Aftermath

by Sandy Goldsworthy

  I shrugged.

  “Well, she is.”

  The silence that followed made me realize he was human, just like me. He wasn’t the intimidating police officer I expected him to be. He attempted a weak smile. “I didn’t know she talked about me… to you.”

  “Not just to me—to Lisa, to her friends. You’re a big part of her life.”

  I guessed I already knew that.

  “You know, Westport isn’t that bad of a town to live in. It’s smaller than what you’re used to, but I think you’ll like it.” He grinned. “I hope so, anyway.”

  ***

  Zimmerman Funeral Home looked the same as it did when Mom died. The deep red carpet with gold pattern made me nauseous. I remembered it from being there six years earlier.

  I made my way to the same chenille wing chair and sat down. Aunt Barb spoke to the sad-looking, heavyset funeral director. He wore a dark suit and looked vaguely familiar.

  Neal sat in the matching chair beside me. We were separated by a small, round, marble-top table with a tall lamp, and prayer cards fanned out in a perfect semi-circle. I looked at the rich colors of the saint pictured on the cards, but I didn’t dare touch them. Neal must have sensed my stare. He picked one up and told me what I already knew. “There’s a prayer on the back, for your dad. See?” He flipped over the card and showed me the written confirmation of why we were there.

  When the funeral director opened the double doors, it was time. Aunt Barb nodded to me, “Ready?”

  Ready was far from my state of preparedness.

  My stomach started to ache. I crossed the threshold and saw Dad’s casket at the back of the room. It was surrounded by plants and flowers of all sizes and colors. They were everywhere—on the casket, on the floor, and on stands that lined the walls of the room. The mixed floral scents stopped me for a moment. My nausea returned, and I contemplated turning around and running away. When my knees started to buckle, I was suddenly happy Aunt Barb talked me into low heels instead of the strappy, black sandals with four-inch spikes I wanted.

  “It’ll be okay,” Neal spoke softly behind me, while Aunt Barb proceeded ahead of us. I felt his hand on the back of my shoulder. “Are you alright?”

  My body began to shake, and I couldn’t stop it. I turned quickly, hoping to escape to the safety of the foyer. Instead, I ran straight into Neal’s chest. He smelled of cologne. A different scent than my dad wore, but a nice, comforting smell that I breathed in deeply. “It’s okay.” Neal held me until my shaking stopped.

  Aunt Barb and Neal waited patiently for me to pull myself together.

  Dad’s casket was beige with small flower accents carved into the corners. It was the same casket Dad picked out for Mom.

  It was like time stood still.

  The room was absolutely quiet. No music, no hum from a fan, no voice from a soul.

  I focused on the shiny finish of the casket and the bouquet of red flowers that rested on it. I refused to look at him. Like a Ping-Pong match, my eyes scanned back and forth, but never settled on Dad. I noticed the photo collages Lisa helped us make, the gold drapes that matched the chairs in the room, and the cards attached to each plant nearby. But when Aunt Barb touched Dad’s hand, I was finally forced to look at him.

  Dad doesn’t look like Dad, I thought. His skin was discolored and thick, like candle wax. He had wrinkles I never saw before. His hair was combed back and gelled in perfect lines—not the way he usually wore it, messy with a few strands off to the side.

  I looked at Aunt Barb in hopes my glare would convey my concern that this wasn’t my dad. This body wasn’t her brother, Brian Bennett.

  Instead, her tearful eyes told me I was wrong.

  ***

  Father Cornwell was the first guest to arrive and the most talkative. He held my hand the entire time he recited stories from when I was little. As much as I didn’t want to listen, I had no choice. When he finally moved on, a surge of strength came over me.

  Odd, but for a split second, things didn’t seem that bad.

  The Lamberts were next. Having spent a few days with Lisa, I was happy to see her again. She gave me a tight hug and whispered kind words in my ear. Tom, her husband, did the same.

  When TJ Lambert came through the line, I didn’t recognize him. He was taller than the last time I saw him and offered condolences in a deep man’s voice. He was the opposite of the skinny boy I kissed all those years ago.

