I place my phone back inside my coat pocket after asking Miranda her estimated time of arrival and lean against the car. The dress pants that Sherry bought for me were too tight around the ankle, unable to slide over my cast, so I reluctantly allowed Sherry to lend me one of her dresses. It’s a dark pink shade, almost red, and flowy around the thighs. Sherry would have preferred that I wore her jet black peplum dress since black is traditional etiquette, but my range of motion would have been even more so constricted. She paired the pink dress with a black belt to cinch my waist and I’m already contemplating taking it off. She offered to contort my hair into an updo hairstyle similar to hers, but I refused and insisted on keeping my hair down and opting for curls instead.
My phone dings in my pocket and I pull it out to see a text from Miranda on my home screen.
Miranda: Be there in 5
I click the button on the side without fully opening her text and shove my phone back into my pocket. Mark and Sherry are at the top of the steps near the intricately designed wooden doors to the building, conversing with a couple that I don’t recognize. I watch Sherry laugh at something the other couple said and I wonder how anyone can laugh at a place like this.
The sun has peeked through the clouds today more so than yesterday and the temperature has risen just enough where my lack of pants is not completely unbearable. I still have goosebumps on my bare legs, but it’s still warmer than it was last night.
I think about the sweatshirt that I stashed in my closet this morning, about the only item that is dark green in my collection of clothes and easy to spot whenever I want to use it. I slept in my clothes last night when I finally arrived home and I didn’t have the energy to change into pajamas, nor did I want to escape the scent of James on his sweatshirt. I couldn’t get enough of it as I slept last night, indulging as the warmth of the treads comforted me more sufficiently than any blanket could. 91Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxqKJERghZe
Once it reached the time for me to return home… not home, I dreaded leaving James to his lonesome. He had smiled at me as I announced my departure and my bones almost morphed into putty. He had said we will meet again at our spot tonight, and I have to distract myself from noting each minute that is passing by. I had snuck in before my aunt and uncle noticed, listening to their bathroom shower running and Mark snoring louder in their room than I ever expected him to. The sweatshirt is tucked away, and I can’t wait to switch out of this dress when I go home to indulge in it again.
I rub the sleep out of my eyes, careful to avoid my makeup, and I watch a familiar car enter the parking lot from the adjacent road connected to the entrance. I glance at Mark and Sherry who have also noticed the car and they quizzically follow the path of the car as it finds an empty parking spot nearby. They have never met any of my friends and it dawns on me just how distant they had grown over the years unlike my dad.
I leave Mark’s car and my crutches clack across the pavement as I approach Wendy’s white SUV. I can hear Wendy barking orders at Miranda and the loud music that booms through the walls of the vehicle cease, knowing Wendy had been fighting over the radio that Miranda always has turned up. The passenger side door opens and I watch Miranda’s hair wisp past the backside of the car window as she steps out, her high heels graciously contacting the tar of the ground without a stumble.
Her hair is similar to mine in style and it’s abnormal to see her without a ponytail and cheerleading costume on. Although I have seen her without it, my last encounter with her was during the last football game I attended at our school. My old school.
Her dress is comparable to the traditional black one my aunt wanted me to borrow from her, but Miranda’s dress is shorter and more fitting for a young adult rather than a grown businesswoman. The skirt of the dress is an ‘A’ line and the top has long, silky sleeves to contain her tan that she works diligently on every week at the tanning bed. The ends of her matching black hair are well maintained and freshly trimmed and I begin to feel insecure about my own hair in need of a trim.
The wings of her eyeliner appear like daggers as she turns to me, contrasting her soft glow under the daylight. There are no words spoken as she ignores the car door she leaves open and she sprints toward me surprisingly quickly in her heels. Her shoes make her appear much taller than me as I lean into my crutches and she struggles to restrain herself from knocking me over when she embraces me in a hug.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers under her breath, almost inaudible except to my ear only. We remove our arms and look back towards Wendy who is brushing lint off of her black dress pants after closing the passenger door that Miranda left open. She puts a finger to the bridge of her nose and pushes her glasses up closer to her eyes. Her pink, floral blouse ripples as a gentle breeze whisks by and she smiles at me before approaching.
“Hey, Kris,” she breathes and she leans down for a hug as well. I accept it and greet her, a fake smile plastered on my face. I look at her with longing and intrusively think about how much I want to beg her to let me stay with them, but a part of me would feel guilty for abandoning James on such short notice. “I’m so sorry about your dad. He was a great man.”
I nod in agreement and think back to what Sherry and Mark had discussed in the kitchen a few days prior. Wendy had every right to be biased since she has known me and my father since Miranda and I were in elementary school.
