Page 14 of Whatever Will Be

Abigail Fisher sent an arrangement of white lilies as big as a coffee table. There was a printed square card attached from Doris’s Flower Shop here in town.

Whatever will be.

Love always, Abigail

I wonder who told her.

Jules keeps in touch with Abigail but I hadn’t found the time to call the Long Island nursing home where she lives.

It’s possible she considers the note to be a universal piece of life advice.

Or maybe time has just robbed her brain of too much and one of the few things that remains consistent is the name of her favorite song.

The flowers arrived at the house this morning before the funeral and there was really no place to put them. I left them in our parents’ old room, which is where I usually stay when I visit. Caitlin has my old bedroom while Mara has Danny’s. Jules kept the same upstairs bedroom she’s always had.

Once the mourners begin to straggle out it’s like someone rang a dinner bell and they all become eager to get away.

I don’t blame them.

Too many hours in the middle of a tragedy makes people afraid, as if their own lives and families might be unwittingly damaged.

“Call me if you need anything, sweets,” says Ashley Schwartz as she plants a dry and very unnecessary kiss on my cheek. She and Jules were friends in high school. Ashley and the rest of the popular clique ditched Jules following our father’s arrest.

I don’t smile at her. “Right. I know I can count on you.”

She begins to smile but falters when she takes a good look at my face and considers that I might be trolling her, which I am.

I don’t give a fuck about Ashley Schwartz’s feelings.

My sister is in a box at the Woodlawn Cemetery and my soul is in shreds.

The exit becomes a full blown parade of hasty condolences, more than a few tears and a handful of randomly offered business cards. I shove the business cards down the narrow neck of a ceramic vase the first chance I get.

Soon there’s no one left except me and Danny and the twins.

Oh, and Trent Cassini.

He’s here too.

A couple of times I poked my head into the den to make sure all was well and found him hunched on a seat that was too small for his tall, muscled body while he stared at cartoon characters. He listened as the twins provided constant instruction on the finer plot points, in case he was confused about why a snowman could speak.

Each time I looked in, Trent would glance at me for a split second and turn back to the screen without a word. It was an odd setup but the girls were strangely delighted to have his company. Since they have had nothing to smile about today, I allowed Trent to stay where he was.

Right on schedule at six p.m. my phone suddenly plays a few bars of Sunrise, Sunset from Fiddler on the Roof.

My heart shatters anew.

This is Sunday, a day when I would always check in with Jules. I’ve forgotten to turn off the reminder alarm set to a tune from Jules’s favorite musical.

I never want to hear that song again. That song makes me sick.

I hate Sunday too. Sunday will now always be the day that I buried my sister.

The call came at four in the morning, an unknown number with an upstate area code, and I answered before I had time to think about why anyone would need to get in touch with me at that hour.

Officer Gavin Brand from the Lake Stuart Police Department was given the unpleasant chore of breaking the news. He was in my high school class, a quirky kid who was always trying to crack bad jokes.

He was all out of jokes when he explained about the ice and the garbage truck. He promised Jules had died instantly, as if that fact was a small mercy that should ease the devastation.

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