A minister begins speaking. Gretchen’s family has never been religious. I’m not sure how they decided on this church for her service except that I think it’s one of the largest in town. The woman’s words float over the speakers into the air, slipping away before I really tune in and hear them. She didn’t know Gretchen, but she says things about her. About mortality. And life. I sit there feeling like a live moth speared with a pin, desperate to flee and unable to move. Every time she says Gretchen’s name, I blink in stupid surprise, like she must be talking about someone else.
Gretchen and I had plans. We might’ve been going to different schools this fall, but that was a whole summer away. We still had lazy days to spend in the park and drives into Ithaca to the movie theater. We were supposed to go to Cape Cod one last time with her family before packing up for college. We were going to say good-bye. Last Saturday, she had tickets to some indie film premiere in New York—something about a dog that never dies. She’d begged her dad until he agreed to put us up in a hotel and we were supposed to sneak into the after-party and stay out all night. Instead, Saturday morning, her body was found under Hidden Falls.
“Wind Beneath My Wings” comes on over the sound system. Gretchen would be horrified. She used to joke that the only time this song should ever be played was at funerals for middle-aged ladies.
By the time the music ends Mrs. Meyer is sobbing audibly. I join her more quietly, along with most of the room. Dina passes me a tissue and I peer across the aisle at Kirsten, whose arms are around her mom. I take my own mother’s hand and squeeze, grateful she doesn’t have to be the Mother of the Dead Girl, then hate myself for the thought.
Kirsten trudges to the front and reads an Emily Dickinson poem. Her voice wavers at first, but as she continues her words grow more confident, as if she’s challenging grief to trip her up again. So very like her sister. Some of Gretchen’s relatives and friends of her parents get up to speak about how beautiful and giving and talented she was. And then there’s an open invitation for anyone who loved Gretchen to come forward and say something about her. Everyone in my family turns to look at me.
Panic closes tight around my throat. “I—I can’t.”
“It would mean a lot to Gretchen’s parents,” my mother whispers.
“I think you should, Sonia.” Uncle Noah’s voice is grim. “You might regret it if you don’t.”
My hands shake, but Dina touches me gently. “You don’t have to. Stay here if you’re uncomfortable.”
I raise my gaze to the front of the room where a small queue of students has formed. Yuji is at the podium, talking about the first time Gretchen handed his ass to him on the tennis court. A slideshow of Gretchen advances in the background. I look at her family. Her mom and Kirsten are facing straight ahead, but her dad has turned to look at me. He puts his arm around Gretchen’s mother. Mr. Meyer is so often businesslike and unemotional, but now I plainly see a gloss of tears on his cheeks.
I rise and tread carefully up the aisle. I can’t hear what Yuji is saying over the thundering in my head.
The line dwindles too quickly and then it’s my turn. I climb behind the podium, wiping my palms on my dress. When I look out at the room, my stomach drops to the floor, and for a split second I wonder again how my own service might have compared. I clear my throat and say the first thing that comes to mind.
“Gretchen and I couldn’t have been less alike.” I glance up through my curls at a picture of us on the screen, and our contrasting figures trigger a memory. “When we were eight, she was obsessed with The Parent Trap and insisted we pretend to be identical twins. She convinced our parents to go along with the charade, pretending to get us mixed up, acting like they couldn’t tell us apart.” I look at Mrs. Meyer, whose eyes hold a ghost of a smile. A lump rises in my throat and I struggle to find my voice. “I’ve never been lucky enough to have a sister, but Gretchen was as close as I think I’ll ever come—” My voice breaks. I look at Kirsten, but her face is flat, emotionless. Sweat trickles along my hairline.
The room tilts.
My dress is too warm.
I look down at the casket, and now it’s open, full of water, and the gray-skinned girl floating inside has a mass of dark curly hair. I open my mouth to scream, but when I blink again, the rose-adorned box is closed.
“I—I’m sorry,” I gasp, and a hush falls over the congregation.
Someone has opened the doors at the back of the church, but it’s like the fresh air won’t reach me. I know I should step away from the podium, move out of sight, but I grip the wood instead, digging my fingers into the sides. I’m afraid I’ll fall if I let go.
Fall like Gretchen.
The minister appears at my side and takes over the microphone, thanking everyone for coming to honor Gretchen, and making announcements about the reception to follow the burial. People start shifting in their seats, looking at me, unsure if it’s okay to leave. My mother comes up the steps, trying to pry me away from the podium. I want to tell her I just need a minute, but my voice won’t work. I stare desperately at the open doors, to the air outside, but it’s so far away. And then I notice a figure standing there, looking in to the congregation. My mouth drops open.