We had agreed, in our wills, on cremation. Clearly he had another arrangement with Deborah. Either that, or she determined to override his wishes. His body is going into the earth intact. I’m unsure how I feel about that. I’d found the idea of cremation to be reassuringly final and safe. If I can’t have him, no one can. Crazy thoughts—being jealous of even the earth for embracing him so wholly when I can’t.
He never knew how jealous I was, how I carefully watched him when we were out in public for any sign that he was looking at, perhaps evaluating, other women. But he never gave me a moment’s worry. Funny, isn’t it?
The Mass begins. First we are kneeling, then we are standing, then everyone is sitting again; I had forgotten all this popping up and down. I am squashed between a young man dressed elegantly in a gray suit and a wizened elderly woman who seems to be someone of importance, given that earlier people had paid her court. Some sort of relative? It strikes me she could even be John’s mother. He’d told me both his parents were dead, but I realize I am on quicksand here, too, that I can’t trust any of John’s so-called facts.
The young man (well, younger than me) on my right is wearing a suit that I take for silk since it’s so soft when I accidentally brush my arm against him. A wisp of a mustache. People have been addressing him as either Mark or Dr. Epstein, whereas the elderly woman is called just Georgette, despite her age. I put her in her late eighties, perhaps even older. Around us are other well-dressed guests, all properly solemn. Before the Mass they had been quietly and cordially talking to one another. Not to me, but over and around me. The outsider. What else?
And the children! They’re in the front pew, to the left. There is so much of John in the girl it nearly breaks my heart. She is clearly in pain, crying silently. One of her brothers has Deborah’s sharp, chiseled features but—as we stand once again—not her height. He is easily six inches shorter than the other brother, and a couple of inches shorter than his sister. He too has a lost look on his face, and my heart goes out to him, the runt of such a tall, handsome family. He has to reach up to put his arm around his sister’s shoulders. The other boy stands apart. He is tall, more than six feet, and resembles neither Deborah nor John. He doesn’t look particularly sad, but angry.
What are the stages of grief—don’t I have to go through denial, anger, and bargaining before acceptance? If so, I’m certainly angry enough, and the full force of John’s death hasn’t yet hit me. My emotions, as intense as they feel, are just shadows of what they will be when I’m able to fully absorb this.
But I find I can be openly calculating in the face of my own imminent breakdown (I can’t think of any other word to describe what is happening to me). I’m almost clinically observing myself while plotting to somehow seize advantage over this situation with the formidable Deborah. Because I very much feel that the two of us are in a situation. I take solace in repeating to myself that I’m the only one who understands that. Deborah knows nothing about me. Perhaps for once, I think, my outsider status will serve me well.
At this precise moment, while I’m thinking these vaguely reassuring thoughts, it happens. The Mass ends, the presiding priest bids us to go in peace, and the organist starts the recessional. I see (as if in slow motion), Deborah detaching herself from her children, and edging out of the front pew. As the priests line up behind the casket, she quietly slips across the aisle. She eases over to my row. She seems to be looking at me. My hands begin to sweat. I tell myself that she has something of urgency to share with Georgette, or that Dr. Epstein is needed for some reason, and I stare straight ahead, mouthing the words to the recessional, dimly remembered from childhood. Praise God from whom all blessings flow. As if from a long way off I hear my name. “Hello, MJ.” I am frozen. Praise Him all creatures here below. “I’m so glad you could come.” It is Deborah. She pauses, but I still refuse to look at her. Praise Him above ye heavenly host. People around us are beginning to take notice, are no doubt wondering at my rudeness. Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. I don’t think I imagine the emphasis on my name when she says it again. I hear I know who you are as clearly as if it has been said out loud. “MJ. You’ll attend the reception at the house afterward.” It isn’t a question. Then she turns to follow the priests and the flower-laden casket down the aisle, her children treading dutifully behind. The daughter turns her tearstained face toward me as she passes. I can’t meet her eyes. God knows what she, and others, are thinking.
4
Helen