There are maybe a dozen people at Laird’s memorial. I can’t be sure who works for the funeral home. The place is covered in hardwood and muted shades of green, as if anything brighter would be disrespectful to the spirit of mourning. Tissue boxes line the aisles. Up front, near the podium, is a large picture of Laird—probably a school photo based on the marble background, the fact that he still has braces. As we look for our seats, Orli waves us to the first row, points to a couple of empty spots beside her.
“I thought our father and his girlfriend would show up,” she says. “But he’s been pretty much out of the picture for years, although he tried to do the dad thing for a little while. Just as well. I might have punched him.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Tatsu says.
The only other person in the front row is a man wearing chain mail. He tells us that he saw the obituary and claims to have battled with Laird in an online video game called The Swords of Tranquility. He says Laird was his online brother, a fellow knight. As I listen to Sir Godric of the Islands of Honor, I think about how Laird wrote that he thought of me, how he nibbled on a Goldfish after I kissed him. I try not to cry as the minister approaches the pulpit.
“We are gathered here to celebrate a life of service, a life taken from us far too early—something I know all of us have experienced in recent years,” the minister begins. “If you would please rise in song.” The acoustic guitar opening of Jeff Buckley’s “Satisfied Mind” starts to play. I open my program for the lyrics. I’m surrounded by Laird’s extended family. As I sing, I feel like I’m floating in an invisible shell filled with static electricity. I think about Laird in his hospital bed, at the Bodie ghost town, remember how he showed up at my lab one day in a Ramones T-shirt with his résumé and a desire to volunteer. When the song is finished, the room falls silent. The minister invites Orli to speak. I feel myself slowly floating back into place. Tatsu rubs my back, hands me a tissue.
“My brother and I didn’t really spend much time together until our mom died,” she says. “This plague has taken so much away from us. It’s taken Laird. But in a strange way, I’ve also gotten to know my brother again because of it. As a kid, he wanted to be an astronaut, and then an archaeologist and then a climate scientist. He wanted to help people who were sick. He had a different dream every year and he was the kind of person who could have achieved most of them if only he’d been given enough time.”
As Orli finishes her eulogy, a childhood photo of Laird standing beside an Apollo capsule at the Smithsonian is projected behind her. A few other family members speak, followed by Sir Godric, who unsheathes his plastic sword and tells Laird to fly boldly into the hall of warriors.
“Is there anyone else who would like to say a few words?” the minister asks.
Orli taps my hand like she wants me to go up there. I’m not sure what to say, though. On paper, I’m just some woman in a lab who is planning to take Laird apart. Tatsu notices me fidgeting. I squeeze Orli’s hands.
“Then may we all adjourn to the reception in the next room to the music that Laird so deeply loved,” the minister says.
“Excuse me,” I say to Orli, heading straight to the bathroom as “Don’t You （Forget about Me）” by Simple Minds plays over the speakers. I sit on the toilet and think about what I might have said if I had the courage to go up there. Tatsu’s presence in the front row had a lot to do with my silence. Hi, I’m Aubrey. Many of you don’t know me, but I spent a lot of time with Laird this past year. I open my purse and pull out another letter—Day 2.
Dear Aubrey,
I used to spend a lot of time after my mom died pretending I could find a way to make things right. Maybe I could save some kid from losing his parents. Orli went off to Los Angeles to play philanthropist—opening new plague wards at hospitals, leaving me with a dad who never really knew how to talk to his son. Before I came to find you, I thought I might go back to school with an eye toward epidemiology, if it weren’t for my shitty grades. Pretending was better than nothing, I suppose. So I started collecting articles about the plague. I read the published leaked journals of Cliff Miyashiro twice, how he and his fellow researchers had wanted to warn the world. Nobody ever thought this would happen. I marathoned reruns of medical dramas, wishing I could wear a white coat and help people. But you were real. You listened. You gave me a way to honor my mother.
Tatsu is waiting outside the bathroom with a glass of wine when I emerge.