Death in the Age of Technology
By E.C. Wells
"Bus is dead," my father blurts out over the phone with his thick French accent. I'm calling him like every Sunday since I made the decision to give up an antiseptic life in Geneva, Switzerland, and transport myself to the land of the free and the fat. My mother will not be able to speak with me today, he explains, because she is in England for her aunt's funeral, Auntie Bus. She will be returning to Geneva only on Wednesday. Bus has been dead for a week now and this is the first I've heard of it. I tell my father it's rude to not inform me of a relative's death until a week after the fact and to fail to invite me to the funeral, even though "The Bus," as he calls her, was an old cat lady nobody really knew, and who had recently become involved with some kind of religious sect (so that the few who were connected to her broke their ties). He asks me if everything is o.k. on the money front. We've been waging war on this one for years. Our conversation comes to a close. Talk to you next Sunday. Bisous.
Three days later, I receive a kodakgallery.com invite. "Click here to
view album titled 'Auntie Bus' Funeral,'" the email prompts me. I
click through. A message is tied to the first photo that shows a
pretty little brown church in some very English looking meadow, minus
the animal meal fed sheep: "here are the photos that i took of the
funeral. You'll maybe recognise some of the family if you zoom in on
the group photos. I know that one doesn't usually take photos at a
funeral but it was a case of the mountain having to go to Mohammet!
xxxxxx mummy" I marvel at the Internet and the outlets it provides to
the emotionally challenged and socially inept.
My mother has always been sentimentally clogged and now, with the Internet, her inability to communicate face to face is being catered to and we are feeling the consequences. For serious matters, the Internet permits to avoid witnessing the uncomfortable reaction, and to express her affection, or love, no dignity is lost in coming right out and saying the words. My inbox is completely full with forwarded emails on the wrong of men and the importance friendship. About a week after the Bus incident, I check my e-mail again to find a new message from her, titled "fond memories." A chill comes over me. Who is it this time?
"My darling girls, this is a two tiered message to both of you. Christy (my godmother) rang me this morning to tell me that Maurie (her ex-husband) died last night. They spent a long time with him last evening evoking so many fond family memories to him although he was very weak already and as Christy says, already a little bit avec les anges. No regrets. He had a good life and was never alone nor neglected, and was always gay, loving and loved. I will go to the funeral to represent the family, third in three weeks, this one should close the series I hope!" I am in shock. Maurie was like a grandfather to my sister and I. He wasn't worth a phone call? I'll hand it to her that my entire Swiss family is above 85 and that I better get used to it, but still. I call her, angry, asking about funeral details. "Oh dear, don't bother to come. It's really not going to be much. His own family doesn't even want us there." I wonder if that is code language for "your father will not pay for the plane ticket." Maybe I'll erect a small shrine for Maurie somewhere in my New York backyard and channel my anger by killing a little fluffy pony.
Back in England, my mother was schooled by nuns. They took her feelings hostage, I think–Wait a minute! Third in three weeks, I recall from the e-mail…I only know about two. I call my sister. "Who's the third," I blurt out in French, this time. "You didn't receive the youtube video?" she asks. "What?" Jennifer's living in Paris and my mother's behavior hasn't struck her as hard. For one, she's closer and can return home once a month to find out for herself who has died. Second, the French national electricity company has cut out the current for two days in the middle of November, because the government refuses to enter into talks about increasing pension plans, and so the workers are on strike. Her phone access is limited. Her Internet too. The trains aren't running either. Her teachers are gone. She has her own survival to worry about. "I'll forward it to you," she says. "It was just Jeanine anyway." She's starting to sound like my mother. "Papa's Godmother?" I inquire. "Yes."
Well, we only really spent ten afternoons with Jeanine in our lifetime, but still. She was my grandmother's best friend and my father's godmother. Also, informing us by e-mail is one thing, failing to CC me is another. I'm wondering if, when I get married and pregnant, I should inform my parents by e-mail. Payback time…Actually, I'd inform my sister by e-mail and ask her to forward them the e-mail.
"You have to look at the positive side," my sister says. "At least, you know there was a funeral and you got a glimpse at it." It's true. Back when my paternal grandfather died, my sister was five and I was eight, and my mother convinced my father not to invite us to the funeral. That's right. They didn't invite us. In fact, my mother dropped us off earlier that day at a friend's house; a friend whose kids were much dumber than us so we would always be bored and could never partake in their primitive games. We ended up being so bored, that Jennifer and I would always stare out of their second floor window onto the street, which was the main street in our village, and that particular day who happened to walk by in a funeral procession but our two parents, our grandmother, and all of our Swiss relatives. We tapped at the window frantically. It's true, now at least I get the kodakgallery invite.
E.C. Wells is a graduate of Columbia University, where she was selected to participate in Columbia's Senior Honors Poetry Workshop along with six other students and awarded Creative Writing Departmental Honors upon graduation. She has been published in Spoon River Poetry Review, Iodine Poetry Journal, Poetry Salzburg, The Columbia Review, Absinthe: New European Writings, and in International Poetry Journal. Originally from Geneva, Switzerland, she is trilingual, and works on translations in her spare time.
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