I head back to the car and try to ready myself for the next phase of this day. I break it down into baby steps in my head. I just need to sit here in the front seat as Ana drives us to Susan’s house. I just have to put one foot out of the door after she parks. Then the other foot. I just have to not cry as I head into her home. I just have to give a consternated smile to the other mourners as we walk in together. That’s as far as I get before we are parked outside of Susan’s house, one in a long line of cars against the sidewalk. Do the neighbors know? Are they looking at this invasion on their street and thinking, Poor Susan Ross. She lost her son now too?
I get out of the car and straighten my dress. I take off my hat with the veil and leave it on the front seat of Ana’s car. She sees me do this and nods.
“Too dramatic for interiors,” she says.
If I open my mouth I will cry and spill my feelings all over this sidewalk. I simply nod and tighten my lips, willing the knot in my throat to recede, to let me do this. I tell myself I can cry all night. I can cry for the rest of my life, if I can just get through this.
When I find myself in front of Susan’s house, I am shocked at the sheer size of it. It’s too big for one person; that much is obvious from the street. My guess is she knows that already, feels it every day. It’s a Spanish-style house in a brilliant shade of white. At night, it must serve as a moon for the whole block. The roof is a deep brown with terra cotta shingles. The windows are huge. Bright, tropical-looking flowers are all over her front lawn. This house isn’t just expensive; it takes a lot of upkeep.
“Jesus, what did she do? Write Harry Potter?” Ana says as we stare at it.
“Ben didn’t grow up crazy rich. This all must be recent,” I say, and then we walk up the brick steps to Susan’s open front door. The minute I cross the threshold, I’m thrown into the middle of it.
It’s a bustling house now full of people. Caterers in black pants and white shirts are offering people things like salmon mousse and shrimp ceviche on blue tortilla chips. I see a woman walk by me with a fried macaroni and cheese ball, and I think, If I ate food, that’s what I’d eat. Not this seafood crap. Who serves seafood at a funeral reception? I mean, probably everyone. But I hate seafood, and I hate this funeral reception.
Ana grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowd. I don’t know what I was expecting from this reception, so I don’t know whether I’m disappointed or not.
Finally, we make our way to Susan. She is in her kitchen, her beautiful, ridiculously stocked kitchen, and she is speaking to the caterers about the timing of various dishes and where things are located. She’s so kind and understanding. She says things like “Don’t worry about it. It’s just some salsa on the carpet. I’m sure it will come out.” And “Make yourself at home. The downstairs bathroom is around the corner to the right.”
The guest bathroom. I want to see the guest bathroom. How do I run upstairs and find it without her knowing? Without being terribly rude and thoughtless? I just want to see his handwriting. I just want to see new evidence that he was alive.
Ana squeezes my hand and asks me if I want a drink. I decline, and so she makes her way over to the bar area without me. Suddenly, I am standing in the middle of a funeral dedicated to my husband, and yet, I am not a part of it. I do not know anyone here. Everyone is walking around me, talking next to me, looking at me. I am the enigma to them. I am not a part of the Ben they knew. Some of them stare and then smile when I catch them. Others don’t even see me. Or maybe they are just better at staring. Susan comes out from the kitchen.