~ Andrea

Sitting near the end of the first pew in my black dress with frilled sleeves, I discreetly look around the chapel.

I’ve been to a funeral once before – my grandmother’s. I was a kid then and so I probably slept through most of the ceremony as I often did in church. I remember there were more people, though. Or maybe this chapel is just bigger.

I don’t know any of them. Clay, on the other hand, seems to know them all. He seems to be the acting family, in fact, having welcomed the guests and accepted their condolences earlier. Now, he’s standing at the podium giving his eulogy.

I have to admit he looks dashing towering above that podium, his suit impeccable as always. Clean-shaven, his hair neatly combed, his shoulders straight and his chin held high, he is the embodiment of elegance and composure. His hands don’t shake, firmly gripping the edges of the podium. His voice doesn’t quiver. His eyes don’t glisten with tears. They just brim with sincerity as he speaks articulately, going over the room and sometimes glancing down as if to read something. Only I know there’s no piece of paper there, every word coming from his mouth also coming straight from his heart, just as I know that in spite of the way he’s smiling and making jokes, he’s hurting.

Like someone once told me, the thickest of masks hide the frailest of hearts, the ones that are just a breath away from shattering.

Looking at him, I remember that seventeen year-old I first met, the one who was trying his best to smile and fit in. I was only a freshman then but my mother was the guidance counselor at our high school so she asked me to show Clay around and as I did, I could not help but be intrigued by him, to want to know more about him, to feel closer to him.

I feel the same way now. Indeed, I have a sudden urge to comfort him, to support him, to let him know that he’s not alone.

As we walk out of the chapel after the ceremony, I hold his hand and as John’s body is lowered to the ground, I place my arm around his, clinging to him, just letting him know I’m there by his side.

Finally, when it’s all over and we’re back at the mansion, I wrap my arms around him and give him a tight hug. At first, he doesn’t respond. Then, slowly, he pushes me away, the gesture cutting me to the quick.

I take a deep breath. I’ve been standing silently by his side the whole time but now, I can’t hold back words any longer.

“Clay, I know how hard this must be for you.”

“Do you?” The look in his eyes wounds me just as much. “Have you ever lost a loved one?”

“No, but…”

“I’m fine, Andrea.” He looks away.

“No, you’re not.” I shake my head. “Let me help you.”

“I don’t need your help.” His blue eyes narrow. “I’m not your patient, Andrea.”

“No,” I agree. “But you don’t have to be for me to help you.”

“Just leave me alone.”

Without thinking, I grab his arm.

“What? You’re going to leave me behind again? Push me away again? You were the one who asked me to accompany you to the funeral, remember?”

“Yes, but only for Rose…”

“Bullshit.”

For a moment, he falls silent, frozen. Then he jerks his arm away. “You don’t have to worry about me anymore, Andrea. I’m not your boyfriend.”

“You’re right,” I tell him, my lower lip trembling. “I don’t even know you.”

With that, I leave the room, more tears streaking down my face. I let them all out in the nearest bathroom, sitting on the rug on the floor with my back against the wall and my knees pressed against my chest as I sob.

How could Clay be so mean? There I was, reaching out to him, trying to be his friend in spite of everything he did to me and what does he do – push me away and shut me out like last time. Why? Why does he let me come close only to push me away? Why does he lower his defenses and then throw me out? Why does he raise my hopes and then crush them?

He hasn’t changed. He hasn’t changed one bit.

Like you said, he’s hurting, Andrea.

I know. As a psychologist, I know that people who are hurt have a tendency to hurt others. The saying ‘misery loves company’ has a psychological basis. I also know that people who are hurt are like broken pieces of a whole and so what they say does not reflect the entirety of what they feel or think. In short, they don’t really mean what they say. Also, usually, when you say something hurtful, you hurt yourself in the process but a person who’s already hurting is numb, which makes him or her even more inclined to say things he or she doesn’t mean. As a psychologist, I know all that and so I know I shouldn’t mind Clay.

