In Black and White

A solitary figure, dressed in black and holding a small bouquet, watches and waits as the religious service continues.

The funeral of a teenager is always heartbreaking. The parents stand by, supporting each other, as the rain falls softly and the casket is lowered into the ground. Her friends are clustered in small groups, uncomfortable, devastated by real death invading their sheltered lives, unsure of how to process their feelings, or what to say to the bereaved family. The flower displays reflect her life and ambitions. Big wreaths and sprays from her school, the church choir, the tennis club. Smaller bouquets from her friends, many with red roses or white lilies, all with personal messages. A huge casket spray from the family, all in white. The colors contrast with the heavy black clothing of the mourners.

As the service ends, people drift away. Everything that could be said has been said already. Some of the girls are weeping. The immediate family stands by the open grave, unwilling to walk away and leave her there. A young man, possibly a cousin, holds a large black umbrella over the heads of the mother and father as they bid farewell to the broken remains of their only child.

Eventually, the family members all turn away and leave. They support each other to a small convoy of cars and head towards the girl’s home. They will share food and memories from her short life, providing mutual emotional support for an unbearable weight.

The man in the trees watches silently as the cemetery staff use backhoes to complete the task of filling in the grave. When they, too, leave the gravesite, he steps forward, carrying his own bouquet of flowers. Cautiously he walks over to the freshly filled grave, and kneels, placing the flowers on the ground. These flowers are not like the others. He has picked them himself; some are cultivated from his own garden and others are wildflowers picked in a nearby meadow. She was so young, the choice of flowers acknowledges that. He stays kneeling in the muddy ground, ignoring the continued rainfall, staring helplessly at the small patch of ground, for more than half an hour before speaking. From time to time, his gloved hand swipes the rain from his face.

He stays by the grave, and finally, in a broken voice, he addresses the cold remains now below the earth. Introduces himself, tells her how sorry he is.

* * *

Elle practices piano at home. Her plan is to study music, to become a professional musician. She plays the organ for the church choir, plays piano for school plays and concerts, plays keyboards for a band with her friends.

Tonight she is going out to celebrate the end of exams. This may be the night that Billy wants to talk about the future. He will be going to Juilliard in August, and she hopes she will follow him next year.

She has a simple outfit for this evening. A white fitted shirt, distressed jeans and black patent knee-high boots. She’s styled her hair, put on simple earrings, and applied minimal makeup – bright red lipstick, eyeliner, blush. The effect is smart casual, not a girl looking for a date, just someone going out to party with friends.

Her car is a new Honda Civic with grey metallic finish, a birthday gift from her parents. She looks after it carefully, keeps it garaged at home. Her parents are well-off but not over-indulgent. She knows this car has to last. Tonight she drives out of the garage and heads towards her friends’ dorm room. It’s raining heavily, but she finds a safe parking spot just across from the building and prepares to run across the road.

Realizing that she has left the phone in her car, she turns back to get it. The street is empty, but the rain is coming down harder than before.

* * *

It was the aftermath of a breakup. Drinks with the boys. Crying on the shoulders of old friends, mainly metaphorically but occasionally, briefly, literally. Trying to blunt the sharp shards of recent grief. Stopping at their favorite burger joint with his brother. His brother tries to talk to him, but Manny has no more words to say now. They go their separate ways. Walking out into the dark of the night. Getting behind the wheel, eyes misty, breathing unsteady, reactions impaired.

The streets are black and shining, slick with heavy rain. Manny is impatient to get home, to warmth and light and the sad comfort of his lonely bed. Running a red light to make a sharp right turn. Lightning blinding him for a brief second as the car slides. Then the awful, gut-wrenching thump of contact with a solid object. Manny stamps his foot hard on the brake and walks back to check for a dog or a deer. Finds a young girl lying bleeding by the side of the road. Her body is angled strangely, limbs spread out, neck twisted.

Manny is frozen with shock and guilt. He screams to a god he doesn’t believe in. Anything to undo the last two minutes. Don’t run the light. Don’t drive fast in bad conditions. He was so absorbed in the anguish of his relationship ending. Now he can’t even remember his ex-girlfriend’s name.

Howling in pain, he takes his phone from his pocket and calls 911. He stares at the girl’s body, but he dares not touch her. She looks about eighteen years old, with her life ahead of her.

Wavy blonde hair streaked with blood and bone. Lipstick the same color as her blood. Skinny jeans already torn before the impact with his car. A white shirt turning red as the blood pools beneath her. Manny takes it all in, still in shock. He’s sure if she is not already dead, she is dying, so he speaks to her in case she can hear. He assures her that help is on the way. Introduces himself, tells her how sorry he is.