Chương 3
He snapped, “Doing what?”
“Backing up.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He glanced at the officers outside.
Then at the mourners.
Finally, at Noah.
The coffin was open because Megan had chosen that.
People had told her she might regret it.
The funeral director had been gentle. Her mother had been less gentle. Her mother said she should remember Noah alive.
Megan had replied that she did.
That was the problem.
She remembered him alive while signing papers about what could be cosmetically repaired.
She remembered him alive when the funeral director explained why certain areas would remain covered.
She remembered him alive every time someone used the word remains.
She had wanted the world to see that her son had been a person and that a dead child did not become an abstraction merely because adults could not tolerate looking.
David had not approached the coffin.
Not yet.
He had been inside the church nearly five minutes.
He had not looked closely at Noah.
Megan lowered the shoe.
“Go see him.”
David stared at her.
“Meg.”
“Go.”
“Megan, I’m not doing this.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re making a scene.”
A sound left someone in the pews.
Not quite a gasp.
Almost a laugh, but horrified.
David heard it.
His face flushed.
Megan felt strangely calm.
“My son’s funeral is not your scene to manage.”
Vanessa spoke his name again.
This time he turned on her.
“What?”
She flinched.
David immediately softened his voice.
“Sorry. I’m sorry.”
Vanessa did not answer.
She removed her handbag from her shoulder and held it in front of herself with both hands.
A protective posture.
Megan had never liked Vanessa much.
The feeling had been mutual.
Vanessa liked reservations, polished surfaces, punctual drivers, hotel upgrades, and conversations that ended before anyone became uncomfortable. She once told Megan that grief after their father died would improve faster if Megan stopped “feeding it attention.”
Megan had wanted to throw a wineglass at her then.
Now Vanessa looked older than she had fifteen minutes earlier.
“I didn’t know,” she told Megan.
David made a disgusted sound.
“Oh, don’t.”
Vanessa turned.
“What does that mean?”
“You’re going to do this now?”
“Do what?”
“Act like you had no idea what was happening.”
Her face changed.
Megan saw fear replace confusion.
“David.”
“You were there.”
“I was at the elevator.”
“You were there.”
“I was at the elevator with my suitcase because you said you had to check something in the car.”
Megan’s pulse stumbled.
That was new.
“What?”
Vanessa looked at her.
Then at David.
David said, “Stop talking.”
Vanessa’s lips parted.
Pastor James moved between them before either could step closer.
“David,” he said, “I think you should go outside.”
“No.”
“The officers would like to speak with you.”
“Am I under arrest?”
One of the officers entered the church but stayed near the last pew.
“No, sir.”
David looked at him.
“Then I’m attending my nephew’s funeral.”
Megan’s body reacted before her mind did.
Her hand tightened around the red sneaker.
For a second she nearly told him to leave.
Then she looked at Noah.
The coffin.
The white chrysanthemums Megan had approved without remembering approving them.
The framed picture from his school’s fall festival.
His small hands folded under a blanket because the funeral home advised against exposing them.
She was tired of David leaving.
She put the sneaker back on his suitcase.
“Fine.”
He looked at her suspiciously.
“Stay.”
“Megan,” Pastor James murmured.
She shook her head.
“No. Let him stay.”
David’s posture loosened a fraction.
He mistook permission for retreat.
He had always done that too.
Megan returned to the front pew and sat.
Her knees nearly failed as she lowered herself.
The anger had held her upright.
Without motion, grief came back into the empty spaces.
Her mother reached for her hand.
Megan moved hers away.
She hated herself instantly.
Her mother stared down at her own fingers.
“I’m sorry,” Megan whispered.
Her mother nodded once.
Neither of them tried again.
Pastor James waited until the church settled.
Vanessa sat alone in the back.
David remained in the aisle for a moment, then took a seat two pews behind Megan.
His suitcase stayed near the door.
The red sneaker stayed on top.
Nobody touched it.
The service resumed.
For the next thirty-seven minutes, people attempted to speak about an eight-year-old boy as though language could hold him.
His teacher, Mrs. Bell, told the congregation that Noah once spent three lunch periods trying to convince the cafeteria manager to rename fish sticks “ocean fries” because he believed children had been given no role in school marketing.
A few people laughed.
Megan did too.
The sound escaped her before she could stop it.
It hurt.
Her body folded slightly at the waist.
Her mother put an arm around her this time without asking.
Megan leaned into her.
Mrs. Bell cried when she described Noah refusing to leave a classmate alone on the playground after the boy’s father had gone to jail.
“He didn’t ask what happened,” she said. “He sat beside him and traded half his cookie for half a bag of pretzels.”
Noah hated pretzels.
Megan closed her eyes.
That detail nearly destroyed her.
Pastor James spoke last.
He did not say Noah was in a better place.
Megan had asked him not to.
He spoke instead about the cruelty of unfinished things.
An unfinished school year.
An unfinished Lego spaceship on a bedroom floor.
An unfinished argument between a mother and her child about whether teeth could be considered “technically brushed” if toothpaste had touched them.
People laughed again.
Megan cried silently.
Behind her, someone sniffed.
She did not turn around to see whether it was David.
When the service ended, no one knew what to do.
Funerals usually gave people a script.
Stand.
Hug the family.
Approach the coffin.
Say something inadequate.
Leave.
May you like
The accusation had broken the order of things.
People remained in the pews, pretending to collect purses and coats they had already gathered.
