Читать книгу Attention. Deficit. Disorder. - Brad Listi - Страница 13

Fortunately, there was no burial, just a reception back at Amanda’s parents’ house. Amanda’s remains had already been cremated. No corpse with makeup, no lowering of the coffin into the muddy brown hole. I was thankful for that. The worst of it was over.

At some point along the way, I’d decided not to go to the reception. I’d convinced myself that there was no need to go to the reception. I knew it would be polite to stop in and offer my condolences to Amanda’s family, but I didn’t think I could deal with seeing her parents, didn’t think I could deal with offering my sympathies at a reception. I was sure her parents knew all about me, sure they knew about the breakup, my behavior, the fact that I’d broken Amanda’s heart. I figured I’d write them a letter later and skip the reception altogether. I didn’t have what it took to attend. Too much intensity, too much sadness, too many people, too much conversation. Everyone standing around, drinking wine, eating finger food, talking in hushed tones about how great Amanda was, how she would want her funeral to be a celebration rather than a dismal affair, how much life she had inside her, how much joy, how much light. Instead of navigating that madness, I was planning to simply drive back over to Horvak’s place. I’d assume my position on the couch and watch television, and maybe later, if I actually got hungry, I’d order some food for delivery. And maybe I’d have a beer or two. And eventually, with luck, I’d drift off to sleep.

In the morning, I would rise and drive back to SFO, where I’d return my rental car and catch my flight to New Orleans. I’d rendezvous with my family in the Deep South to celebrate the holidays, and my life, unlike Amanda’s, would continue on.