Miss Rose made the funeral arrangements with Mr. Cruddup, our family mortician. He’d been the one to bury my father and so many others in my family. He made Lydia look like a girl again, dressing her in the Easter outfit she’d made from the fabric I’d bought her. It was a small homegoing, with only relatives and friends: David was there with his fiancée, Carla. Boukie and Rhonda came, too. They had three children now. I’d called my college roommates, but only Keisha attended. I sat between Coco and her during the service. Melissa didn’t come. Somebody had to stay in the City and be with our grandmother, because Aunt Diane wanted to attend the homegoing. She had loved my sister like her own daughter.
In our church, the men spoke, but I was too grieved to care about the sexism. I was happy I didn’t have to say anything. I held Coco’s hand throughout the service, as my mother’s brother spoke for the family, tears streaming down his face. When it was Uncle Root’s turn to speak, he pulled out index cards from the inside pocket of his jacket. But then he only stood there, clearing his throat, before abruptly stepping down the two steps from the altar. When he sat down on the pew, he covered his face with a handkerchief.
At the cemetery, I was surprised to see my other roommate’s ancient hatchback: Roz hadn’t been at the church. Another car had pulled up behind hers, and four more behind those. Women began to climb out from the cars, all of them dressed in white, with gloves and shoes to match. Dr. Oludara went over to the old man, and he moved into her arms. Roz headed right to my mother. She whispered something, and Mama nodded a few times. Then Roz and Dr. Oludara returned to the group of women in white.
Elder Beasley recited the final remarks, and then, a young woman I’d never seen walked to the grave. She was light-skinned, short and plump.
“God bless you all,” she said. “I am so sorry for your loss. My name is Crystal Lightfoot—they called me Niecy back in college—and Lydia was my line sister and my best friend. When I heard the news about Lydia passing, I knew . . .” She paused. Took a few breaths. “I knew I had to be here with the rest of my sorors, to tell y’all that I loved Lydia so much. She was a good friend and a hardworking girl. You could always call on her in a time of need. We are Lydia’s sisters of Beta Alpha Beta, and we want to honor her today.”
Niecy reached for Roz’s hand, and Roz reached for Dr. Oludara. The handholding continued, until the white-garbed women made a large circle. I’d kept my composure through Elder Beasley’s words, but as these women began to sing of lilies and never-ending sisterhood, I emitted loud, guttural wails.
In my stupidity, I’d refused to wear black, thinking my sister might look down from Heaven and smile at me in my pretty pink dress and pink shoes. If it hadn’t been for Coco and Keisha, I would have fallen in the red dirt and been stained, but they each held an arm. They whispered it was okay. It would be all right, as I fought their holding hands. Others began to scream: my mother, my granny, and Aunt Pauline. The noise ascended, but the women in white kept their tune.
The light shuttered: my sight dimmed, though it was a sunny day. I heard my sister’s voice. It was Lydia, speaking to me. She was here, she told me. Don’t worry, baby sister. She’d never leave me alone.
Whatever Gets You Over
I didn’t stay long in Chicasetta after the burial. Only two days, before I climbed into Coco’s car with my aunt and mother and headed up the interstate.
We didn’t say much on the drive. I was afraid that if I began talking, I’d stumble into a story about years past, when a woman and her three daughters would pile into a station wagon in the early hours of the morning. The radio turned to a station that played Aretha, or if not, at least Earth, Wind & Fire. How Lydia would be sure to point out the Peach Butt in Gaffney, right around the time I would begin to hunger for the chicken that my mother had packed in a brown paper bag.
In the City, I called the clinic and left a message with the receptionist, who spoke to me tenderly. Everyone in the neighborhood had heard about my sister, and they were real, real sorry. Lydia had been so sweet; everybody had been hoping she’d get herself together. I tried not to cut the receptionist off. Already my heart was beating fast, and I huffed through my mouth for seconds. I told her I was taking a break for bereavement. I hoped I wasn’t leaving them in the lurch, and she told me don’t even worry. Take as much time as I needed.
Each night, I made to-do lists of what had to be accomplished the next day. I fueled myself for future purpose. I’d take a run on my father’s funky treadmill, down in the basement. I’d clean my room, change my ripe sheets, and finally unpack my suitcase from Chicasetta—but each morning, I’d lie in bed frightened about greeting the day. I’d think about what I’d see when I unzipped my suitcase, the pink dress and pink shoes I’d worn to Lydia’s funeral. I’d pull the covers over my face, so I wouldn’t see the bed on the other side of the room. The place where my sister used to lie.