“That isn’t necessary,” he said. “We are lucky that you chose a metal casket at burial, or this might not even be possible. Wooden caskets decay very quickly.”
I knew this too. One undertaker online said that if you put a wood casket in an unvaulted grave, there might be nothing but discolored soil within five years, particularly since Peanut was so small and premature.
“But I want to,” I said. After all those videos, I knew I could handle it.
Mom reached out to cover my hand with hers. “Darling, is that a good idea? Don’t you want to remember him the way he was?”
I ignored her. I had stayed at her house last night, and while she had mightily tried to create a cozy mother-daughter evening with hot tea and chick flicks, I was distracted and uneasy. Closing a gap like ours wasn’t going to happen without a struggle.
“I want to be there when the grave is opened,” I said. “I insist on it.”
The man settled back into his high-backed leather chair. “That is fine. We will let you know when we have the permit and can schedule it. The casket will be intact for transport to the crematorium. They can determine if you should view the remains prior to cremation. They handle everything with the utmost respect.”
Mom sighed. “I don’t know why you have to do this,” she said.
The old familiar anger rose up in me. She didn’t understand me. Never had. Never tried. “I want Peanut with ME.”
Mom bit her lip, leaving a mark in her red lipstick. She faked a smile at the caretaker. “Thank you. Let us know when things are ready.”
I jerked a checkbook from my bag and scribbled out the amount for the entire process. I slid it across the table and stood up. “Thank you,” I said. I didn’t wait for him to write a receipt or escort us out. I got up and left.
The halls were silent and ghostly, light flickering from fake oil lamps on each wall. The navy and gold wallpaper peeled in the corners and the wood floors were scuffed. The light probably minimized how much of the wear and tear was visible.
Everything had its false front.
We passed two entrances to viewing rooms, and I crossed through the foyer to the double doors.
The sun was blindingly bright although the air was still quite cold. I didn’t wait for my mother but kept striding right for my car. I could hear her rapid footsteps behind me.
“Tina!” she called out.
I wasn’t up for acknowledging her. I needed to calm down. Why did she have to keep insisting that I not do this? Why didn’t she get it?
At the last minute, I decided to turn away from the car and go to the baby section of the cemetery. Maybe I could pull myself together there. The whole point of bringing her along on this excursion was to fix things. I was still being my angry seventeen-year-old goth self.
I headed down the path toward the angel statue. I didn’t glance back, but the moving shadows let me know she was following.
I should slow down, stop, let her walk with me.
But still, my legs kept on pumping.
Two women were out among the baby graves. I slowed down when I saw them, not sure I wanted an audience.
My mom caught up, breathing hard. “Tina, are you okay?”
My steps were uncertain now. Continue on through the cemetery, or head back to the car with my mother?
I could picture Fuseli’s famous painting of Odysseus, shield upraised, fighting the battle between Scylla and Charybdis as waves pounded below and monsters threatened from above. A rock and a hard place. He had nothing on choosing between my mother and strangers near my baby’s grave.
I longed to paint this image on canvas. The monster inside me and water crashing against the headstones. The need to get it down tugged at me with urgency, like hunger after a long fast. Maybe I could backtrack, play nicey-nice with Mother, and find an art supply store. Set up somewhere while I waited on the permit.
I turned to initiate this new plan when something about one of the women ahead made me pause. She seemed familiar.
“Tina, are you okay?” Mom asked again.
I ignored her, walking closer to the two women. Could it be? Really?
One of the women was young and slender, in a bulky sweater and jeans. But the other wore a floral dress. She was ample, maybe more ample than the last time I saw her. But of course, it had been six years.
“Stella?” I asked tentatively. The wind caught the word, and neither woman turned. I repeated it a little more loudly. “Stella?”
This time the sound pierced the air and the woman looked behind her. Yes! It WAS Stella, the woman who had run my pregnancy loss group so many years ago. Right here!
She cocked her head, her brows together. I felt a prickle of apprehension, feeling my mother’s curious stare. Stella had a lot of women come through her doors, and I had been only a teenager then.