CHAPTER 14
Sam
The soft strains of The Lord’s Prayer plays from the organ as guests walk single file toward the back of the church. I know the words by heart, and something tells me they’re supposed to be uplifting, and maybe they are when read straight from the Bible. But the melody leaves me wanting to find a dark corner, curl up in a fetal position, and indulge in a good cry. It’s being played Addams Family style, Hitchcock style, and my eyes well up with tears. I blink a few times to force them back. Until now, I’d never known the human body was capable of producing so much water or that a church organ is quite possibly the most depressing instrument in existence.
Blessedly, the song ends. I glance toward the casket one last time and bite down on the inside of my cheek, fighting to remain in control as I make my way down a row of dusty pink chairs, glancing at the back door and internally counting the footsteps between where I stand now and the freedom that door will bring.
I’m three seconds away from a public meltdown.
Everything about this is familiar in the worst possible way. Same venue, same flowers, same music, same smells, even the same guests. Coming here was a bad idea, but how can you skip a funeral when your sister was the one responsible?
Or maybe I’m the one responsible.
I need to leave. I’m trapped inside a coffin, buried alive and alone and afraid. Another minute might suffocate me. Another two and I’ll scream.
The line moves forward, loosening a long string of people into the aisle, and I release a burst of air. The coffin is now a cage. I’m a bird whose door was just opened. If I can just find a way out, if I can just make it to the door without being trapped again…
“How are you doing, Sam?”
The soft words startle me. Megan’s mother pulls me into a tentative embrace while her father looks on. It’s awkward and it isn’t, both emotions tangled into one. It’s a strange thing, being connected by death. Without the two of them, I would feel much more alone than I already do. Without me, their lives might have been so much better. Still, I hang on to her. Hugs are hard to come by right now. This might be my last one for a while.
“I’ve had enough of funerals, that’s for sure,” I say into her hair before I finally pull back and look at her. Her red-rimmed eyes shine with unshed tears, a mirror of my own. “How are you?”
“I’m horrible, actually. But I can’t tell anyone else that, now can I?” She offers a weak smile. “But it does help to have company, in the strangest of ways.”
Something in me settles, the feeling that no one understands. We all deal with grief in our own ways, but when all is said and done, all any of us wants is to be validated. To have someone identify, tell us we aren’t crazy, aren’t alone. Megan’s mother just handed me a gift. It might be wrapped in black and tattered on the edges, but nonetheless, I’m grateful.
“It does help.” I nod and reach for a tissue in a box on the chair next to me. My eyes drift to the flowers gathered en masse at the front of the church and settle on one arrangement. I remember those roses, I remember that pink ribbon. I wonder if the same family that sent them to me sent them to Megan’s family as well.
The feel of a soft hand squeezing my wrist chases the thought away.
“You’ll call if you need anything, won’t you?”
I assure her that I will and leave Megan’s parents to themselves and their daughter, one last private moment alone as a family. It isn’t something I want to see, more grief at the foot of a casket. If I never witness or feel another escaping tear or labored sigh or heavy heart in my life, it would be a relief.
I try to ignore the suffocating pressure inside my chest and focus on the back door. It’s right there, so close. My heart rate speeds up with anticipation. The tension in my neck ebbs a bit, working its way down my shoulders. Nothing a couple of Tylenol won’t cure the second I get home. After that, a long bath, a glass of wine, a pillow, and Netflix will round out my day.
Just before I reach the door, I spot a man sitting by himself across the room. The breath catches in my throat and holds there. It isn’t that I recognize him—his face is down and he’s studying his upturned palms. But all at once I know. I know in the way you sometimes sense the phone right before it rings, or a knock right before it sounds on your front door.
Or a police officer getting ready to ruin your life with bad news.
He wears slim khakis and a fitted black polo, a beanie pulled down around his ears. An odd thing to wear during a Missouri summer unless you’re wanting to hide. He sits forward, chin propped on folded hands. His head comes up, his sideways stare aimed straight for me like he’s been watching but hesitant to approach. It occurs to me then that he’s giving me a choice: I can talk to him or I can leave. Either way, he showed up. He wants me to know that he’s here.