  TJ’s sister, Hannah, stood a few inches shorter than her mom did, but she had the same blonde highlights and bubbly personality. She practically bounced in place while waiting her turn. If she wasn’t a cheerleader, she missed her calling. She gave me a huge hug, like we were long-lost friends. Then again, we were friends all those summers ago on the lake—TJ, Hannah, and me—but with time and distance, those friendships faded, and now they seemed like strangers.

  Keep them moving, a voice in my head said. Just keep them moving and you’ll be fine. I nodded, responding to my own thoughts.

  People came and went for hours. Melissa came with her mom, other friends showed up in a group, and distant cousins strolled through. It was tiring.

  When visitation was almost over and the line was winding down, I saw Matt. I lost it the minute our eyes met. Tears flowed in a constant stream. Like everyone else in line, Matt offered sympathy but, instead of a handshake, he pulled me into his arms and let me cry. I buried my face in his chest and concentrated on not hyperventilating. Breathing in his fresh scent slowly, I tried to calm myself while he held me.

  “Hey,” he whispered. “It’ll be alright.”

  Matt hugged me twice as long as anyone else did and when he was ready to move on, I still wasn’t.

  Chapter 11

  Ben's Story

  “Whatever you do, don’t order the casserole of the day,” Drew Davis said when we reached the cafeteria entrance.

  I glanced at him. “That bad?”

  He shook his head. “Not if you like left-over leftovers with some cheese sprinkled on top.” A smirk crossed his face.

  I would have laughed, but I knew he was right. Even the lunch lady that scooped a heaping spoonful had sympathetic thoughts when she handed the plate to the kid in front of me.

  Claire, my undercover twin sister, acknowledged me with a grin from the salad bar. Drew took notice of her, but he didn’t comment. I didn’t need to be an immortal to know where his mind was going. I tuned out the idea and moved forward in line.

  I grabbed a sub and a coke and paid my bill. Justin Zore and a few other soccer teammates slid over on the bench when they saw Drew and me headed their way. Claire smiled at Drew as we took seats near her. She sat with Hannah Lambert and a couple of cheerleaders. As if on cue, the girls turned to look at us. Justin smiled at Hannah, who blushed in return.

  Drew finished his first slice of pizza before I had my pre-packaged sandwich unwrapped.

  Molly walked past my table with a strawberry blonde-haired girl and waved. The blonde wore short shorts, exposing her long legs. She paused, smiling at me, and then followed Molly to Claire’s table.

  “Only a few days here and you already know the hot, popular chicks?” Drew was being sarcastic.

  “Who? Molly?” I asked in a surprised tone, knowing she was listening in.

  “Molly and Stephanie,” he answered. They were out of earshot, but both girls turned to look at us anyway.

  “Molly lives down the street from me.”

  “I’m moving to your neighborhood.” Drew bit into his second slice of pizza.

  Stephanie chewed on her lower lip, and then broke into a full smile, while Molly grinned.

  Drew elbowed me just as I was about to take another bite of my sandwich. “Hey, looks like they’re interested.”

  “I wouldn’t go there if I were you,” Justin commented between forkfuls of spaghetti. Justin was our team’s goalie and from what I could tell, he was the most sensible kid among them.

  Drew let out a
laugh before Justin finished his sentence. “Why not? Steph’s available and with legs like that?”

  “They’re both taken. That’s why not,” Justin explained, and then took the last bite of his lunch.

  Huh? Molly’s taken?

  “Not from what I heard,” Drew said. “Lucas and Steph broke up.”

  “Again? They break up every other day.” Justin pushed his empty food tray to the side. When he looked at me, he continued. “If they’re off today, they’ll be back together tomorrow.”

  I nodded.

  “This time, it’s real,” Drew said.

  “Who can keep up? And who cares?” Justin took a drink of Gatorade.

  Drew lowered his voice. “He picked up some chick in Riverside. I heard he stayed at her place last weekend.”

  “Her place?” I asked. “How old is this girl?”

  Drew glanced around before he answered. “Like twenty-something. Blonde hair, big boobs, drives a sports car. Has a condo on the west side of town.”

