Authors: Jennifer Melzer
Chapter Three
Dad looked expectantly
toward me as he reached for the door handle. He’d been quiet all day, his eyes
only glossing over with the threat of tears, but he hadn’t shed a single one.
It was just the kind of man he was. Part of me was sure that once we were home
and he was alone he would let it all out, but not in front of all those people.
Not when he had to be strong for me.
“Go on ahead, Dad,” I
brought my clutch purse into my lap and opened it. “I’ll be right there. I just
want to check my make-up.”
“All right, hun,” he nodded
and offered a slow smile before opening the door and stepping out into the
windy afternoon.
I just needed a moment to
myself. After the church service, all those eyes on us, hands reaching out to
reassure me and faceless voices promising they were there if I needed anything
at all while I was in town. They would catch up with me again at the wake, they
promised one by one, but the overwhelming attempts at familiarity left me
feeling burned out and a little anti-social. I forgot how tightly knit the
community was—all the better to backstab you, or so it always seemed.
I recognized her right away.
Amber Williams. She sidled up to me near the end holding a toddler in her arms,
her eyes glistening with unshed (and more than likely phony) tears.
“It’s just such a shock that
she’s gone.” Amber seemed even more broken up than I was, and my internal bull
crap meter sent alarm signals quaking through me. “We’re all going to miss her
so much.”
I nodded, not sure what she
wanted me to say. It was a shock, I would miss her, but those were just the
obvious things, the surface comfort everyone at funerals thought you wanted to
hear. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to hear, maybe silence
would have been better than her false concern. Or even better, I’d be happy to
hear someone genuinely promise that despite the shock and the obvious fact that
she would be missed, the pain and emptiness that hollowed me from the inside
out would one day go away. Without my mother, I would be whole again.
I watched my father walk
toward the burial plot. It had already been dug in preparation for the hillside
ceremony, and just under the cacophony of voices I could hear the crisp flaps
of the rain canopy slapping against the wind. At least it wasn’t raining,
though the wind and clouds were typical autumn weather. The local meteorologist
promised rain, but so far not a single drop had fallen, and from time to time a
silver glow of sunlight pierced through the clouds to light up the valley below
the cemetery.
Autumn painted every treetop
bright in yellows and oranges, the occasional flare of red leaping out like
flame. My mother chose her burial plot well, but somehow I wasn’t so sure that
it mattered now that she was gone. Had she chosen the view with us in mind,
knowing we would climb the hill and look out over the valley below with her in
our hearts? The town below was like a painting, and I smiled when I realized
just how much she would have appreciated the view.
Sonesville proud, born and
raised, my mother’s parents moved to the area in the late forties to start a
family. My father’s ancestors, the McCarty’s, were among the founding members
of the town. Generation after generation, many of them spread out into the
surrounding towns like Muncy, Hughesville and Montgomery, but it was rare for a
McCarty to go much further, much less leave the county.
Maybe in the end that was
what drove me screaming mad into the nearest city, glad to shake the dust from
my boots. Mom said she understood my need for freedom, some birds just couldn’t
be caged, but somehow I think the greatest part of her wanted to cage me
anyway, just to keep me close. She even told me once that she, too, longed for
adventure, and then she’d met my father. He’d been all the adventure she’d ever
needed, and after that she didn’t want to be anywhere he wasn’t.
I looked out at my father
again. He paused for a moment to talk to a younger woman I didn’t recognize
from the long throng of clubs that infiltrated our lives over the last few
days. I was surprised by the tenderness in that young woman’s hand on my
father’s arm. She nodded, the strings of her blonde hair following the motion,
and then she stepped away from him again. For a moment he stood there alone,
looking out over the view and I wondered what he was thinking.
My parents were both in
their late twenties when I was born, and the harsh reality of a factory
worker’s existence was definitely beginning to slow him down. I certainly
couldn’t see the adventurer in him that Mom saw, and even worse was the fact
that the longer I looked at him, the harder it was to imagine how he would get
on without her. She’d always taken care of everything, made sure his clothes
were clean, his breakfast, lunch and dinner prepared. It was all very old
fashioned, I realized once I moved away from home. She was the stereotypical
housewife: devoted to her family, the PTA and every club and church function
she could squeeze into her busy schedule.
Again, I thought of the
endless revolving door of people who consumed our lives since she’d passed
away. She touched the lives of everyone she’d ever met, and it was no wonder so
many people came to pay their respects. I remembered feeling embarrassed as a
child by the lengths she went to please others, but she always told me “That’s
small town life, Jan. The people here help each other out. They’re really there
for each other.”
“In each other’s business is
more like it,” I muttered.
I could still see her
shaking her head, a bemused grin curving her lips. “Not everyone is a gossip.
Most people outgrow that behavior once they’re out of high school.”
Cynical, I assured her,
“Well, I won’t be here to find out if you’re right.”
Dad moved on from his
resting point and turned over his shoulder to talk to one of the pallbearers.
There was a tug of nervousness in me when I realized it was Troy Kepner again.
The wind disheveled his dirty blonde curls, and his profile suggested that he
was still in desperate need of a shave. He moved aside just enough that I could
see the wheelchair in front him, and the profile of a silver haired woman
speaking rather intently to my father while reaching out to lay a hand on his
forearm much the same as the young woman who stopped him moments earlier.
Sinking back into my seat, I
pulled down the visor and looked over my reflection. I was surprised at just
how well my makeup stood up to several outbursts of tears I endured during the
church service. I took a compact out of my purse and touched up quickly, sure
to hide the dark circles under my eyes the best I could. Closing up the compact
and returning it to my purse, I flipped the visor back into place, and then
reached for the door-handle.
