Not My Story to Tell

It’s a funeral. I don’t know what else you want me to say about it. They all go the same way, don’t they? People are sad. They dress up, then go out to dinner and pretend to be okay afterwards. This one is no different from all the rest, but I suppose I could try. Let’s see, everyone is dressed largely in black, with hair done nicely, beards shaved, and respectfully boring jewelry on the ladies. That old woman in the black blazer over her blouse and string of pearls, that outfit she keeps in her closet specifically for occasions like these. This is her fifth time this year alone wearing that outfit out. Five… Can you imagine reaching an age where bimonthly funerals become the norm? I sure can’t. Neither can the young woman sitting off to the side of the room, unsure of where to keep her eyes or if she should try to talk to anyone. Down the thigh of her black slacks is a sizing label still stuck to her pants. She hasn’t been to one of these since she was a kid, and now it looks as though she might cry. I don’t want to talk about her anymore. Let’s talk about someone else if that’s alright with you.

How about the stuffy middle-aged man who looks like he recently had hair plugs put in. This is what? His two hundredth funeral? I could tell you the exact number, but I don’t really want to take the time and count it out, but it’s gotta be close judging how carefully he speaks. Notice that he hasn’t said to anyone that he is sorry for their loss or let me know how I can help. An elderly couple walks in, and he tells them exactly how he can help. Drinks are in the hall, same with the bathroom, and with his fingers all together, he points to the guest book for them to sign. I wonder if they teach that at funeral school, not to point with a finger but with your entire hand. Or the specific, small smile on his face. Not too big because that would be creepy, but also not solemn-looking. Approachable, professional. Not the smile he’ll have after the service is done, and he goes home to bang his wife! Trust me on this one, dude is secretly a freak.

Now, c’mon, that was a juicy bit of information and yet here you still are, wanting more about this particular event. Fine, the funeral for whom this is for is a young man named Damien who died at thirty-five. It’s a small funeral: some extended family, a few close friends, and only a handful of people actually appear sad. Take, for example, the little kid with his nose buried in his… I don’t actually know what it is, a Nintendo Switch? Gameboy? No, kids don’t use those anymore. He’s a distant relative of Damien, a second cousin or something. He keeps tugging at the collar of the suit his mom forced him to wear. It’s itchy, and a size too small. All he wants to do is go home and play Fortnite while eating Cheetos. Don’t ask me how I know. His mom tells him to turn his game down while she catches up with Grandma. He doesn’t, so it won’t come as a surprise later when he gets his games taken away for the next week and a half.

The kid is indifferent, but at least he met Damien twice. I can’t say the same thing for the guy that came with the sticker-pants girl. He never met Damien, yet he came along with his girlfriend anyway. Sweet of him, and yeah, he too missed the size sticker stuck to her pants. She’s going to fake a smile after the funeral while ripping off the sticker and slapping it onto his arm, asking why he didn’t point it out. Right now, though, he sits next to her and looks around more than his girlfriend does, and wonders if it would be rude if he took out his phone for just a second to check his messages. He won’t, though. It was quick, but earlier as they walked in, he almost caught the break in his girlfriend’s face, and he needs to be ready should it happen again.

I guess there is no avoiding it, though I won’t lie, I’m not really comfortable talking about her, the girl with the sticker stuck to her pants. Don’t you want to go back to the snot-nosed Fortnite kid or the funeral director and his sex life? I’d rather have a laugh than talk about her, the girl named Kathy. I’ll only give you a little bit, because it’s really none of either of our business. She’s an old friend of Damien’s. An old flame, I suppose you could say. They dated on and off, even tried again while they were adults. It never worked out as she was always more interested in someone else. Damien wasn’t put together enough for her, plus she had a thing for emotionally unavailable dudes, though sure seems like her current man isn’t half bad. Good for her. But Damien never fully left her life. I mean, sure it had been ten years since they last saw each other in person, but they kept in touch, every few months sending each other texts—or, actually, if I’m to be honest, it was always Damien reaching out to her first, but she always replied. Except, though, the very last message. That one Kathy sent first, and no, I’m not going to tell you what it says because standing next to the casket is Damien’s wife, and I’d prefer not to say anything more out of respect to her.

