Love You More(35)

My dad turns in his seat and meets my eyes. “You ready?”

I nod, and we all get out of the car and walk toward the church. My pace is New York brisk, and we quickly catch up to the women from the Audi.

“You think Miss Jackson will be here?” I hear the blonde say.

“If she shows up for the kids’ soccer games, surely she’ll come to a parent funeral.”

Their voices are too light, too casual, like they’re chatting at school pickup. I can’t wait to get away from them.

We enter the church. The narrow narthex is dark, drafty, and echoey. The scent of incense clings to the air. I flash back to the prayer I said at the votive stand in St. John the Divine with Mick. In the past few days, I’ve never felt more torn about my faith. If there’s a God, how could he let this happen? And yet, I need to believe that Erin’s spirit lives on—that she’s watching over Phoebe.

I scan the small crowd for my friends but don’t see anyone I know. As we join the line to sign the guest book, Cara descends in a cloud of perfume. She gives me a hug that feels too long and tight, then asks how I’m holding up.

I bite my lip and nod.

“Do you want to go see Joan and Phoebe? They’re downstairs in the bridal room.”

Perhaps that’s what the room is called, but in this context, it’s jarring.

“That’s okay. I’ll see them after.”

“So you’re coming to Joan’s?”

I nod.

“How long are you staying in town?”

“I’ll be here through the weekend.”

The words feel small. Phoebe just lost her only parent; her grandmother is slipping away; and I’m flying back to New York on Sunday night. Guilt flares, but I push it aside. One impossible thing at a time.

“Well, I’m going to get seated,” Cara says. “Since we’re both doing eulogies, I think we should sit in the front.”

I nod as she turns to enter the sanctuary.

A beat later, we reach the front of the line. My mother signs the guest book first, then passes me the pen. As I print my name in all caps, I wish I were writing Dean’s name, too. I feel an ache for him, but it fades as I face what’s in front of us: a card table covered with candles and dozens of photographs of Erin, including the one I took of her, Joan, and Phoebe on the day she was born. Erin’s smile in the picture is luminous, almost unbearable.

As I pick up a program at the end of the table, my mom leans in and whispers, “Mick’s here.”

I turn and see him approaching us.

“Hi,” he says when he’s just a few feet away.

“Hi,” I say, grief for Erin colliding with the jolt of seeing Mick after so many years. The past rushes back all at once, the years between us paper-thin.

Mick takes a small step forward, and for a second, I think he’s going to hug me. Then I realize he’s just getting out of someone’s way. I almost reach out to hug him myself, but the moment has passed.

“It’s good to see you,” he says, holding my gaze. He looks comfortingly the same, just a few more lines on his face.

“You too,” I say.

“I wish the circumstances were different. Needless to say, I guess.”

I nod.

He glances away, turning to shake my dad’s hand, then giving my mom a hug.

“How’re your parents and Maeve?” my mom asks.

“Everyone’s well,” Mick says.

“Are you here with anyone?” my mom asks.

I cringe at her question as Mick shakes his head.

“You’re welcome to sit with us,” she offers.

Before he can answer, my brother approaches with Brooke. After another round of hellos and hugs, my dad suggests we take our seats.

As we enter the sanctuary and proceed down the aisle in single file, I do everything I can not to look at Erin’s casket. Then I spot our friends about five rows back on the left. Eliot is on the end nearest the aisle, and he jumps up when he sees me. His eyes and cheeks are red.

“I love you,” he says, hugging me.

I try to reply but can’t get any words out.

I glance down the row, making eye contact with my other friends, then follow my dad to an open pew on the right. He slides in first; then my mom, Brooke, and Gus. I sit next to my brother, with Mick on my other side. The seating arrangement feels vaguely disloyal to Dean, though I know he wouldn’t mind.

I look down at my program, staring at Erin’s senior portrait on the cover. I vividly remember her complaining that she’d had a “bad curl day.”

I take a deep breath and open the program. Under “Words of Remembrance,” there are only two names: Cara Rogers and Wilhelmina Wright. I’m going second.

I close the program and lift my eyes, forcing myself to look directly at the casket. It is rose gold and covered with pink and purple lilies and a yellow blanket I immediately recognize. For years, Erin couldn’t fall asleep without it, and seeing it there almost breaks me.

Tears spill, sudden and hot. My mom passes me a Kleenex, and I dab my eyes, willing composure back. But it’s gone again in the next breath—when Joan and Phoebe walk past us, arm in arm. Joan looks shockingly unsteady, and Phoebe’s resemblance to Erin is uncanny, her curly hair pulled back in a lumpy ponytail.

We stand for the first hymn. I hear my own voice, then Mick’s low baritone.