“Of course he’d be buried in that god-awful red suit,” Karen said, dabbing her eyes so her makeup wouldn’t run. “Of course he would.”
“Alice did a great job,” John said, in his best black boater shorts, black shirt, and pizza hat. “Looks like he’s still kickin’。”
Someone else said, “He was so proud of you.”
And everyone else just went by in a blur. I barely registered their faces.
“You three are the best kids an undertaker could have.”
“So proud.”
“Great guy.”
“He was so proud.”
“Such a good man.”
My bottom lip wobbled, but I bit it to keep myself firm. Whenever I felt myself giving way, Carver would squeeze my hand tightly, as if to ask, Do you need a moment? And I would squeeze back that I was okay, and tighten my grip on Alice’s hand, too. The world spun on, and we were still here.
When the last of the visitors finally left, including Mrs. Elizabeth in a pretty pink suit because, she said, “Black isn’t my color,” with her ghostly husband in tow, I closed the front door and locked it. The smell of the wildflowers was so overpowering, we elected to keep some of the windows cracked to air the place out. But even with them open, the funeral home felt so quiet, I almost couldn’t stand it. Mom busied herself in the red parlor room, picking up the dried flowers off the ground and situating the wildflower vases. The arrangements wouldn’t be moved until tomorrow, when we had the graveside service, and I had to wonder how we’d get all of these damn flowers hauled over to the cemetery.
I leaned back against the front door and breathed out a long breath.
“Everything okay?”
I glanced up toward the voice. Ben was standing awkwardly in the middle of the foyer, his hands again in his pockets. I hadn’t seen him since he disappeared on the Ridge, and I felt instantly better just seeing him. His presence was a balm.
“You missed all the fun,” I said in greeting, wiping the edges of my eyes. Thankfully I’d worn waterproof eyeliner today.
He glanced around. “The wake . . . is over already? How long was I gone?”
“A few hours,” I replied. The Ridge felt like an elephant in the room. What had he been about to say? What would he have wished for?
“Are you okay?” he asked, worried. “I mean—that’s the wrong question. Is . . . is there anything I can do?”
Even though he couldn’t interact with the world, even though no one else could see him, even though I was the one who was supposed to be helping him . . . “You’re very thoughtful.”
“You’re hurting. It’s hard to see.”
“Am I that ugly a crier?”
“No—I mean yes, but no—I mean . . .” He pursed his lips. “I wish I could do something. Anything. Take you in my arms and hug you and tell you that things are going to hurt for a while, but it gets better.”
A knot formed in my throat. The grooves on the front door pressed into my back, I leaned so hard against it. Isn’t that what I had wanted to tell him, what felt like eons ago? “Does it? Get better?”
He nodded. “Bit by bit. I lost my parents at thirteen in a car accident, and my grandmother adopted me. This is my dad’s ring,” he said as he took off his necklace, felt the ring between his fingers. “I keep it with me so I don’t feel so alone. She told me that you don’t ever lose the sadness, but you learn to love it because it becomes a part of you, and bit by bit, it fades. And, eventually, you’ll pick yourself back up and you’ll find that you’re okay. That you’re going to be okay. And eventually, it’ll be true.”