As a person who still cares for him, I can’t help but feel hurt.

Ah, so you do still care for him.

Yes, I do. That’s why I’m annoyed. That’s why I retaliated. I said all those harsh things that I now regret.

I shouldn’t have.

As the pain fades, which it always does, sense returns, which is why I now feel stupid. It’s a refreshing feeling, though. It proves that I’ve calmed down which also means it’s time to leave the bathroom.

I blow my nose with a few more sheets of tissue, tossing those on top of the pile I’ve just created inside the trashcan. Then I wash my face and get out. At first, I think of heading to my room or maybe checking on Rose but then I realize I’m hungry. Some funerals have food after but not this one and so I haven’t had lunch yet.

I go to the kitchen. As usual, it smells heavenly. Harriet must have whipped up another gastronomic delight.

“What is it this time?” I ask curiously, sniffing the air as I sit on a stool. “Tomato soup?”

“Aha!” Hariett whirls around with spoon in hand. “For once, you are right. It is tomato soup, which is what I thought you and Mr. Maxwell would need after going to a funeral.”

My eyebrows crease. “Why is that?”

“Because it’s comfort food, of course.” Hariett places a bowl of the soup in front of me then places a sandwich on top of it. “Nothing like a grilled cheese sandwich to go perfectly with tomato soup.”

I taste a spoonful of the soup, which is still warm, and then take a bite out of the sandwich.

“Yum.” I wipe my mouth. “It is a perfect combination.”

“And comforting?”

I nod. My usual comfort food is ice cream but I have to say there’s something about a warm, rich, bright orange soup that just lifts the spirits. Whatever sad feelings I still had when I left the bathroom have just evaporated.

“Did you bring Clay some?” I ask her. “I think he needs a few bowls of this.”

Hariett chuckles.

“Then again, I doubt a whole pot will help him,” I say, remembering what Clay said.

“Mr. Maxwell misses Mr. Abbott no doubt,” Hariett says. “I can tell they were very close.”

“Not you, too.” I frown, getting off the stool so I can get a glass of water. “That’s what everyone’s been telling me.”

“Well, then maybe it’s true.”

I open the fridge. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

“Well, did you know that Mr. Abbott didn’t like cheese very much?”

“Nope.” I pour water into a glass. “Clay didn’t mention that in his eulogy.”

“Ah, then you’ve learned something new.”

I give her a smile before drinking. I’ve liked Hariett from the moment I met her. She’s as warm as her food. She’s kind. She’s not too serious. In a way, she reminds me of one of my aunts.

“So, John didn’t like cheese, huh?” I take another bite out of my sandwich as I go back to my stool. “And yet, Rose seems to like it.”

“She does,” Hariett agrees.

“Did you bring her some of this?” I hold what’s left of my sandwich in the air.

“Yes. She liked it.”

“But not enough to talk, I guess.” I sigh. “I’m living in a house where the food is so good and yet the people are so miserable. Seriously, what’s wrong with them?”

Hariett gives another chuckle then turns serious. “Well, sometimes just eating isn’t enough. You know what really cheers me up? Cooking. Working with my hands. Putting love into each ingredient.”

“I can understand that.” I eat another spoonful of soup. “I guess that’s just a whole new level of…”

Suddenly, I put my spoon down, an idea coming to me.

“Miss Andrea?” Hariett gives me a puzzled look.

I’ve told her to call me Andrea but she hasn’t. Well, at least, she isn’t calling me Miss Simmons anymore.

“You know what? Maybe I should do something with Rose. Maybe we can cook together, or maybe bake since that’s more fun for children, right?”

“That sounds like a brilliant idea.”

“Well it’s your idea.” I give her a hug. “Oh, Hariett, you’re a genius!”

So far, I’ve been having a bad day and just a few minutes ago, I was anguished. Now, I’m ecstatic. I can’t wait to try baking with Rose. Who knows? It might just finally put a tiny smile on her face. As for Clay, he can sulk all he want. Like he said, he doesn’t need my help.