In the Tears of My Saints

Chapter 11: What to Expect at a Funeral

Sunday: 1:32 p.m.

The drive must have been longer than I thought because I arrive decidedly late. However, there were so many things going through my head that I hardly noticed most of it. It isn’t until I see the sign “Final Resting Places - Next Left” that I come out of my reverie enough to slow both the vehicle and my pointless but frantic worrying. I park the car and jump hurriedly out, sprinting toward the entrance of the funeral home. Most of my frustration is directed at Terry. This creepy bastard is the reason I am not holding Esther’s hand right now. I am also angry at Old Dave. If it weren’t for his game-changer, I wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. Mostly, however, I think I am angry at myself. Part of me feels directly responsible for the situation Esther may be in at the moment, and, while I am ecstatic at the prospect of seeing her, I can’t help the wave of guilt that washes over me. I wish I had not lied to her. If only I had followed my first reaction and refused to do the job. But what’s done is done. All I can do now is make sure that no one else takes advantage of her. I grit my teeth.

It is strangely quiet as I open the door to the church-like building and move through the small vestibule toward a set of large black oak doors that I imagine lead to the main chamber. This part of the building is completely empty and littered with religious symbols and paraphernalia. A tiny table to my right is covered in pamphlets done in black and white, and to my left are matching doors that lead to the bathrooms. I ignore all of this, however, and focus on peering tentatively through the small windows set in the large doors. The room on the other side is large with very white walls. This gives the it a radiance that surprises me, and I look away quickly as my eyes adjust. Not the sort of thing I would expect at a funeral home. The second thing that catches my attention is the impressive number of people that fill the room. Every seat in the place appears to be taken. There are even a dozen people, unlucky enough to have arrived late, standing in the back. Curious. From the way Esther spoke, I had not expected such a large crowd. Who are they? I force the question out of my mind and quickly scan the large, open room with a proficiency that comes from years and years of practice. I am searching for two faces; one of them is repugnant, the other dear.

I find them both within moments. They are sitting together, away from the others, on a small pew that faces the rest of the crowd. I have never seen a set up like this before, and the apparent callousness irritates me. Why did they put her up front like she’s on stage? As if today wasn’t going to be hard enough for her.

This new confusion and worry eats at me as I stare coldly into Terry’s pudgy face. What I see there does nothing to better my mood. He looks bored, annoyed even. I can tell that there are a million or so places he would rather be. I curse quietly under my breath. Why did he come if he doesn’t have the decency to pretend he cares about her? My eyes move begrudgingly from his face, following his arm wrapped carelessly around Esther’s shoulders. Seeing it there turns my stomach, but this is quickly replaced by horror and shock as my eyes finally come to rest on Esther’s pale face. Her expression is like nothing I’ve ever seen. It is twisted in such sorrow that, for a moment, I catch my breath in complete distress. Of course I’ve seen her cry several times already, once on the plane, then with the ducks, and again last night in the restaurant. Her tears had always upset me, but they were nothing compared to the expression she now holds. This is pain unfathomable, inconceivable, and unbearable; for a moment, I feel nothing but astonishment.

The disk resting against my heart digs into my chest, and her pain is all around me; it is everywhere. It is a gut wrenching ache that doubles me over and pushes my face hard against the glass. More than anything else in the world, I want to run to her, to hold her, to comfort her, to tell her that everything will be alright, to show her my love. God, I want to kiss her. Instead, I think of my brothers and do nothing. I stand perfectly still, my eyes fixed on hers. I breathe in and out slowly, willing myself into control. I allow the ache to take hold of my shivering body and imagine wistfully that, in this way, I am able to take on some of her suffering. I can’t. I can only watch helplessly and give in to the torment of her eyes.