felt like everyone was asking that question. How was I supposed to answer? If I said I was good, it might seem like I didn’t care. If I acted sad, they might try and comfort me. I wasn’t the one who needed comforting. People who were closer to him did.
“Oh you know… I’m okay,” I replied.
~
There were probably twenty or so friends of the theater helping with the set up, most of them older. A woman I did a few shows with years ago approached me with tears in her eyes and gave me a big hug.
“I’m so sorry, Catherine,” she whispered in my ear. I could hear her voice shaking. Why are you apologizing to me? I didn’t lose a brother, or a son, or a best friend. I’m sad for his loved ones, just like you. Please don’t be sad for me. I hugged her back, but stayed silent.
~
My shirt wasn’t right for a memorial. I was underdressed. I borrowed my parents’ car, rushed to their house, and found a new blouse. I straightened my hair. Was I getting too dressed up? I felt vain. This isn’t about me. I grabbed the rags and cleaner my mom asked me for and drove back to the theater.
~
I walked into the lobby and saw a group of girls from my high school. They all looked like supermodels, dressed up in black cocktail dresses and heels. One of the girls was in the improv group with Dash. I gave her a goofy half smile, not sure what to say. As we made prolonged eye contact, her look of familiarity turned to confusion, and she darted her eyes away from mine, looking agitated.
Fuck. Did I look too happy? Did I make her uncomfortable? I hate this.
~
A room in the back of the theater was used as a waiting room for the family. It’s usually cluttered with bobby pins, styrofoam wig heads, and costume racks. Someone hired a decorator who stages homes to furnish it. My mom suggested I scrub the scuffmarks that accumulated over dozens of years of performances with my magic erasers. I looked down at the floor; there were hundreds of them.
I scrubbed five marks and quickly realized that it would’ve taken several hours that I didn’t have. Instead, there were five extra clean spots on the old dirty floor. It looked terrible. I panicked and dropped down to my knees, desperately rubbing the magic eraser across the linoleum, trying to blend the shiny blue back in with the faded grey.
I stopped.
The family was not going to care about the floor.
~
They anticipated 600 people would show up. The main performance hall could be packed with 405 people max, the Fire Marshall even showed up to ensure we didn’t violate code. Huge white tents were set up in the town square right outside the theater for overflow. 90 of Dash’s fraternity brothers raised money for charter busses to attend. The theater filled up. Soon the tents filled up too. I heard the entire town square was full. Of course it was, everyone knew Dash.
My family and I had reserved seats in the second row because we helped set up. I felt guilty. Should I give someone who was closer to Dash a seat inside? No one was judging me. No one else cared where I sat. It wasn’t about me.
~
The ceremony began promptly at 3:00 and I saw Dash’s parents for the first time. His brothers. His best friends. I began to bawl. I couldn’t imagine what they were going through.
~
The service lasted about two hours. One by one Dash’s family and friends stood at the podium and spoke fondly of Dash. His smile. He could light up a room. He made everyone feel special, like they were his best friend right upon meeting him.
The message his father gave stuck with me the most: Dash is okay. He lived life to the fullest. Now he’s gone. But he’s okay.
~
Later that night, after I returned home, my friend and I curled up and watched Dreamgirls. He was preparing for a callback for the role of Curtis, so we observed the character carefully, sang along, and made silly comments about how he would say all the lines. I was laughing.
My stomach dropped as I abruptly remembered where I had been only a few hours before. Guilt overcame me. Dash’s family didn’t have the luxury of such an easy distraction. His fraternity was on a bus back to WSU mourning the loss of a brother. Was I wrong for enjoying myself?
I focused back on the screen; unable to come up with answers to the questions I had been asking myself all day. Only one thought protruded my mind.
Dash is okay.