A voice cracks through my thoughts from over my shoulder and I turn to see Sherry and Mark had caught up with me to greet us by their car. “Hi, my name is Sherry, and this is my husband, Marcus. I’m Jonathan’s sister.” I want to gag at the formalities that she uses to introduce Mark and the way she says my father’s name in legal terms. Wendy had always known him as Jon. He was never Jonathan to those closest.
“Wendy,” she calls with her hand outstretched. Her hand rests on Miranda’s shoulder. “This is my daughter, Miranda.”
“Miranda and I grew up together.” The words pierce through the tension like the jab of a needle, and I wonder if I subconsciously threw in our friendship as a way to make a point that they were close with my dad.
Sherry’s smile grows after they all shake hands and she welcomes them before announcing that we better come inside so we don’t miss the service. We turn and follow them with Wendy and Miranda in tow behind me despite my slow pace. The crutches dig at the fabric of my jacket and I wince at the pain of the stairs leading up to the ornate doors of the funeral home. One of the staff members, clad in a black suit that would be fitting for a wedding, greets us at the door and spreads the front door open for all of us to enter.
The sweet smell of flowers wafts towards us and tickles my nose and I halfway expect Sherry to dance into the showing area to inspect what bouquets of flowers our friends had sent. Wendy takes a memorial card from the stack sat neatly upon the burnt umber stained table and reads his obituary, but I can’t find the will to bring my eyes towards his picture. Miranda glances at it uncomfortably and compliments the design as a gesture of respect.
We pass under the threshold to the showing area. The carpet is cream-colored and barely cushions each step of my crutches. Both the walls and the wainscoting that decorates the bottom half are also cream, and the artist inside of me is bothered that they couldn’t think of another color or shade to paint them. The overhead lights cast an inviting glow throughout the room. Not too dim, but not blinding. I count six rows of single chairs situated in linear formation like soldiers facing the focal point of the room. My eyes track the chairs toward the front where his closed casket is displayed.
I was glad they spared the details of his death from the information they provided me about the accident. I couldn’t come to terms with knowing I walked out solely with a broken leg and a cut on my arm that will be healed in a week’s time.
A few eyes fall on me as I stare at the canvas of greenery surrounding the wooden box that is far from the king sized bed I was familiar with back home. His bed was his sanctuary as night time approached and a glimpse flashes to mind of the nights I walked past his room and closed his door while he slept, knowing he would wake in the morning earlier than I would. But I couldn’t close this door while he slept.
A casket spray is displayed atop the lower half of the box and I admire the collection of red and white carnations amongst the greenery, relieved that they picked red, his favorite color, at least. I drown out the murmurs of the mourners that speak in the background of my mind. My body stills and I become numb, a shell of a person who is no longer inhabiting this earth. Time loses all meaning to the word and the world is a blur around me.
Sherry and Mark begin conversations with someone from behind me, but my crutches seemingly involuntarily carry my body like a cloud drifting away from sunlight. The scent of the floral arrangements grows stronger as I pass by them, a few attendees gliding across the carpet to make a direct path for me.
The careless gleam of the lights overhead glare at the casket and I swallow a ball in my throat. I can no longer float forward as I tower over the barrier that separates me from him. The wood of the box is cool to the touch when I lay a palm on the barrier, the intricate clasps holding it shut and keeping me from being with my father.
My face twitches and I sniff, but the atmosphere is too heavy as my tears fall. There’s a ringing in my ears and the voices behind me silence, and my mind replays the imagery of that night that keeps me awake now. 91Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhnTl7AP5Q8
“Wake up,” I whisper under my breath.91Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTd6iZ8svZa
The sharp sound of bone snapping cuts through the ringing in my ears. Memories of the accident flood my mind - me calling out to my dad as the blinding headlights bore down on us, the tires screeching on the slick pavement, my scream piercing the air just before my head collided with the unforgiving window. As I lay here, I can't help but wonder if things could have been different. Maybe if I had noticed the other car sooner, or if we had left the house just a few minutes earlier. But the past is set in stone, and all I'm left with now is the pain and regret of what could have been.
“Wake up, dad.”
The casket is unmoving and still as time. I hear my own laugh in my head, but it’s the younger version of myself as I recall the memory of my father teaching me to ride my bike at five years old. I was a determined child and never wanted his help. I never wanted to hold his hand when I crossed the street, but all I want to do now is hold his hand one more time.
"Can you hear me?" My voice trembles, and I struggle to keep the tears at bay. But as I lower my head, I can feel them streaming down my face, the pain of loss too much to bear. It's like a part of me has been ripped away, leaving me feeling raw and exposed. My face contorts with emotion, the once-familiar features now twisted into someone unrecognizable. I don't feel like myself anymore, not without him by my side. And the fact that he left his daughter behind only adds to the weight of grief and despair that I'm carrying. I'm lost, adrift in a sea of pain, and I'm not sure how to find my way back to the person I once was.