  “You’re crazy.” Justin laughed.

  “Shhh…” Drew scolded. “I was sworn to secrecy, man. He didn’t want Stephanie to get wind of it. You know… in case it doesn’t work out. He wants to keep in good graces with her.”

  I shook my head, finishing my sub.

  “So you actually believe this?” Sarcasm oozed out of Justin’s serious tone.

  I chuckled, and Justin laughed.

  Drew shook his head and finished eating. “Real funny.”

  “He’s making up stories. You know he’s living with his mom, right?” Justin added.

  “His mom’s a whack job,” Drew said, staring at Justin. He turned to me and whispered. “He got busted with some pot this summer. His dad freaked and threw him outta the house. Now he lives with his mom. Or, he’s supposed to, anyway. I don’t think she knows if he’s there or not.”

  “There’s no way some hot chick with a condo and a sports car is into Lucas,” Justin said in a hushed voice.

  “I’m telling you, there is.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  I cleared my throat before Drew could answer. He looked up. Molly and Stephanie stood in front of us.

  “Hey, guys,” Molly said. Drew and Justin mumbled hellos. “Ben, I was wondering if you could give me a ride home after school.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Oh, and this is my friend, Stephanie Carlson. Steph, this is Ben Parker,” Molly said. “He’s the new neighbor I was telling you about. You met his sister, Claire. They just moved here.”

  “Nice to meet you, Stephanie.”

  “Hi, Ben.” Her smile was intense. “Where did you live before?” she asked after an awkward pause.

  “Libertyville, Illinois.”

  “Oh, I haven’t heard of it.” She twirled a lock of her long hair as she spoke.

  “So I’ll meet you out front?” Molly asked. Will you be back from Emma’s dad’s funeral by then?

  “Yeah. I’ll catch you later,” I answered to both of her questions. They smiled and turned to leave.

  I’m so sorry. Stephanie begged me to introduce you, Molly explained.

  Great. That’s all I need.

  Drew elbowed me again, and I made a mental note never to sit beside him again. He let out a low chuckle. “Man, Stephanie’s into you!”

  I took a drink of coke to avoid his annoying topic of conversation. Stephanie glanced over her shoulder when she reached the door. I felt another set of eyes on me and turned to see a light-haired guy staring back. He looked away as our eyes met.

  “Who’s Lucas, anyway?” I asked, guessing I already knew.

  Justin looked around, and then nodded toward the door. “He’s over there… walking out of the cafeteria. The tall, blond guy in the blue shirt.”

  That was what I thought.

  Chapter 12

  Emma's Story

  We arrived at St. Mary’s Catholic Church an hour before the scheduled visitation.

  When I was a kid, I thought the church looked like a huge ship pulling up to shore. Her vast wall of windows angled back like the bow of a ship, stopped only by hedges and sidewalks that circled her shores.

  It was a large parish, Mom used to say. That was when we went to church. We went every week when I was a kid, before Mom died.

  There were two parking lots, one on each side of the massive windows. Dad always parked in the lot on the right. The North Lot, he called it. We came in from that side. It was the closest parking spot he once told me, when I asked why we always parked in the same place. That morning when Neal pulled in, we parked in the south lot, on the opposite side of the church. A different spot than normal.

  That was what I was now, I realized. Different.

  The church looked the same as the last time Dad and I went to mass at Christmas, minus the decorations, of course. After Mom died, we only went to mass on holidays or when Aunt Barb was in town. Dad didn’t suggest going, and I didn’t ask why

  I noticed Dad as soon as we walked in. His casket was against the wall in the church entry, between religious paintings and glowing sconces. A kneeler was placed off to one side of the casket with tall candles on the other. Aunt Barb walked right up to Dad, made the sign of the cross, and stood silent. Neal was an arm’s distance away. I, on the other hand, loitered as far from the casket as possible. I couldn’t bring myself to move.

  Memories of Mom’s funeral flooded my mind, as Aunt Barb and Neal greeted the parish priest, Father Cornwell, and the funeral director.

  I blinked away tears and looked around. You can do this, a deep voice in my head said. I repeated the words. I could do this.