When I hesitate, he sits up, hands resting on his thighs. His intense gaze holds mine, and I swallow. Under any other circumstance, I might consider him forward, too direct to be appropriate. As it stands, I recognize the grief he’s wearing. It’s covering every part of him, from his downturned eyes to his clenched fists. I’m not the only one who might benefit from a glass of wine. Maybe an entire bottle.
All the tension in my body rushes back when he stands to face me and all I can think is oh no oh no… He shoves both hands in his pocket and takes a step in my direction. My panic flows, ebbs, flows, and nearly flattens me before I’m struck with a thought. I left a voicemail. One I felt ridiculous for leaving. One I assumed he didn’t even listen to. But he came. The man lives hundreds of miles away and showed up for this small town, small headline funeral.
I have no idea what it means.
He’s standing in front of me, and I’m out of time to process it.
“I got your message,” he says almost reverently. He casts a furtive glance around the room, taking in the stained glass windows, the dark Alderwood cross looming over the stage, the casket sitting there like a flower-laden reminder of everything gone wrong this past month. I’ve loved lilies my whole life; now the sight of them—the sight of any flower, really—makes me feel as though I’m suffocating. Who knew the scent of springtime could make you sick?
I grip the back of a chair to hold myself steady and look up at him. “You didn’t call back. How did you find the place?”
“I made a few phone calls. Pulled up the obituary online to find the name of the church.”
I flinch at obituary. Such a harsh word to use for someone so young. My mind goes blank for conversation. The silence stretches, long and black and endless.
“I haven’t been inside a church in forever,” he says, breaking the quiet. “That cross is huge.” He nods over my shoulder, and I turn to look at it. He’s right; it’s oversized. There’s no way Jesus could have carried that thing on his back without using some of his superhuman strength. The thought seems almost sacrilegious, and I turn away. “You okay?” he asks when I look at him. “You look kind of pale.”
I blink. My thoughts are muddled and three topics just rolled off his lips in random succession. I feel sick because I am sick. Sick and tired of death and sadness and grief and the nauseating smell of flowers. But I won’t say that. My head spins trying to pick something else to discuss. In the end, it’s easy. I stay away from any questions about me and go straight for him.
“You look overdressed for summer. June in Missouri is really hot, in case you didn’t know.” I try a smile but it doesn’t feel quite right, like my lips have remained in a straight line so long that I no longer remember how. That’s when it hits me; I haven’t been truly happy in weeks. Not once.
Despite the tension, he grins. “I’ll remember that. I’ve been cursing myself for it all morning.” He shifts again and scans the room, his eyes locking on Megan’s parents still standing by the casket at the front of the church. I see it, the moment he realizes who they are. He stares, swallows, the fear in his eyes paralyzing him in place, the breath in his lungs coming faster, deeper. Now we’re both pale.
All at once I’m at war with myself. On one hand, I want Cory to feel some of the grief we carry, to shoulder some of it for me so the weight won’t be quite as heavy to bear. On the other hand, I feel a tug of compassion. I want to get him out of here, away from any real or imagined contempt he might face. Because really, when it comes down to it, everyone makes mistakes in life—some small and invisible, some horribly large and critiqued by the public. And then sometimes our mistakes are out of our control, like being a passenger on a bus that veers into a couple of teenagers. That could happen to anyone. But maybe not just anyone would have shown up to pay respects despite being so obviously uncomfortable.
The compassionate side wins out. Not surprising. I’ve never been good at retribution.
“Do you want to go somewhere and talk?” The words come from me. The surprise settles around us both.
He flicks another glance at Megan’s parents and I see the hesitation. He’s dealing with his own mental battle—back and forth, in and out. I watch it play out in his worried eyes, his downturned mouth. Finally, he looks at me and nods.
“Sure. Maybe we could grab a bite to eat? It was a long flight and I’m starving.”
Eating with Cory Minor wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. I thought maybe we would stand in the parking lot and chat for a minute, but I opened this door and there’s no choice except to walk through it.
“Okay,” I say. “There’s a place a few streets over. Hop in your car and follow me.”
Surprising me, he shakes his head. “You follow me this time. I already have a place in mind.”
My eyebrows go up before I question the action. It isn’t until we’re driving that it hits me; Cory is from Springfield. I remember reading about it a few years back.
I shift in place, suddenly uncomfortable. He just became a little too familiar, and I don’t like the feeling.