The Funeral
“As we walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”
The priest, robed in black polyester, towers over my father’s closed casket in reverence, reading scripture to the church over-flowing with strangers.
My grandmother Lydia, clad in black Chanel, is draped over my father’s casket like a veil. She brays, vying for the same attention sought by my father’s siblings strategically in the center pew as if grief is somehow a contest. This tactical game for the congregation’s sympathy is more transparent than they realize.
The only genuine emotion in the room comes from the actual mourners: my two sisters, my mother, and myself. They’ve never been ones for such performances. Neither have I.
My mother, standing at my side, gives my hand a small squeeze. My younger sister, Margaret, burrows her face into our mother’s slender shoulder. Beside her is our older sister, Shannyn, home from Harvard for the funeral, standing resolute and determined not to show weakness in front of the extended family. She gently brushes away a few stubborn tears and bites down hard to silence her trembling lower lip. For her benefit, I pretend not to notice when her shoulders shudder and crumble, giving way to her grief.
“Seriously, Eleanor? Not a single tear for your dead dad?” my cousin Allegra hisses at me from behind.
My chest tightens and I peer down, letting my long dark hair hide my face.
She doesn’t need to see my eyes to know there are no tears to be found.
I can’t cry. It’s not because of any lack of love for my dad, that isn’t it at all. I just can’t cry. It’s as if my tear ducts choose not to cooperate. They’ll perform the other duties of a tear duct, glossing and clearing out my eyes, but full-on tears, beautiful emotion-filled tears have, for some reason, always eluded me. I don’t know why. But my parents never seemed to worry, so they never sought treatment for my tearless “condition”.
Although I don’t show it, my pain is very real, too real. My entire body aches with misery, my limbs feel intolerably heavy to the point that even breathing is an impossible chore. If I focus too much on the fact that my father is gone, my heart races with each piercing thought. I won’t see him tomorrow. Dad won’t see me graduate. Dad won’t be at my wedding one day. We’ll never snorkel again. He’ll never again deliver one of his cringe-inducing jokes. He’ll never put his arm around me again. Oh, Dad…
I clutch my chest. My heart withers, aching to quell the pain. But despite the screaming inside, my exterior is silent, calm, and cold.
After my father’s service, everyone congregates at our house for a light buffet, as if eating eases all human pain. I watch them, like moths to the flame they gather. Everyone eats as if they have been deprived of food their entire lives. I guess I can’t blame them; my mom is an incredible cook. She insisted on cooking — I think to keep herself busy. Though her hands have always worked miracles in the kitchen.
My dad used to say that everything flourishes around my mother. If she isn’t adding some secret touch to an old family recipe, she is restoring life to the most wilted of plants. Her green thumb isn’t limited to the garden, either. Even her patients at the hospital just seem to heal faster when she’s around.
I sit on our over-stuffed sofa, hoping the “mourners” will leave soon, but no one obliges my silent wish. My stomach twists and churns as I watch them desecrate our family pictures. They pick them up, discuss them, pass them between each other, and then put them back on the shelf out of place. I’m failing to ignore their catty, meaningless chatter.
“I don’t know what William saw in her,” spits, one of my mom’s “friends”.
Another woman chimes in. “Did you notice none of Helen’s family is here? I wonder what the story is behind that. You never hear about them…”
“Poor Lydia. Everyone knows William was her favorite.”
“That won’t matter in the end. He isn’t a Brandt. He’s from the first marriage, so when Lydia kicks, William’s family won’t get anything. Robert made sure of that before he passed. Iron clad will, and Lydia wouldn’t even bother trying to change that now…”
Someone mumbles my name under their breath nearby, and my ears perk.
My cousin Leah leans over to Allegra, whispering just low enough to pretend they are attempting to gossip in private. “Pretty sure I cried more than Eleanor today. I mean, the way she acts; I’d be freaking out. But she’s like, ‘hey, NBD, I still have a trust fund.’”
Allegra grunts. “Not anymore. Daddy said they lost almost everything in the market.”
Leah chuckles gleefully. “That’s hilarious.” They both glance over at me sitting on the sofa. I’m quick to look away as to not make it obvious I can hear their cruel judgements.
“But damn, if losing your platinum card isn’t enough to make you cry, you’d think getting your dad killed would,” Allegra snaps before whipping out her phone, taking a picture of something in the living room. “Okay Leah, selfie!” They flash duck lips in front of my parent’s wedding photo. “Hashtag: mourning. Hashtag: Uncle Will forever.”
They seriously need to leave.
I ball my fists, my nails sinking deeply into my palms, creating little crescent moons in the skin. I want to keep squeezing, tighter and tighter until my bones shatter.
Instead, I desperately scan the room for my younger sister, Margaret, or Maggie, as we call her. I hope she hasn’t heard the poisonous remarks the guests are pouring all over our father’s memory. I fight the urge to run to her, cover her ears and whisk her from the room to protect her despite the fact that she’s fourteen.
My eyes find her, but we don’t connect. I slump back on the sofa. She’s sitting on a stool by the dining room, her copper curls pulled up into a bun on the crown of her head. Her freckled hands clutch her soccer ball. My dad used to practice with her for hours and hours in the yard, until the sun went down, and they couldn’t see the goal posts any longer.
