Death and Other Interruptions

Chapter Six

After Rashad left, I had about 30 minutes to myself before there was another knock. Death brings visitors, apparently, and somehow they all seemed to know not to come until today. Or maybe they'd come while I was at my mother's, and then I gave them credit for perseverance. Either way, I was glad I picked out an outfit this morning. I had no desire to look as pathetic as people no doubt expected me to.

This time, it was two of my friends. My first thought was to wonder where they'd been until now. Sympathetic text messages were dandy, but why hadn't they been here until now? Perhaps Mom had been my social manager the past few days without my knowing, which would explain how they knew to come today and to come to my apartment, but that didn't excuse their absence at the one place it meant the most, at the funeral, a public display of solidarity with the mourners—and, in this case, with those who believed Al deserved to be mourned and not pilloried. A small voice, Al's goodhearted voice, offered them redemption; just as they couldn't know how I feel, I couldn't know what it was like to be in their position. They didn't know Al well enough to have faith that he wasn't who the media said he was. These were leftover friends from college, friends who'd known us years ago. I should just accept that they were here now and stop questioning their absence earlier. Maybe they were closer with Vicki than I remembered.

The truth was, Al and I had drifted apart from the people we'd sworn to love forever. We had drawn into each other, needing friends less as we grew closer. We always had some vague idea of couple friends that we would make one day, perhaps once we were married. We'd get drinks with them and go bowling and do whatever else we saw couples do on television once they were too old for dancing and drinking into the night. We retained a few friends that we counted as close friends, and whom we had elected to be our bridesmaids and groomsmen, but it was an effort to see even them, and granting them those honors at the wedding was more of a last-ditch effort at salvaging the warmth of our college-day relationships. We hadn't seen each other in months. What was to stop them from trusting everyone who said he'd changed? And they were, at the end of the day, my friends. They deserved some benefit of the doubt. Being a mourner doesn't make you always in the right, I thought, though I had to force myself to believe it.

Serena and Allie, my two bridesmaids, were the ones in my doorway now. Serena held a casserole. Allie had her hands crammed awkwardly into her pockets, probably already regretting not bringing anything, if only to have something to hold. They had clearly consulted one another before coming, deciding on somber yet professional outfits to visit the bereaved. I was no longer a simple friend: I was an occasion, if a depressing one, and I was a charity. They would dress up to see me and go home and check me off their lists with a sigh of relief. They would call each other and come out in teams so as not to face the awkward occasion—me—alone, and then they would call each other when it was over to compare notes. Their role was enviable, though, compared to mine. I would have to accept their visits on their own schedules. I would have to be gracious and composed and put them at ease to minimize the strangeness of this new terrain, when in reality I didn't want them there as much as they didn't want to be there. I didn't want to comfort them. Somewhere along the way, someone had decided mourners needed to be visited, and because of that arbitrary idea of what was respectful and proper, we would all have to suffer for propriety's sake.

Until a week ago, these two women were my closest female friends. Now they were bringing me casserole and my first reaction to seeing them is to wonder how long they'll be staying.

Allie broke the silence first, stepping through the doorway to throw her arms dramatically around me.

"Oh, Jenny!" she wailed. I patted her back mindlessly, forced, as I'd imagined, into the role of comforter, and looked over at Serena. She shrugged apologetically.