You give me that look before you turn around to say your vows. That look of questioning when you’re afraid and not sure of yourself, that look I’m so proud to receive as a big brother, and I nod. You’re ready. You got this. You’re going to be so happy.
You grin, and it’s radiant.
I dream about that day sometimes when I’m missing you, and it’s so vivid, I catch myself thinking it might be true. That you and Amy or Charli live just on the other side of the mountains and we’ve made plans for a get-together at Dad’s for the weekend. That I’m going to see you soon.
Then I remember.
It rained the day of Mary’s funeral.
That big, dolloping, slow rain that soaks you through in seconds or spatters your pant legs even if you’re holding an umbrella.
The church on the top of the hill was full. People milled in the atrium past a poster board checkered with pictures of Mary. The sanctuary was alive with muffled conversation. When I glanced inside, my eyes landed on the long mahogany coffin, and I looked away just as quickly. Dad shuffled beside me, and Kel held on to my arm. We were all dressed in black.
Robert and Lisa stood beside the poster board shaking hands with every person who filed past. Kleenex clutched between fingers, dabbing at eyes, the smell of pastry drifting out of the church kitchen. I didn’t want to be here.
Elliot Wyman, one of the ushers at the church, came up and verbally accosted us with kindness and questions as we were crossing the atrium. Imagine Elliot as a fortyish boy with large, staring eyes and a mouth that won’t quit moving about the Lord. He’d been at the church as long as I could recall, always volunteering and always wanting to chat whenever he wasn’t glued to Father Mathew’s hip. You didn’t want to get cornered by him or a half hour of your life would be gone before you could say Holy Spirit.
We answered his questions as quickly as we could: yes, we were devastated by what had happened; no, we hadn’t gone to the wake the day before; yes, we were aware Mary was in a better place.
When we’d extricated ourselves from Elliot, we greeted Robert and Lisa, asked about their kids, how they were doing. Fine, fine, as good as can be expected. I shot an unavoidable look toward the stairwell and the basement door that sent goose bumps up my arms. Then we were at the threshold of the sanctuary, and across it.
The first time in fifteen years I’d stepped inside the heart of the church. Christ hung from the cross, the ceiling soared, the lights were on full. The air was close and hot.
We sat near the back in the only free pew. It took me five minutes to spot Rachel and her family. They were in the front, of course, the boys dressed in miniature versions of their father’s dark suit. Rachel wore a black dress, tasteful pearls draped around her neck. In the days since the letter, she hadn’t reached out. This more than anything else told me she’d received a warning of her own. I could understand not wanting to risk it—she had so much more to lose than I did, specifically the two young boys sitting beside her.
I waited and watched, but she didn’t look around, didn’t look back at me.
Father Mathew entered shortly after. He loomed over the rest of the procession to the altar. He had been a big man when I’d first met him sixteen years ago on the first Sunday he took the pulpit, and he had only gotten larger. Athletic and tall, with a booming voice whenever he needed it, but most times he spoke in slow, quiet tones. He held his head up, scalp shining through a thinning crew cut, smiling an anguished smile of loss, which I’m guessing he felt was comforting.
God, I hated him.
As the service began, I focused on the last time I’d seen Mary. She’d dropped over to Dad’s with a loaf of homemade bread and had watched a game show with him. Had she been distracted that day? I couldn’t recall. Partially because it had been an ordinary visit, one of the many times she’d stopped by just to say hello, to bring a gift, to brighten the room with her presence. More so because I’d spent part of the afternoon with Rachel. So many things paled and lost their depth whenever I was with her. She distorted my space and time.
The ceremony proceeded. Father Mathew proselytized. People wept. I stared at the intact stained glass window and recalled Mary holding my hand in the police station. It’s just glass, for God’s sake, she’d said. It’s not like they quit making it.
I was really going to miss her.
When the service was over, we didn’t stop for pastries on the way out. Instead Kel and I drove Dad over to the cemetery on Lake Avenue and beat the funeral procession by a good half hour. We walked through the grass and dead leaves from last fall, stopping at the top of a little rise where the graves seemed to flow out in every direction. We stood in front of two headstones side by side.