Just J (3 page)

We re-enter the funeral home. It's as if I never left. The room is still frozen. All eyes, once again, are on me.

The Witch's glare locks onto me. She swoops like an owl on a mouse, but before she can get her talons around me, Dad grabs her arm.

He isn't looking at her, or at me, but at Aunt Guinevere. I look up at Aunt Guinevere, who's looking at Dad intently yet tenderly. Aunt Guinevere nods. Dad turns and whis–pers something to The Creature. She says something back in an obviously disagreeable manner. Dad ignores her.

His eyes turn to me as he leaves The She-devil's side with such a determined step that it makes me feel I should get out of the way. The Evil One watches him, hands on her hips, a
Well, I never
expression on her face. She tightens her grip on Billy's hand, causing him to wince and, using his whole body, pull free.

Dad grabs me and gives me a big hug, the biggest since the hospital, which was the biggest he'd ever given me. He's not really a hugging guy, or he wasn't. Now he holds me so tight that I think I'm going to pop.

Girl crushed to death by father at mother's funeral
.

As if the other kids don't think I'm a big-enough freak as it is, but to die like that—I wouldn't be able to show my face at my own funeral.

“We have to say good-bye now,” he says in a tender voice, like I had done nothing wrong.

Dad takes hold of my hand and we walk back over to The She-demon. Then something
amazing
happens: Dad doesn't look at her. He extends his hand to Billy, who takes it.

“What are you doing?” The Serpent hisses.

Dad doesn't reply.

The three of us—me, Dad and Billy—walk up to the casket. It feels like years pass in this once-again silent room. But the silence is different this time—it's comforting.

As we arrive at the coffin, everyone else in the room dis–appears. It's just the four of us now, a proper family again.

I don't want to be here, but I also don't want to leave this place where nothing is real and it's all too real to bear. My body tingles with numbness. I want this play to end and Mom to take her bow so we can all go home.

Dad releases my hand and I turn quickly, expecting to see The Hunter returning for its prey, but Dad has only let go in order to lift Billy. When Billy is secure in Dad's arms, Dad grabs my hand again.

He squeezes my hand while putting his head against Billy's head. Billy looks so lost as the tears start to well in Dad's eyes, but it's not the sobbing it was before. This time Dad's doing his best to hold it together.

“Never forget how much she loves you,” he chokes out as he gives my hand another squeeze to make sure I under–stand that the sentiment is also meant for me.

Instinctively I answer with a hand squeeze of my own. All the tingles swarm together to form a ball in the base of my throat, choking me and causing my eyes to water. I'm not sure who this man is, but for these frozen moments, he seems like a father.

Billy stares blankly at Mom and then, with a wiggle, silently asks Dad to put him down. When Dad does, Billy comes around and grabs my free hand. He stares at the floor, rocking impatiently.

I guess he's said his good-byes, or maybe he's decided that the body in the casket isn't really Mom, so he can't say good-bye. Perhaps he doesn't understand this is good-bye, or he knows it isn't. I wish I knew. Oh, how I wish I knew.

Dad, free from Billy, reaches over and sets his hand on Mom's forehead. He leans in and kisses her gently.

“I love you,” he whispers, and then he straightens up, puts his shoulders back in an unnaturally rigid stance and swallows deeply.

“Come on,” he says.

The man from the funeral home is in front of us as we turn.

“Right this way,” he instructs, ushering us out of the chapel toward a side room. As we leave, I turn and look over my shoulder to see what he is moving us away from. A man and a woman from the funeral home are preparing to close the casket. I turn away before they actually do the deed. Watching would make it too final.

Chapter Five

B
efore we even get to the door of the small side room—I want to call it a waiting room, but the idea of a waiting room at a funeral parlor is just too creepy—The Thing swoops in and snatches Dad away.

He releases my hand and I stop dead in the aisle—if you'll pardon the expression—feeling a banshee scream forming deep within, but before it can dislodge the lump from my throat, a hand softly grips my shoulder. I look up at Aunt Guinevere, whose eyes offer support as her touch calms me.