His wife, her name is Corinne… Sweet Corinne… Poor girl, I can’t stand seeing anyone in so much pain. She stands alone. Can you believe that? No one hugs her, and almost everyone here has avoided meeting her eyes. She and Damien had only been married for a few months before he died, a courthouse wedding as they didn’t have the funds for much else. The family approved of her and everything, so you’re probably wondering why she stands there by herself. I guess I can tell you, not to expose anyone, but so that in case you ever face something similar, you won’t be like Damien’s mother. You see, earlier this week, before bed, Damien told his wife he had some indigestion. She didn’t think much of it, and neither did he. Apparently that was a mistake. A heart attack at thirty-five, who would have thought? Corinne was a nurse, and according to Damien’s mother, she should have noticed the signs and told him to go to the emergency room. Should have done anything but give him that tender kiss goodnight.

She does it on purpose, Damien’s mother, when she goes over to hug Kathy, who sits trembling in the corner and flashes Corinne a death glare. Ten years since Kathy had even seen Damien in person, yet his mother seems to recognize Kathy and forces out a very real smile through her face sticky with tears.

I’m so glad that you came.

It’s awfully disrespectful that you care so much about this interaction, that you want to know why Damien’s mother cups Kathy’s face as if she were her own child and shoots venomous looks to his widow. Don’t think ill of his mother. She just lost her son, and she’ll never be fully alright again. Also, I guess maybe I should give you a bit of context, but only so you can see her side a bit more. After Damien died, there was confusion at the hospital since he and his wife were so newly married; the hospital gave his phone to the mother instead of the wife. In retrospect, this might have been better. I mentioned earlier that Kathy had sent one last message to Damien. This message his mother clung to as proof that the love for his wife wasn’t real. That he couldn’t possibly love someone who missed the signs of a heart attack, and really he wanted to be with another.

Now, I will not read you the full message. To be honest, the idea sickens me. It’s private, and I’m not even sure that message was even meant for Damien as it was sent after Kathy learned he had died. You can speculate whatever you want about it being sent after he could no longer read it. I know what was going through her mind, and that I’ll leave for only Kathy, because that’s her own story and not one for me to tell. I’ll give you this much. In her message, she thanked him for all the times he loved her, even when she never did the same for him, and that she had missed the fact that she had loved him too.

You’re still here. What a mess this all is. This was supposed to be a quirky story mocking stuffy funerals. I’m not sure how we ended up here. I’ve already told you this much, so there isn’t much point in keeping the last side of this to myself. What Damien would have thought of all this: his wife being ignored, his mother hugging the practical stranger to him named Kathy, the love letter turned weapon.

First, Damien would question who picked out his outfit. I mean, really? A tie? Second, he’d tell the Fortnite kid to touch some grass.

Alright, fine, I’ll be serious. He’d be a little miffed at his mother, but not too much because he’d understand. Her son died, and she needs something to blame other than his stupid, faulty heart. He really did think it was just indigestion, and his wife checked up on him three times asking if he was okay, and each time he said he was and told her to go back to sleep. There were no signs for her to notice because he had hidden them away. He’d wish that his mother would be strong enough to hug Corinne, because god, did she need someone, anyone, to see her, to witness her pain, because there would be nothing that could take it away. He’d want them to be there for each other. He loved them both so much. It wouldn’t take away either of their pains, but if it could make it better, even by a fraction, then it would be worth it. A fraction is better than nothing.

As for Kathy, he would be very surprised that she came to his service, and very glad that the old part of his life wasn’t just in his head. That she had seen it too, had seen him. And that last message she had sent him should never be something made weapon. It was just loss. Just old love that never truly dies.

Not like me, the man who used to be named Damien.