My heart clenches. I miss him so much…
I glance at my older sister perched on the edge of the leather armchair. Shannyn is either determined to ignore the barbarous cracks made at our family’s expense or is completely oblivious to them. She smiles graciously as there is a line of attractive men waiting to press or impress their condolences upon her. Shannyn tilts her soft chin, acknowledging the gentle words being said. She is always so poised, so elegant and graceful. Everything I’m not. She tucks her long hair behind her dainty ears, unintentionally bringing attention to her delicate neckline. The men (some of whom are relatives) gaze at her glowing locks. Dad used to tease that her hair is as light as mine is dark.
“Helen can cook, but decorating is not her forte…”
I quietly slip out of the living room, hoping to find a moment’s peace elsewhere. The kitchen and dining room are overcrowded with hungry guests going for seconds and thirds at the buffet. Grandma Lydia is holding an assembly at the dining room table, dabbing her puffy eyes with her monogrammed handkerchief.
I stop as I come to the sliding glass doors of the kitchen. My eyes sweep over the patio and backyard, past the pool towards my mother’s garden, to an old, weathered whicker bench. Sitting on its faded cushion is my mother. Her head is cradled in her hands, collecting her sorrow. I feel a lump gather in my throat. My hand slides down the glass, resting on the handle, ready to pull the door open to go be a comforting shoulder for my mom, or maybe a comforting hug, a comforting something.
As I flip the lock and move to open the door, my temples begin to pound like a bass drum. I squeeze my eyes shut as an electrical storm brews behind my forehead. I turn away from the sun, which has just begun to set on the early spring horizon. When the light hits my eyes, I am momentarily blinded. My desire to be a warm embrace for my mom is sadly overshadowed by the tempest in my head violently demanding attention.
I sprint past inquiring looks and insulting glances by family as I rush upstairs to my bedroom, looking for a reprieve from the storm. This type of headache has become a nearly constant companion since my seventeenth birthday five days ago.
I throw myself onto my bed and prepare for the pain to worsen. Before my birthday, I had never experienced headaches like these. I massage my temples, hoping the pain will stop. I have yet to tell my mother of the physical agony I am in; my physical discomfort is very much outweighed by her emotional pain. A headache, no matter how intolerable, is inconsequential when compared to losing your soulmate.
I want to scream. The physical anguish is staggering. I could swear some kind of pickaxe-wielding creatures are trying to crack their way through my skull. I roll to my side. The pain is so intense I feel like vomiting. Clutching my waist, I feel a deep, roiling burn brewing more and more intensely in my stomach. I think about shrieking for help as it spreads to my limbs, causing my joints to tighten as if being screwed into torturous immobility.
My entire body stiffens as if rigor mortis is setting in. My pores smolder like magma is running through my veins. If I could move, I would peer down just to see if steam was rising from me.
Finally, my body begins to cool. It starts on my skin, then slowly sinks down to my marrow. I let out a deep breath, the evil little miners in my head tiptoe back into oblivion. Relief floods through me while my body relaxes. The pain is tapering out, fading into a prickling white noise at the fringe of my consciousness. What the hell is happening to me?
There’s a soft rap on my door and before I can answer, Shannyn steps into my room. Her light brown eyes appraise me. “Are you okay?” she questions, sounding genuinely concerned.
I can barely squeak out a yes, so I limply nod, not moving from a prone position.
She lightly sits on the corner of the bed. “Has Mom talked to you yet?”
I close my eyes, resting against my pillows. “Talked to me about what?” I can feel her adjust herself on my bed before standing up and walking about my room, as if looking for something.
She irons out the creases of her black satin dress. “You guys are moving. Mom doesn’t want to stay in Florida anymore, so she’s moving with you and Margaret to live in Salem with Aunt Marie and Aunt Sally. Mom needs to be near her family now.” She sounds dry and rehearsed, like she’s reading off some script.
I’m suddenly drenched by a bucket of ice water. We don’t even know our aunts. I’ve only met them once, when I was very little; I’ll be living with complete strangers. My heart throbs at the prospect of leaving Coral Gables. This is where my friends are, the junior orchestra, the place where we were a family. Dad loved this house and now we are just going to up and abandon it? Abandon our lives? Abandon Dad?
I’m too exhausted to protest. Despite the resentment I feel, I know in my heart it is what is best for Mom. She doesn’t have a lot of friends here. My father’s family never liked her, and she isn’t emotionally tied to the little clinic where she works. Maybe this will be good for Maggie, too.
Tears well in my eyes, but as always, nothing falls. “Okay,” I mumble.
My sister nods ever so slightly with a relieved and satisfied smile. She turns to leave, opening the door only to swivel on her heel. “Ell?”
I roll onto my side, curling up into a ball. “What?” I sniff, not looking at my sister. Waiting for her reply, I spot a small black spider in the corner of the ceiling near my closet. I watch as it slowly repels down its silky, and translucent web. This is the third spider I’ve found in my room this week. Not to mention the nightmare I had on my birthday where I was covered in them.
My sister takes a tentative step closer to my bed. “Don’t fight against it…”
I roll my eyes at her cryptic comment. “What are you talking about, the move?”
She lowers her voice, her brow knitted in concern. “The pain.”
