The Trouble Is

Chapter 40: Fakers

The funeral is at the local funeral home since there are just too many people for the shiny new sanctuary at the Baptist church to hold. I bring along a brand new spiral in my tote bag, just in case. I try to tune everything out and just focus on the list I'm going to make when I get back to the car. I try, but I can't even come up with a topic right now. It's a little hard to do from a sensory perspective. The smell of flowers is overwhelming, and the sound of Katie's mother crying pierces through the bright light coming in from the windows.

Everyone is dressed in their nicest clothes, and some older ladies are handing out little brochure things with Katie's picture on the front. One of them offers me a tissue box. I can't seem to speak, so I just shake my head no. East is not here yet. He was supposed to pick up some new equipment for the summer camp, but I don't even know where he went. I just know that he was supposed to be here by now.

I see a lot of people from my school along with several teachers. Everyone looks straight at me as I walk to the front of the church, where Aunt Linda has saved a pew behind Katie's family for us so we are front and center. I wish I had thought to bring sunglasses. I just want to hide from everyone, or at least hide my eyes. I can't believe all the hater girls who are here. They are dressed in their best and are crying into the arms of their "boy toys o' the day." It's just all so unreal, so fake. They tilt their heads in fake sympathy as I walk by. I don't look back; I don't blink.

Fakers.

I take my seat between Mom and Doug. I don't see East anywhere, but he could be packed into the crowd somewhere that I just can't see. Skip reaches over Doug to put his hand on my shoulder. It is heavy and warm. I imagine that he is the only thing holding me down, keeping me from just floating away.

I've heard people say that things are a blur in stressful situations, but I've never experienced it. I now see what they mean, sort of. But it's not that things are a blur, like actions. It's more as though the sounds around me are blurry and kind of muffled. I don't really hear the words people are saying or understand the songs they are singing. There's just a low-level buzz all around me.

I pull my phone out of my purse. It's on silent, and the Wi-Fi is off. Mom looks my way but doesn't even do that little tight-lipped face-shake thing she does when she disapproves. I open the of K and A. We started it when we got our first phones. It is full of laughter, silly pictures, videos, and even a few answers to geometry tests, plus things we saw at the mall that we wanted. I skim through the story of our lives, wanting this day to end.

I know I should participate in the whole funeral thing, but I don't. I know I should cry, but I don't. I feel everyone around me waiting for it, waiting for something I can't define. I feel them wondering what I'm thinking and feeling. I let this thought overtake me for a while, and then I think about how little I care about what everyone thinks. My shoulders twitch just a little as I realize that, for the first time ever, I can channel a little bit of Katie and not give one shit about what everyone is thinking.

Instead, I think about today's list. The possibilities are endless. I'm in a whole new world here, full of things I've never seen or experienced before. This is prime list-making material. Strangely, that is not overwhelming. My fingers seem to know the topic before my brain catches up. I mentally add a little extra emphasis and capitalize each letter so that it reads like a silent scream.

List #135: TOP FIVE THINGS I HATE ABOUT THIS DAY

1. The god-awful smell of so many flowers. When I first walked into the room, I couldn't even see anything. All my senses screamed at the overwhelming odor of sugary-sweet flowers. When I die, I want people to skip the whole floral display. If they must throw money away to prove their love, then they should do unscented flowers. That's a thing, I think—unscented flowers. I will have to Google that later.

2. The huge formal picture of Katie propped up beside the coffin. I know all about the picture, in theory, but had never actually seen it. It's horrific. She had to do this for her dad. He insisted. Actually, he demanded. No excuses, he said. And now I see why Katie never showed anyone. It's like a glamour shot—the kind that you take at the mall. Her hair is curled like Aunt Linda's always is. She must have used hot rollers. Her makeup is retouched smooth. There's not a single blemish anywhere. And I've never seen whatever that is she's wearing. It bears repeating—the picture is horrific. It should be covered with black velvet like the mirrors are covered in movies when someone dies.

3. The music. Katie would have capital-H hated this music. She would have wanted music by One Direction or Taylor Swift or those quirky Lumineers she loved so much. What's playing is some kind of churchy music that comforts no one.

4. Thinking of Katie inside that box all alone in the dark, lid closed. I wonder if her mom put BooBoo in there with her or if the tattered, no-longer-gray elephant was still pushed under the covers at the bottom of her bed, just waiting for her toes to reach out when in need of comfort.

And suddenly, I'm not even here. I'm in that waiting place, the place Dr. Seuss describes as where we are "waiting for the rain to go or the phone to ring" and where "everyone is just waiting." It's from a book called Oh, the Places You'll Go! I'm there completely—just waiting for this to end, just waiting for East, just waiting to wake up.

The service finally winds down, and Mom takes my hand. I know it's time. We talked about this in the car ride over. It's supposed to be important to see people after they die. It's supposed to help you accept the death. Sounds like total crap to me, but I feel myself standing up and walking just the same.

We all go up to the coffin—Skip, Mom, Doug, and me. Mom goes first and pauses in front of the overflowing pinkness of it all. I add another item to my list: I hate the pinkness of this. Katie was not pink. Katie was vibrant purple, brazen red, brilliant orange—anything, absolutely anything but pink. Skip puts his hand on Mom's shoulder, and she inches over, holding Doug's hand as he walks up to the coffin. He reaches in the front pocket of his khaki pants and pulls out something. I can't see what it is, so it must be pretty small. He reaches up and tucks it underneath the covers with Katie, then makes the sign of the cross and moves on.

Then he looks up at me with those big blue eyes, full of tears. He looks so solemn and so very alone. I lean down so he can whisper in my ear.

"It burns," he says. He taps the center of his chest with two fingers, just like Skip. Tap tap.

"It burns my heart," he says. Wise words, I think.

I nod at him in silent agreement, kiss his hair, and rub his little back. I can't speak. Words are crashing through my head, but that dull buzzing sound won't let them connect. I want to press pause here for just a minute so I can catch up. Or, even better, let's close the file without saving changes. Let's just be done with this, please.

I feel Mom's hand touch mine, and something silky slides into my hand as she opens my fist. It is Katie's beach scarf. The tie-dyed colors have faded a little, and half of the sequins seem to have flown away. I don't know how it got from Katie's chair at the lake to my mother's hands, but I suspect East had some part in this. I look at it for one-two-three-four, four-three-two one, and then I let instinct take over.

I kneel down in front of the coffin; I just can't look at her. I'm pretty sure her mom dressed her in some awful pink fluffy dress. It makes my stomach hurt to try to picture it; I can't even let the image in my mind. Katie was never meant to be so silent, so still. I kneel down and rest my head against the side of the coffin. I take a long breath and then feel Doug kneeling beside me, his hands clasped in prayer. I reach up and slowly tie the scarf to one of the heavy handles of the coffin. I pull the knot tight and then tie it again.

I kneel there a minute or two more, counting my own breaths, touching fingers to thumb one-two-three-four, four-three-two-one. I don't cry. I don't even have those tiny little tears that squeeze out from the corner of your eyes without smearing your mascara since they are so small. It's as if my tears are shut down. I'm the Sahara, the Mohave, and the Gobi deserts all combined. I realize I'm hopping all over the place mentally as I suddenly imagine that guy in the nuclear reactor slamming that button when things start to overflow. I kneel there and think about the last item on today's list of the Top Five Things I Hate About This Day. My tapping takes on a life of its own, and I begin to gently knock my fists against the side of the coffin as I think how much I truly hate, hate, hate Katie for leaving me.