Tim's mother is too young to die, but she dies anyway--in a video that goes viral. Tim scrambles to hold his life together, but the person who keeps him on his feet turns out to be his half-sister, a fiesty girl who has no idea they're related, but...
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Heather walks behind me, her hands on my shoulders. Stepping into the lobby is like stepping into a Febreeze commercial. There are so many bouquets, wreaths, vases, arrangements, and piles of flowers that I can barely breathe over the smell of them.
The service is too big for a church. I'm glad it's not a room full of pews and stained glass. At least at the Inn, everything is familiar. Focusing on the familiarity distracts my thoughts from drifting down the hallways to the side staircase where she earned her coffin in the first place. Inn employees dart back and forth, steering stacks of banquet chairs, trolleying trays of meat and cheese into a luncheon room for after the service.
Heather's hands lift off my shoulders, her heels clicking toward the front desk. She clutches the guest book to her chest. Her husband follows behind her, putting his arms around her shoulder. Darrell does not belong in a suit. He's an overall kind of man, a tradesmen in the oilfield who looks the part, even though he trimmed his beard and scrubbed out as much of the grime worn into his hands as he could.
It's still early. I flip through the finished program, one of many stacked near the floral mountain.
Music prelude, my choosing. If You Could Read My Mind, but not the Gordon Lightfoot original—the Olivia Newton-John cover. Then later, Joni Mitchell, who Mom loved since she bought the record player and a small vinyl collection of a formidable era of Canadian pop music. Joni, Neil Young, Gordon Lightfoot. These were among the first records she ever owned, records that she played in the house as long as I can remember.
Then there's a reading from Natasha from the inn. The voice I heard on the phone, urging my mother for her help four days ago. Natasha, who found my mother in the stairwell, who called the police and the ambulance and stayed calmly on the line while trying to maintain inn operations.
Another reading, I believe of an essay written years ago when Mom was still in high school. My principal, listed in the program as Andy Boyd, is slated to read that. They went to school together. It's still a mystery to me why he came back to teach at Murphy Comp.
There's more. There are eloquent well-wishes posted from campaign donors, letters, and comments posted on Facebook.They make my stomach turn, all the good intentions from people who liked and shared the viral video. I don't want sympathy from these strangers. I don't want to need their sympathy, but dying isn't cheap.