After we enter the side room, the undertaker closes the door to give us some time to ourselves while they finish with the casket.

There's a large leather couch and two matching chairs, but we all stand in the center with our heads down, like we're in some sort of prayer circle. I start to feel claustrophobic.

I look to Aunt Guinevere for comfort and find myself wondering why no one else seems to notice her and why Dad hasn't said anything to her. And then it dawns on me— she isn't real.

I've lost my mind! My brilliant mind. The stress has taken me over the edge and I'm starting to see people who aren't even there. Oh, this isn't good; this is so far from good—even if the imaginary person is brighter than the real people.

Okay, don't look at her, don't talk to her, don't let anyone know that you're seeing things. But I
feel
her hand on my shoulder. Can you
feel
a hallucination? Well, that's a dumb question. I
feel
her.

I keep my head down and try to act sane. Fortunately, considering the circumstances and the company, I have a lot of leeway.

“How are you, Gerald?” my hallucination asks Dad.

“Guinevere?” Dad sees my hallucination too. Oh my god.

We're both going mad and he seems relieved about it. “When I saw you I thought…it's been a long time.”

“Who's this, Gerald?” asks The Wicked One.

Wait a minute. If they can both see her—oh praise be!—

I'm not nuts! Not as nuts as originally suspected, anyway.

“Fanny,” Dad says, calling The Beast by name, “this is Anastasia's sister, Guinevere.”

“Pleased to meet you,” The Beast says with all the sin–cerity of a scorpion on a frog's back, promising not to sting.

She extends her stinger, which Aunt Guinevere graciously shakes while staring directly into her eyes.

My eyes travel back and forth between them like I'm watching a tennis match with a neck brace on. Fanny serves a hard and fast dirty look, showing Aunt Guinevere on whose court she's playing. Aunt Guinevere boldly meets the glare, returning it with such confident ease that it throws her opponent off. Shaken, but not fallen, Fanny sizes up Guinevere's wardrobe with a quick once-over, and then she lobs up stern disapproval. Guinevere follows with a warm and gentle smile that says,
That's the best you've got? Doesn't
even warrant a mention.
Fanny's been put completely off her game. Unable to even attempt a return, she smiles ner–vously, nods, turns and stalks off the court. Before crossing the foul line, The Wicked Creature is restored to her evil self and throws a menacing look over her shoulder, letting her adversary know there'll be a rematch.

Guinevere spots Billy, who is still a growth on the end of my arm.

“And you must be Billy. I'm your Aunt Guinevere,” she says, extending her hand.

Billy attaches himself to my hip.

“Mom's dead,” he blurts out.

“Only in the most basic sense,” Aunt Guinevere tells him.

“I'm never going to see her again,” Billy says. “They told me so.”

“They did, did they?” Aunt Guinevere replies. “Close your eyes.”

Billy's eyes get wider when she says this.

“Go on, close them,” she tells him, waving her hand gently over Billy's face without touching it.

Billy nods and closes his eyes.

“Think about your mom,” she says. “Do you see her?”

“Yeah.”

“What's she doing?”

“She's smiling at me.”

“And I'll bet if you try you can hear her too.”

“Yeah.”

Fanny watches in disapproval.

“What's she saying?”

“No cookies before dinner.”

Aunt Guinevere's smile widens as she holds back a laugh.

“There you have it then,” she says. “I guess they don't know sh—!”

“That's completely inappropriate, ” Fanny says, doing her best to drown out the forbidden word, the sound of which causes Billy's eyes to pop open. And I must admit mine get a little larger too.

But as Billy's giggle rises for the first time in over a week, I see that it was more than appropriate—it was necessary.

“We're ready for you now,” says the undertaker, who has entered the room unnoticed.

I don't think anyone's ready for Aunt Guinevere.