I smoothed the length of my
skirt with my hand, and braced myself against an unexpected rush of wind. The
loose pieces of my tightly wrapped auburn hair whipped against the bare skin on
the back of my neck and against my cheek. Several times I reached up to brush
the pieces from my face as I moved quietly through the gathering crowd. I took
my place beside my father and hugged my arms tight against the wind.
I glanced over my shoulder
at the long line of cars still winding through the muddy cemetery drive. My
mother was definitely well-loved in Sonesville, and it looked as though
everyone in town turned out to see her off on her final journey. I was
surprised three days earlier when the Rotary Club suggested they hold the wake
down at the local fire hall due to the sheer numbers longing to pay their
respects. Before Dad or I could even lift a finger, willing bodies from all
over stepped up to the task and put it all together for us with pleasure.
Several people crowded in
around Dad and me. After Troy disappeared to help the others lift the casket
and carry it into place, I glanced down at Lottie Kepner curiously. I
remembered Dad saying she’d had some kind of accident, but the details of it
slipped my mind. Whatever it was, it aged her tremendously. Troy returned to
stand behind his mother. I felt his gaze on me, but avoided eye contact,
keeping my own stare centered on the trees that lined the back half of the
cemetery.
Pastor Crane took his place
in front of us, waiting for the stragglers to find a place among the silent
crowd. For a long time the only sound drumming in my ears was the constant snap
and flicker of the canopy against the wind, and then Pastor Crane cleared his
throat. Moments later he began the recitation of departure and Dad hovered
closer to me.
My eyes stung, and I tried
to tell myself it was the chill of the wind, but the truth was I never expected
either of my parents to die. I knew death was inevitable, but in the daily
scheme of things the last thing that entered my mind was the fragility of my
parents’ lives. There would always be another day, another chance for me to say
goodbye. I always imagined on her death bed she’d be able to hear me, and in
perfect health she would respond and tell me just how much she loved me. She
would forgive me for going and staying away so long, but none of that happened.
I hadn’t even been given the
chance to say goodbye.
Dad lowered his arm onto my
shoulder and drew me into his chest just as Pastor Crane said the words, “In
sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord
Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our sister
Chandra.”
There was the squeaking sound of pulleys as they began to lower the
casket into the ground and I nearly choked on the heavy ache that restricted
the muscles in my throat.
“W
e
commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
My father stepped forward
and knelt, clutching a trembling handful of earth to toss it over her casket,
but I couldn’t step close enough to even see it. The anxiety inside of me was
so deep I knew if I saw that casket in the earth I’d lose control.
Pastor Crane’s voice sounded
far away, and my cold ears burned with a nervous fire. “The Lord bless her and
keep her, the Lord make his face to shine upon her and be gracious unto her and
give her peace. Amen.”
Amen. . . Amen. . . Amen.
It circulated through the
crowd, and though I tried to form that word inside my own mouth, I wasn’t able.
I hadn’t prayed since my last visit to the Sonesville Baptist Church more than
eight years earlier, and the only time I’d said the word amen had been in
sarcastic reply to some silly statement.
Dad walked back toward where
I stood still beside Lottie Kepner, and the first thing I noticed was the dirt
on his shoes, dirt that had been dug up so they could put my mother into the
ground. The notion pressed on my already frazzled nerves, sending me into the
next phase of realization. My stomach trembled within, and for a moment I was
sure I was going to be sick, but then something completely unexpected happened.
A cold numbness in my face crept upward into my cheeks, along the top of my
skull before it circled around the back of my neck. The scene before me seemed
to waver like asphalt in the hot sun.
“Janice,” the slow echo of
my name bounced upon the drumming canopy flaps. I saw hands reaching for me,
but my vision began to blacken around the edges. I was falling backwards, the
way I sometimes fell in dreams: endless, drifting while the world swarmed in
around me. The slapping of those flaps dulled to a faint whisper, and for a
moment I could hear nothing else but the dry rustle of leaves above me.
Dark emptiness curled around
me like a blanket, while that hush of leaves carried me far away.
“…looks like she’s coming
around.”
The first thing I felt when
I came back into myself was the frigid wind as it crawled up the folds of my
skirt. One by one a collection of voices came at me from every direction. One
panicked woman’s worrisome cry was followed by the slow, mellow depth of a man
in control.
“Oh, thank heavens,” the
panic receded from the woman’s voice. “She’s opening her eyes.”
“Janice, can you hear me?”
My eyelids fluttered against
the numb pressure throbbing inside my head, and as I searched almost
frantically for something to focus on it was a pair of denim blue eyes that
caught my attention. Upside down, the face looked strange and alien, but warm,
steady hands under my back and neck kept me calm. They were his hands, old blue
eyes, and then Dad was there drawing my attention to him in desperation.
I felt my numb fingers being
tugged as he called, “Jan? Jannie, can you hear me?”
I swallowed and nodded
slowly, trying to sit upright before I even questioned why I was flat on my
back. The earth should have been cold underneath me, but it was warm and soft.
I tingled inside, the sensation making me feel cold and unstable. I tried to
focus, tried to look away from those compelling eyes, but I couldn’t.
“Try to relax until the
spinning stops,” Troy said. He had a deep, rich voice that immediately calmed
me, and though I generally lacked trust, every muscle sunk into his command.
“It’s all pins and needles.”
My own voice sounded like I drew it down from the clouds. “Like my whole body
just fell asleep.”