We learned in art class that, technically, black is not a color but, rather, the absence of it. Black is a shade—one that holds its presence in every gradation of gray, departing only with its transition into white. I have always thought of white as a clean slate, an unwritten page. A snow-covered field or a wedding dress. White is starting over, an absolution from your sins. That day, I was the furthest away from white that I could possibly be.
Ana’s funeral service was held at Holy Trinity, our local church. I sat in the back pew with my mother, who was staring straight ahead, her mouth set in a hard, firm line. The Peter Pan collar of my dress felt constrictive around my neck, and when I pulled at it with my forefinger, she shot me a look of annoyance. “Stop fidgeting, Audrey,” she muttered under her breath. I let my hand fall into my lap.
Earlier that morning, I had stood in front of the large mirror above my dresser. As I stared at my reflection, I felt the oddest sensation that it was someone else staring back. The girl in the mirror had the same auburn hair that hung straight and low past her shoulders. Her eyes, gazing fixedly into mine, were an identical shade of forget-me-not blue. Like me, she was cursed with a smattering of freckles across her nose, courtesy of the hot Australian sun. But she was someone I didn’t recognize, like an imposter who had stepped into my body and was acting of her own accord.
The black dress my mother had purchased specifically for this occasion was made from a rough woolen fabric that rubbed unpleasantly against my skin. It felt almost like a punishment, like so many of the decisions my mother made on my behalf.
I spotted Lucy sitting a few pews up between her doting parents, her forefinger twisting absentmindedly through her honey-blonde hair. For as long as I had known her, Lucy had a habit of playing with her hair. She did it unconsciously whenever she was thinking hard about something. Autumn was Lucy’s favorite season, and I couldn’t think of a more befitting way to describe her. She had eyes that were the color of burnt amber and a dewy peaches and cream complexion. She radiated a soft, mellow warmth reminiscent of fall—an old soul in a young girl’s body. Two weeks before, she’d had her braces removed, and her smile was like a burst of sunlight piercing through a raincloud.
On Lucy’s right sat Candela, who was with her mother and her sister, Eve. Where Lucy was soft, like a watercolor, Candela was bold and headstrong. She carried herself like a storm or a melodrama. She could walk into a room and instantly change the atmosphere. Her beautiful olive skin (an ode to her Indian heritage) and sultry bee-stung lips were the envy of every girl at school. She had emerald-green eyes that could turn from warm to icy within the space of a millisecond.
When Ana’s father stood up to speak at the podium, I watched as Lucy glanced over at Candela and the two exchanged a knowing look. Then Candela turned her head around and caught my eye, sending a wry smile in my direction. She began to mouth something to me when her mother tugged sharply at the sleeve of her dress and she abruptly swung her head back around, her raven-black hair sweeping across her slender neck.
After Ana’s eulogy was read, we were each given a white rose (passed down the wooden pews in cane wicker baskets), and the minister instructed us to place them inside the open casket. I was last in line, so by the time I saw her, Ana’s frail body was already covered in flowers. She was even more beautiful in death than when she was alive—if that were possible. She looked like an angel in her white satin dress; her pink glossy lips were set in an expression of peaceful serenity. The locks of tawny-gold hair that framed her perfect heart-shaped face were immaculately brushed and shone like a halo. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, placing my rose somewhere among the other apologies.
At the post-funeral reception, the mood was just as somber. There were no philosophical musings or fond recollections. Ana had left the world too early. As I passed the buffet, the sight and smell of food made my stomach turn. But not so much as the murmurings that caught my ear. “. . . mother didn’t turn up to her own daughter’s funeral . . .”
“. . . brought in for questioning but no charges laid . . .”
“. . . can’t be true.”
“. . . why else would she kill herself?”
“So tragic. Poor girl.”
“. . . disgusting . . .”
It was my moment, then, to clear it all up. To stand on one of the many folding chairs scattered across the room and tell everyone the truth. To say out loud what my mind was screaming in my guilt-ridden silence. That it was my fault Ana was dead.
I was sitting by the window, on a smoky gray chaise lounge, when Candela came to join me.
“Hey, Audrey,” she said.
“Hey,” I replied.
“Where’s Duck?” she asked.
“He’s sick with the flu.”
My boyfriend, Brian Duckman (whom we all called Duck), was the proverbial boy next door. He lived only a few houses away from me, and we could wave at each other if we stood out on the respective decks of our suburban bungalows. We had been friends for as far back as I could remember. One summer, I went away with his family to their lake house up north. At the tail end of our trip, Duck and I were hanging out with some kids down by the lake. We were taking turns running down the length of the jetty and hurling ourselves in the water. When it was my turn, I tripped just as I was about to launch myself into the air, hitting my head on the edge of the decking and tumbling into the lake. Everything went black. When I came to, I was sputtering water freshly pumped from my chest. Murmurs from the crowd around me washed over my ears like a radio signal; the sun blazing overhead seeped into my shut eyelids. Duck had found me at the bottom of the lake. He had to dive twice before he was able to locate my limp body and carry me back to the surface. That night, with my near-death experience on my mind, I snuck into his room, slipped into his bed, and our friendship turned into something more. It was my first time and his as well. For a while, we kept it to ourselves, but eventually it became apparent that we were more than friends. Our mothers had always been close, and it was no secret that they had long since held the romantic notion of Duck and I living happily ever after.
Across the room, Lucy was standing next to her boyfriend, Freddy, and they were in mid-conversation with a boy I didn’t recognize. Lucy had begun dating Freddy only a year ago, but they reminded everyone of an old married couple.
“Who’s that guy Lucy and Freddy are talking to?” I asked Candela.
“That’s Rad—Ana’s boyfriend,” Candela said, and I felt a lurch in my stomach. “He was at St. John’s with Freddy when they graduated last year.”
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know Ana had a boyfriend.”