Collateral Damage

Chapter Thirty

The funeral was held that Sunday at the nondenominational church. Not the McCloud's church, thank God for small favors. A staunchly Catholic church wouldn't raise such a fuss for a suicide.

I made it clear to my parents that I was going with or without them. To my surprise, they didn't try to stop me. The tragedy had shaken them enough to overcome whatever issues they issues they had with John. Or maybe they just wanted to avoid another fight. Either way, we all attended together.

I hadn't been to a funeral since my grandpa died five years back. I wound up wearing the same black velvet dress I had just for that occasion. I couldn't believe it still fit.

Then I couldn't believe I was thinking about such a stupid detail when Jasmine was lying in a coffin not less than ten feet in front of me.

The service went by in a blur. When I'd try to recall it later, all I could muster were scattered fragments of details. The way legs my legs itched under my pantyhose. Grams receiving guests with her lips pressed so tightly together that her brittle face looked like it could break apart. A brief glimpse of John sitting next to her in the front pew, wearing a suit and tie. Once again, he was freshly shaved, and his shaggy hair was combed so neatly that it was practically plastered to his skull.

The sight of Jasmine lying in the open casket, her arms folded over her chest. Remembering all those sad moments in the Disney movies she adored: the hero/heroine seemingly dead, their loved ones grieving. Then comes the miraculous resurrection, and everyone is happy again.

But it wasn't Snow White sleeping in her coffin. There would be no true love's kiss, no dashing hero, no Blue Fairy, no magic carpets, no healing power of love to save her. Like her beloved dolls, she was cold and lifeless, never to feel anything again.

Frances sat several rows behind John and Grams. Her face was buried in tissues, but that wasn't enough to muffle her unearthly sobbing and wailing. "My baby, my baby."

A few elderly women—possibly Grams' friends—shot her dark glares. Yet most of the mourners probably had no idea of the role she played in her own daughter's suicide. They came to her side, pat her back, offered her water and more tissues, whisper their condolences.

There was no pity in my heart for her. The sound of her cries only made me sick with rage. None of those tears were for Jasmine; they were all for herself, for her loss. Another chance to play the victim and get sympathy from the spectators. It wasn't enough that she drove her own daughter to her death, she had to turn her funeral into a circus too.

If she did feel any remorse, I didn't care. Let her suffer. Let the remorse eat her alive from the inside out. She deserved it.

For as much racket she made throughout the service, John and Grams never once turned to face her. Didn't so much as budge in their pew.

Then it was off to the cemetery for the burial. Everyone was gathered around the plot. My parents and I stood on side, John and Grams right across from us. I didn't know if he even knew I was there; he barely seemed aware of where he was. He just kept staring the coffin with hollow eyes.

The pallbearers lifted the coffin, preparing to lower it into the hole, when a shriek broke through the silence. Frances pushed her way forward. "Stop!" she cried. "Let me say goodbye to my baby!"

Before anyone could move, before anyone could even comprehend what she was doing, she ran up to the coffin, reached over to the latch, yanked it open...

Oh dear God in heaven. She wouldn't.

I didn't look away quick enough. My eyes and mind were forever branded by gruesome tableau the gruesome tableau of Frances cradling and kissing the stiff little body.