A hand slithers onto my shoulder, and I turn to see Miranda by my side, her eyes full of concern. I try to hide my face, but it's too late. She catches a glimpse of the tears streaming down my cheeks. With gentle care, she offers me a tissue from the box that the funeral staff had provided, and I take it gratefully. Dabbing at the river of tears that has cut through my foundation, I struggle to swallow the lump in my throat. Sensing my need for solitude, I tell Miranda that I will be right back before slipping away into the next room to find a restroom.
As the staff member directs me towards the public bathroom near the front door, I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. If it wasn't for the makeup that I had carefully applied earlier, I would have run to the sink and splashed cold water on my face to soothe the rawness of my emotions. With my crutches propped up against the closest exterior wall of a stall, I press my hands against the counter, steadying myself as I try to push away the memories that threaten to overwhelm me. The tissue is soggy in my hand, and I toss it into the bathroom trash under the granite counter before wiping my nose with another. I speak to myself silently, reminding myself to stay strong as I grip the counter, my knuckles turning white with the effort. The low hum of the heater within the bathroom provides a soft background noise, and I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves before finally mustering the courage to look at myself in the mirror.
I fish my tube of concealer out of my pocket, relieved that I remembered to bring it. Dabbing a few blots on the spots that stained my cheeks, I blend it in with the rest of my foundation using my ring finger. Another tissue is quickly employed to dry my wet eyelashes before I apply a fresh coat of mascara. As I finish, I hear the door creak open and a woman whom I suspect to be one of my dad's coworkers enters the bathroom. I quickly stash my makeup products back into my pocket and run my fingers through my messy brunette curls before studying my reflection in the mirror. My eyes still show the telltale signs of recent tears, and I lower my head, feeling embarrassed as I use my crutches to quickly make my way past the woman, hoping she won't recognize me. I know deep down that she probably does, or maybe she just hasn't seen me enough to remember.
The low melody of music finds my ears as it plays over the ceiling stereo system when I open the door and I prepare myself to return to the showing room when a woman’s voice calls my name. I swivel my head in her direction and a later aged woman with blonde hair, slightly greyish-white at the roots, smiles at me from the foyer and beckons me over. “Are you Kristen Wright?”
“Yes,” I reply and raise my eyebrows in concern.
She folds her hands in front of her navel and her face is softened. “Do you mind coming with me? It will only take a second.”
I glance towards the threshold of the showing room, wondering if I need to include Sherry and Mark in whatever discussion she would like to have in case it concerns money to pay for the service or something of that nature. Against my better judgment, I agree and follow the woman while leaving my aunt and uncle behind.
She leads me into the next room and her dark wood desk comes into view from the doorway. She gestures towards a beautiful assortment of pink, orange, and yellow flowers in a glass vase with a matching burnt orange ribbon tied graciously around the neck of the glass. “Someone delivered these here. Told us to specifically make sure they go to you.”
I raise an eyebrow and step towards her desk, the smell more serene than the scent that originally met my nose when I entered the showing room. My hand touches the petals of one of the yellow lilies, careful to avoid the pollen stems. I gawk at the lovely bouquet and turn my chin up towards her from across the desk. “Who sent them?”
She shrugs while maintaining her smile. “He didn’t give us a name. There’s a card on the holder, but I haven’t read it. I wanted to respect the privacy.”
My gaze shifts to the flowers, and I shift my weight to one foot as I run my fingers along the soft petals until I reach the cardholder at the back. With a delicate touch, I remove the light blue card, which stands out amidst the warm hues of the bouquet, and peel back the top with curiosity.91Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡofUcX3nWeo
91Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1qB01flYNL
These roses are not red.
My rhyming skills need raising.
Will you please join me
in a night of stargazing?
I can't help but chuckle at the cheesy note, feeling my face flush with a mix of amusement and embarrassment. I bring my hand to my mouth to stifle my laughter, feeling the warmth of my palm against my skin. As I flip the blue card closed, I take in the smell of the flowers surrounding me - a mix of sweet, earthy scents that lull me into a calm state. With a smile on my face, I tuck the card back into its hiding spot amidst the lush greenery, feeling a sense of contentment wash over me.
“I can keep them safe here in my office until you leave. My door will be locked, so no one can tamper with them,” the woman assures me. I thank her, my stomach churning with a mix of emotions. As she takes the vase of flowers from my hands, I feel a pang of protectiveness while she places them on a table near the window where they will receive natural lighting, but I remind myself that they will be in good hands. Leaning on my crutches, I back out of the office, the woman following me and locking the door securely. I take a deep breath and try to steady myself, knowing that I only have to endure the next few obstacles of my day before I will be with him again.
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