Page 51 of About Time

Like, meet with a pastor to plan a service for a couple that married in a courthouse and never baptized their only child. It turns out there aren't a whole lot of places to have a funeral. A lot of the places they both enjoyed together don't particularly want dead bodies on the property.

Then there were all of the people demanding that we should have a “celebration of life.” This rubbed Wren and I both the wrong way, because we couldn't figure out what there was to celebrate about two people in their thirties no longer being here with us. It's surprising that we are able to speak, considering how often we've had to bite our tongues the last three days.

Everywhere we went somebody had an opinion. Wren received pushback when she was looking at flowers because theflorist insisted that all of the arrangements contain lilies and turned her nose up at yellow roses. Of course, Wren put her foot down, but it was a battle. It's not like she asked for sunflowers and daisies, and even if she did so what?

When I went to purchase the cemetery plots and headstone old man Morris wouldn't even talk to me. He is older than dirt and would only speak to a man. I ended up having to get Charlie to help me with that. Needless to say, the last three days have been frustrating, but they have been distracting.

I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not. Other than the day I got here there hasn't been a lot of time to grieve and let it sink in that I will never see Elisa again. Wren’s mood goes back and forth. One minute she seems like a zombie and the next she's sobbing until she hyperventilates. I keep trying to think how I managed this when my mom died, but the answer keeps being Elisa and Martin were there for me. Wren was too young to remember her grandmother, so to her, this feels like the first major loss of her life.

“Are you ready for this?” I ask Wren.

She shrugs her shoulders. “Is anyone ever ready to bury their parents right before the start of their senior year?”

She makes a good point. That was a particularly stupid question, but I'm struggling to reach her. We've seen each other regularly, but it hasn't been like it was when I still lived here. She feels like a stranger to me now and I imagine I seem the same to her. Instead of clinging to me, like I had to my sister when my mom died, she has latched onto Liam.

He seems like a nice enough kid, but I'm not sure I like how happy he is with her needing him this much. I'm trying not to judge because he is there for her, but they are both so young. I worry this will push them closer together than they would've otherwise been.

Not that I'm one to talk. I was only a couple of years older than her when I married Charlie. The only reason I have escaped the sideways glances from our neighbors is because we did a really good job not letting anyone find out. If they did, that would definitely be the talk of the only pharmacy in town. I swear Mr. Palmer, the pharmacist, is the biggest gossip in Harriston. I think he sees himself as the unofficial town crier. We don't even have a local newspaper because all you need to do is stop in to the pharmacy and you'll be caught up with all of the town news by the time you check out.

The first car pulls up in front of the church. It's an old Lincoln from the eighties, long and boxy and a brownish champagne color. I am sure it was the height of luxury when it was new. Dolores Howell steps out of the passenger side and I exhale because she's one of the few people I am actually looking forward to speaking to.

She's in her mid-seventies, but sharper than a lot of people twenty years younger. She helped me a lot when my mom first was diagnosed with cancer. She even watched Wren several times so Elisa could go see our mom in the hospital.

Dolores takes my hands in hers. The warmth and strength in her grasp threaten to unravel the very fragile hold I have over myself. She gives me a reassuring squeeze and then lets my hands go.

“Don't be afraid to cry if you need to. Nobody would think less of you. There's no sense in trying to put a shine on something so horrible. You go on and rage and cuss and throw a fit if you need to, especially to anyone who tells you that they're in a better place or they're looking down on you. While I believe that’s true, I don't think it necessarily helps much to make the living feel better. You let me know if you need anything at all.” She gives my arm a final pat before entering the church to find a seat.

Despite Dolores’ advice, Wren and I still plaster fake smiles on our faces and greet people as they enter. “I think the entire town is here,” Wren whispers.

Once everyone is inside Wren and I turn to face the church. I can feel her shaking where I’m holding her hand. “I don’t want to do this,” she whispers.

I blow out a breath. “Me either.”

Wren stares at the door without taking a step to go toward it. “It’s just that when this is over they’re really gone.”

“They’re already gone, whether we go in there or not. The only thing going in there does is give us both a chance to say goodbye to them,” I tell her.

Her lips twist, and she looks up to keep the tears locked in for a little while longer. “I don’t want to say goodbye to them.”

She hiccups out a sob. “I keep hoping I’ll wake up, and then it just keeps going. I feel like my chest has been ripped open, and I will have to live the rest of my life with a gaping wound.”

I nod. That’s pretty accurate, but maybe there’s something I can help her with. “The next steps we take are what is going to make you feel a little less hollow. This is for us because someday we’re going to look back at today and know we sent them off with love.”

She tries to sneak and wipe a tear away, then she blows out a breath. “Okay, let’s do this then.”

The ornate wood doors are easily ten feet tall and even wider. The handles are made from thick twisted iron. We both have to pull hard to open the heavy door. It makes a whooshing sound as it moves, and a loud thud when it closes behind us. As if there wasn’t enough attention on us, all heads turn our way the moment we step into the hall.

We try to keep our heads up as we head down the aisle toward the first row of seats. It’s hard though, because I can feel their gaze slide over my skin. When I dare look anywhere exceptstraight ahead I see that everyone is, in fact, watching us. I’m sure they are storing away details to examine later when they are in line at the grocery store, or more than likely the pharmacy. Later they’ll talk about the two poor orphan girls and how our family is cursed. Nothing they didn’t say over a decade ago when I lost my mom.

It’s times like this when I’m glad that I did get out of this town. Not that I’d say as much to Charlie. I’m sure he thinks he did me a favor by putting his boot in my ass to send me packing. Life is more than what job you work and how much money is in the bank. These are truths I learned from watching my big sister.

A job is supposed to fund your life, not become your life. That’s something I’ve gotten wrong since I left here. The only thing I have in Florida is my job. It’s the thing that gets me out of bed and usually the last thing I do in my day before falling back into it. If my friends didn’t drag me out every once in a while I wouldn’t see anyone outside of the hospital.

My eyes find him in the crowd, two rows from the front, behind the one reserved for family. I’m not sure where we stand right now, but I appreciate for a moment he’s standing in my corner. I don’t know how long this will last, but I’m constantly telling myself not to trust this. I might not have believed this the first time, but there is an end date on whatever it is that is sparking between us. And there are sparks. I wish like hell there weren’t but that is the one thing that will probably never change for us. He will always be the match to my gasoline.

The speakers kick to life and the opening chords ofTears in Heavenby Eric Clapton start playing. I peek at Wren from the corner of my eye and see her twisting the program in her hands. She’s fighting to hold it together. We don’t have a long service planned, so she is up to speak first. I pray we can both hang on long enough to get through this.

At the end of the aisle, we part ways. She continues on to the pulpit, and I take my seat in the empty row. I put my hands on either side of me on the bench and close my eyes. I breathe in and hold it. In that fleeting moment, I can feel hands on both of mine, sliding their fingers through and squeezing reassuringly. When I exhale the feeling is gone.

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