Page 19 of Unstable

“You ran over the curb,” Gatlin doesn’t quite laugh, or quite sigh, but he’s straining to hold in some kind of reaction over there. “Henley, how ‘bout you get out and head on in, people will let you pass, and I’ll park then meet you inside. Sound good?”

“Um, not at all, it sounds awful. You want me to walk in alone and cut and weave through everyone lined up?”

I slam the truck into park and rest my forehead on the steering wheel, balancing precariously between holding back on vomiting and maintaining actual oxygen intake.

“There’s…so many…” I take another deep breath, “people here. No one will even notice if I don’t go in.”

Except my mom. And everyone else I love looking down from Heaven.

And Donna.

And I’ll know. That I let them win, again. Hurting greatly my efforts to stop putting new things in the “reason to hate yourself” column.

“Henley,” he drawls, gearing up for a pep talk…that I no longer need.

“Save it, you’re right.” I throw open my door. “I can do this. And thanks…for parking. I’ll see you in there.”

I DON’T SEE HIM in there. In fact, gun to temple, I couldn’t be sure who I see. It’s all a buzzing blur of suffocating hugs, condoling words that sound like underwater babble, and so many bodies crammed in the room where my mother’s casket lies, closed, because as Donna explained, “it’d be more respectful that way, even though they did all they could,” I’m surprised the Fire Marshall—oh, he’s in here somewhere—hasn’t written out a ticket.

“Do you need anything, honey?” Donna asks, finding me backed into a corner, using the Ficus tree as a shield…not well enough apparently, since she spotted me.

“Are we almost done? It’s been hours, the food’s gone, it’s so hot,” I use the back of my hand to wipe my forehead. “Donna, please, I—”

“Say no more. You slip through that side door over there, and I’ll start seeing people out. I’ll just tell them you must be visiting with others or in the ladies’ room if anyone asks. Now go.” She kisses my cheek. “You did real good, precious girl. Your mama,” she chokes down her choked up, “she’d have been real proud, and appreciated you honoring town traditions.”

“Thank you for everything. Really.” I turn and scan the area, plotting my escape, when she touches my shoulder.

“Henley?”

“Yes?” I turn back to her.

“Don’t forget tomorrow. Funeral service at the church, one o’clock.”

“I’ll be there.”

And wouldn’t you know it, the side exit is ready for me when I get there, being held open by an awaiting Gatlin Holt.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I stop, make sure, and add my certainty. “Yeah, I am. I think maybe this brought me one step closer to her forgiveness.”

“Henley, you already had that. Always. A mother’s love is unconditional.”

“How do you know I was talking about my mom?”

THE NEXT DAY I’M smarter, in my seat in the first pew, end closest to the aisle, forty minutes early.

I hear them all start to file in behind me, but not once do I turn around. And when Brother Thomas steps to the pulpit and clears his throat, bringing the room to silent attention, I’m still the only one in my entire row.

Because that’s another hometown tradition—only the family sits in the front pew. And, I don’t have any family left to join me.

But no one dares intrude, no matter how small and alone I may appear, or how sorry they may feel for me, because that simply isn’t how it’s done around here.

The sermon is lovely, moving…but I don’t cry. Countless people get up to speak, and I’m still dry; my eyes don’t make contact with theirs although I can feel their gazes upon me. And then they play “Dust In The Wind” by Kansas as people shuffle out.

Guess she told someone she liked that song? That, or they just picked the saddest one they could possibly find.

I keep my head down and my feet fast, sprinting to my truck.

---