In Loving Memory

Guest from the Shadows

I held my mother's hand tight. Not so hard that my fingertips would be imprinted on her pale skin, but enough for her to know I was here. I could not bear to move away, no matter how sweaty my hands were. My back was leaned against her black convertible as we stood in the crowded parking lot. The crisp January breeze left rosiness across our noses and cheeks. I covered my black dress with a large coat. My mother trembled out of the passenger seat and slammed her purse on the sunroof.

"You ready?" I asked. I slammed the door behind me with my hip.

"Is anyone ever really ready?" she said. Her voice was isolated by the calm in the parking lot. We were late; everyone was inside. I shrugged because no. No one is ever prepared for this moment. Sometimes, I used to dream of my wake before I slept. The thought aches my stomach, but still, the idea makes me curious. As selfish as it seems, I just want to know who cares.

My mom let go of me once we reached the door of the church. A man, mid-forties with brown hair, guided us inside and into the main room. The room was painted pastel yellow, soft white roses along the aisles. A crowd of people huddled in plastic chairs, listening to the priest. As the tall wooden door shut, a collection of disturbing whispers filled the room. So many used tissues, puffy red eyes, and swollen cheeks, I followed my mother through the aisle. The room was congested with painful stares, but I kept my head down.

I was there for her, I reminded myself.

"Now, that's how you make an entrance," she whispered to me. I wanted to blend into the crowd, bow my head, say a prayer, and leave. My mom insisted it would be rude if we left early. However, I think it would be rude if we stayed.

.

The priest stood behind a wooden podium and read passages about grief, love, and family from the bible. I did not bother to pay attention. My gaze wandered to find Mrs. Phillips, sitting cross-legged in the first row next to her son, Michael. Mrs. Phillips's hair was strawberry blond, curls pinned up into a ponytail. She looked more together today, more stable. I could not stop staring at her. She was visually older than my mom. Wrinkled smile lines with chapped cherry lips. Her side profile was cold and stern. She hid her pain pretty well.

The priest said, "Now, I would like to open the floor to any family or friends that would like to share a story about Adam." The picture of Adam was on display in the front. A golden frame surrounded the picture. They picked the one from four years ago from my yearbook. Grey hair with black eyes and a gentle smile. He wore suits on picture day every year.

An awkward pause crept into the room. Numerous stares turned to the family, some even to us. As if, we were that disrespectful to speak at his funeral. Mrs. Phillips nudged her shoulder against Michael. Michael, a twenty-one-year-old musician, reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded loose-leaf paper. His dark hair was longer than I remember, unkept with way too much gel. Big loud green eyes, he looked at me for a second. Michael wore a clean suit with a loose fitted blue tie.

We went to high school together. We met through our science classes when he was a senior and I was a junior. His dad, Adam, was my history teacher that year. Michael and I took trips to Six Flags with my girl-friends and his guy friends. I smoked my first blunt with him. He was my first kiss. We never dated, but I always had this weird attraction to him. It never went anywhere like I wanted.

After graduation, we drifted apart. He never knew why and never asked. But, I couldn't look him in the face and lie any longer. So, I moved to the city and despised my mom for it every second.

Michael started to speak through the microphone.

"Thank you all for coming on behalf of my father, Adam Phillips. Many of you knew him as a teacher, a coach, a co-worker, and even a friend. My father was more than his degree, more than his job. He was a devoted father and husband. My mother and two sisters, Angela and Liane, will forever be grieving the loss of my father. But, the memory of him will live forever. I remember one summer, my father thought it would be a lovely family experience to go camping in Rochester, New York. He never went camping before. He was a city kid; an urban Brooklyn boy who knew nothing about camping..." Michael went on and on about how the trip was awful. It rained throughout the entire weekend, so they were stuck in a wooden, old bug infected cabin with only barbeque chips and blue Gatorade. The crowd laughed at the story. He continued to share more stories about his father. His voice muffled into the distance as I caught Mrs. Phillips staring at me. She whispered something into Liane's ear. Liane turned to me. I nudged my mom and told her to look.

That eye contact could burn flames from miles away. It was noticeable, so obvious that everyone around us disappeared. It was just me, my mom, Mrs. Phillips, and her daughters. The rows of people were oblivious, unconscious to the truth.

"If she really wants to start this, I could end it," my mom whispered in my ear. I knew what she wanted to do. She had joked about it countless times, cursed about it on the phone with her friends. I wish I was not here. I wish we stayed home, grieved privately our own way. I shook my head instantly.

"Please, stop. Not the place," I could not be embarrassed in front of Michael and my former classmates. Especially, when no one knows my mom was the other woman, Adam's mistress.