The Evil One darts in to grab my dad's hand. I can't even begin to list how many things are wrong with that little maneuver. I feel my blood start to boil—as Aunt Milly would say—then a cool hand touches my head. I look up at Aunt Guinevere, who's extending her other hand to Billy while turning her back on Dad and Fanny.

I force a halfsmile, trying to wipe away my anger. I remember Sunday school and turning the other cheek, but I can't help but think that if Jesus met Fanny, his advice would change.

Chapter Six

T
he undertaker leads us back to the chapel and steps aside to let us pass. I half expect him to announce us, like we're the royal family arriving at a party. This is so unbelievably messed up.

The coffin is closed. Mom's hidden away from every–thing now. Maybe that's why she left us—she couldn't take it anymore; she couldn't take
us
anymore. She just wanted to get away. My whining, my constant bitching. I com–plained about having to go to the hospital, and I threw a tantrum so I could go to a school dance—a
stupid
school dance.

I didn't even want to go to the dance. I just didn't want to be told I couldn't. I was sick of her getting all the atten–tion all the time. Maybe she
is
well rid of me, better off in that box than with us. She must have thought so or she never would have let it happen.

The minister drones on about God and Jesus and the love of our Lord and how it's all-forgiving. If God's love is all-forgiving, then why do I feel like I'm being punished? And the part about how he loves us all equally? Why does he make some of our lives so much harder than others? Why do I lose my mother while those other girls—the little clueless wonders He apparently loves equally—still have theirs and will most likely continue to have them when they start dating, have their first kiss, graduate, get married, have kids. Whatever they do, they'll have their moms. If you believe what the minister is saying, mine will be forever with Jesus. What does Jesus need her for? He's got millions of followers; I have no one!

I start to hum to try and tune it out, which draws some pretty nasty looks from a lot of people—not just Satan in her second black suit. Are you even supposed to wear black if you're not related? What is the protocol? Not that The Vulture would care. I wouldn't be surprised if, before she found Dad, she used to circle other women's funerals, looking for lonely widowers.

Aunt Guinevere isn't wearing black, and she's also not giving me dirty looks. She doesn't even notice that I'm humming. She seems to be in her own little world, her expression neither happy nor sad.

I stop humming and start looking over the crowd. I see some of the girls from school—girls I used to be friends with. Their mothers probably dragged them here.

I listen to the minister go on and on about how horrible it is to see a mother taken away from her children.

“Take comfort in the time you had together,” he instructs us, “and know that she is watching over you and will be there to guide you wherever life's path takes you. And remember that she will go on living in you and in the memories you have of her.”

Why do people keep saying that? A memory can't hug you. It can't stroke your hair when you're feeling sick or cheer for you at a school concert or make you a birthday cake.

“So you can stick the memories up your robe.”

Now, that last bit wasn't supposed to be out loud. But judging by everyone's face, I may've done my thinking a little louder than I meant to.

I look up at Aunt Guinevere and grab her hand. She looks down at me and smiles, then looks off again. After what seems like hours, the minister continues his sermon. I lean against Aunt Guinevere, avoiding eye contact with everyone and using all my brainpower not to think.

Chapter Seven

T
he graveside service is mercifully short. Dad keeps his weeping under control. As I place the rose on the coffin, I feel nauseated. I put my hand into the pile of fresh earth, the world spins out of control. I barely hit the grave when I toss the dirt.

The only thing that keeps me from throwing up is Billy, who stares at me for answers. He doesn't want to be here. He doesn't understand why he has to be and he wants me to explain. Of course I can't. The best that I can do is not add to his confusion by projectile vomiting onto the casket. Mind you, he might find it funny.

I see Aunt Guinevere standing back from the grave. Her expression hasn't really changed, but there is a trace of sad–ness in it now. A forced smile pushes a tear out of the corner of one of her eyes. I smile back.

After the ceremony we go back to our house, which quickly fills with people. Everyone seems to have turned out for the reception.

I stand in the kitchen doorway. The nausea hasn't left and I feel like I haven't slept in years. I eat a few little pickles and some tiny sandwiches, hoping food will help. It doesn't.