  Dad’s casket had a few bouquets nearby, and others scattered around the church. Aunt Barb said we could pick a few plants to take home, if I wanted. The rest she would donate. I didn’t care. I didn’t want them. Why would I want to be reminded of where they came from?

  A few people busied themselves preparing for the mass. Photo collages were set up next to bouquets of flowers. A book guests were expected to sign was placed on a podium, and pamphlets were arranged on rolling bookcases.

  Before I knew it, people streamed in and greeted Aunt Barb, while Neal stood with me. He didn’t say much, though at one point, he asked if I wanted a glass of water or an Altoids mint from the tin he pulled out of his coat pocket. I shook my head. I never liked Altoids.

  ***

  When Father Cornwell gave the last prayer, the congregation was dismissed. It was eerily quiet as we proceeded down the aisle following the casket containing my dad. Few words were spoken on the drive to the cemetery, either.

  The air was still when we arrived. Aunt Barb, Neal, and I followed the pallbearers to the open gravesite. Light dew remained on the grass and wet my toes as we passed through areas of shade. The moisture beaded on my sandals.

  When Dad’s casket was properly positioned over the open gap in the ground, the funeral director placed a floral bouquet on top. The wide, white ribbons with gold letters spelling out “Loving Father” and “Loving Brother” swayed in the gentle breeze.

  We took seats in front row, graveside. More people came than I expected. The last car in the procession was an expensive-looking silver sedan. A tall man with gray hair and a dark suit got out. I recognized him from the church, though I had no idea who he was.

  Father Cornwell stood near the red granite headstone that was so familiar to me. Dad and I visited here often, every Saturday at first, right after Mom died, but less often lately. I stared at the cross and streamlined single flower engraved in the center of the stone, remembering when Dad and I picked it out. He originally wanted other flowers, a bouquet, he told me. I told him Mom would like this one better. The lady at the stone place called it some kind of lily. It was long and thin, with a trumpet-shaped blossom on a single stem. “Are you sure?” Dad asked me that day. “Are you sure she wouldn’t like this basket of flowers engraved on the stone?” he pressed.

  I shook my head.
“No. She’d like the lily.”

  When Dad tilted his head to the side, I knew he was considering it. He always had the same look when he was deep in thought. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb for a just a second before outlining his cheeks and jawbone with his fingers in one quick swoop. When he completed the invisible drawing on his face, and his finger and thumb met once again at his chin, the decision was made. “We’ll take the lily,” he told the lady at the counter. Then, he winked at me.

  Dad and I would bring lilies to Mom every Saturday after that. Well, at least in the beginning. When my Saturdays got booked with sports and school activities, and when Dad was busy running me around, our weekly visits to Mom’s grave lessened.

  Things changed.

  Our Saturday routine changed. Instead of going to the diner downtown for breakfast, then to the small flower shop on the corner, I grabbed a granola bar and ran out of the house, while Dad ordered flowers from the discount supercenter. The order changed from a weekly spray to a monthly sprig. Then winter came, and no order was placed at all.

  The last time Dad and I came to visit was Mother’s Day. Even then, we just checked that the floral shop delivered the flowers as scheduled.

  I couldn’t pull my gaze from the headstone with the names of my parents carved deeply into its surface. I stared so hard, my eyes burned. When tears erupted again, the letters blurred together as one. I wiped quickly, hoping no one noticed. I looked around, trying to focus on something—anything—to distract me from the stone, the grave, and from Dad.

  My eyes settled on a brown-haired man near a large oak tree.

  I blinked, squinted, and looked again.

  He hovered around the trunk, slowly pacing back and forth with his hands in his pant pockets.

  When Aunt Barb gave my arm a gentle squeeze, I lost sight of him. I scooted forward in my seat to get a better view, but he was no longer walking. Instead, he stood facing the tree. He tilted his head to the side like he was deep in conversation. It was oddly familiar.

  Father Cornwell raised his hands to the gathered crowd and began to pray. Everyone stood and bowed their heads. I found myself unable to concentrate. There was something intriguing about the man in the distance.