Last Trip by Lori White

This is the last trip with your brother, the last time you have to do his bidding, to grant his last wishes to drive his last remains six hours north to Point Reyes and toss them into the ocean. And though you don’t expect to hear his voice, he won’t stop talking, won’t stop groaning about his back when you hit a pothole, won’t stop yelling at you to brake sooner before the signal. He launches into an argument for taking the 101, the longer route, with its rolling hills and California oaks, over the 5’s long line of truck stops and endless Central Valley flat land. Either way you’ll suffer more of his complaints, be it rush hour traffic through San Jose or an overturned semi just outside Coalinga.

His ashes are packed inside a black computer bag, strapped to the passenger’s seat. The bag has sat on the coffee table in your living room for nearly four years now. The last time you opened it was in the Atlanta airport, when you got pulled out of line, like the woman at the crematory said would happen. You introduced the TSA agent to your brother and handed over the paperwork. The double masks you wore muffled a great one-liner about not having to buy your brother a plane ticket. Humor had carried you through ten days of dying, of dosing his morphine, of distracting him from screaming each time you repositioned him to ease his bedsores. But this last joke at the airport bombed, marking the end of that ephemeral space, when life and death were so close that everything seemed laughable.

Now your brother is back in the driver’s seat (metaphorically speaking), another reminder that, even in death, you’re still his little sister, dependable and dutiful until you ignore his instructions and take the turnoff to the 5, the fastest way to get this trip over with.

Around Manteca, you stop at a McDonald’s for something to drink. You buy a large-size fries, hoping they’ll goad him into a lecture about fat Americans and their addiction to salt—ironic, of course, given the salt tablets he took three times a day to stem dehydration. His death certificate lists Covid-19 as the immediate cause, but cancer had been hollowing him for years.

You’ve brought along a picture of your brother when he was at Berkeley, dressed in ’70s flared cords and a plaid shirt, standing on a rocky ledge, the waves churning below. He’s going to be disappointed if he expects you to find this same spot. The wind worries you most—that old movie gag where the ashes blow back on the mourners, coating their hair and face, isn’t funny anymore. Maybe it’ll be easier than you think, like the way he left you, so graceful and quiet that it took a while to realize he was gone.

After pacing up and down the coast, you find a road that gets you to the shore. The bag’s weight still surprises you. At the end, your brother was just a bird, all feathery head and fragile bones, like both your parents before him. The bag is zip-tied too tight to break. The only option is to rip a hole, which is bound to make a mess. You head back to the car for your empty soda, to divvy him out by the cupful.

There’s sun over the sand and a light breeze at your back. The ash blooms in the water, circling your knees, until a wave rushes in and drags him away. No one is left to witness the moment, no pictures, no keepsake for when you’re too old to remember—which, you’re certain, will be your destiny. This is when you consider keeping a little—a pinkie’s worth, maybe a thumb, something he’d barely notice. You could mix him with ink and tattoo him onto the underside of your wrist, or maybe stir him into soup, let his bones soak into yours. You have time to decide; there’s plenty of room on the coffee table in your living room.

The lidded cup tucks neatly into the bag, a far lighter load to carry back to the car. You have a reservation tonight at a hotel, perched above the ocean. You can sit with him by a window, look at the view. Tomorrow, you’ll take the 101 home. You’re in no rush anymore.

Image Credit: Flickr Creative Commons/Matheus Bazzo