Mimi and Pepere

“When do you think Daddy will come home?” Cara asked, pulling her knees to her chest.

“Soon,” I assured her.

“Do you think Mimi will come home with him today?”

“Not today,” I sighed, turning on the TV.

“Daddy!” Cara squealed, as she heard my father open the front door, “You’re home!”

He didn’t answer as he trudged up the stairs, as if carrying a heavy burden.

“Pepere!” I called to my grandpa, “Dad’s home!”

“John!” he greeted my father.

“Kids, Dad—” My father’s voice cracked as he told us of the death of his mother. My grandma. Mimi.

We all just stared at him for a moment, as if hoping that we’d wake up from this nightmare, that this was some kind of sick joke. But it wasn’t a dream or a joke. It was real.

“No!” Pepere sobbed, his head in his hands, “no!”

Cara was the next to break out in tears, leaning on my father for support as he stared into nothingness, having already shed his tears. I backed away from the group huddled around my grandfather, needing to get away from the pain and the loss, needing to turn back time, to make this not real. Staring out the window, I wondered how some lives could be ruined while others stayed steady and unchanged. It wasn’t fair, I decided. Not fair at all.

After the funeral, we stayed with Pepere more and more. He would cry at seemingly random times during the day, sometimes alone, behind a closed door, sometimes in front of my sister and I. Cara usually cried with him. The sadness was contagious, a disease I was scared I’d catch if I got too close. So I backed away, hiding from the pain.

Dad never cried. Not in front of me, anyway, but he talked about Mimi. He wanted to talk about what had happened. I couldn’t.

Mom cried openly whenever my grandmother was mentioned. Sometimes, her tears made me angry. I needed her to stay strong. How could I if she didn’t?

“Jenny,” Cara whispered one night from under her Barbie sheets, “Do you remember what Mimi smelled like?”

“I…” I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t. Forgetting little details hurt because I knew I’d never get a chance to smell her, to ask her all my unanswered questions. “I don’t know,” I choked out,” pushing down at the lump rising in my throat. “I’m sorry.”

At times like those, I’d cry silently into my pillow. No one ever noticed. They wondered if I was even sad.

“Cara, Jenny,” my mother said one night, “Go get washed up. I need to tell you something.”

After brushing our teeth, we both went into my sister’s room where my mom was waiting for us. She motioned for us to sit beside her on the bed.

“Girls,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, “Pepere passed away today.”

“No!” Cara cried, sobbing into my mother’s chest, “He was strong! It’s not fair!”

As the shock faded away, a familiar lump began to rise in my throat. I needed to get away. I couldn’t face this.

“It’s not fair!” my sister wailed, “Not fair!”

I could still hear her cries as I got to my room, stuffing my head into my pillow as I shed a silent tear. No one seemed to notice I wasn’t there. When my Dad got home, he sat on the bed with them, stony faced, only able to say, “Pepere’s with Mimi now”.