A Million Miles Away(7)

Kelsey’s dad reached for his daughter, found her hand.

“You may want to take a seat. There’s been an accident.”





CHAPTER FOUR


The day of Michelle’s funeral, cars lined the road in front of the Maxfield house. People moved in and out, standing on the front porch staring into space, watching oak leaves fall and collect on the yard. A pile of coats gathered in the front hall.

Inside, Kelsey moved through the crowd, holding the hand of her six-year-old cousin, Tabatha. Kelsey’s classmates and friends, Michelle’s friends, their relatives—all muted their conversations as she passed.

This funeral field of mutters and quiet music was the most activity her house had seen in a week. She and her mother and father had slept in shifts, three or four hours at a time, giving one another quiet hugs in the hallway if they were to pass, before returning to sleep.

Kelsey hadn’t looked any of her friends in the eyes. She hadn’t really spoken to anyone that day, either, except to Tabatha, for some reason. But her parents had asked her to do this.

Tabbie was wearing shiny buckled shoes and a black velvet dress. She didn’t quite understand what was going on, just that Michelle was gone, and that she should be sad. Kelsey caught glances of her practicing an exaggerated frown, her little cheeks turning red from the effort.

Kelsey stopped at the fireplace, one jade Buddha on each side of her head, her hair pulled up in its typical, tight bun. She had changed out of her dress into black jeans and a gray sweater.

“Everyone,” Kelsey said, still holding her cousin’s hand. “I’m supposed to tell you that there are food and drinks ready in the kitchen.” Their eyes stayed on her, waiting. “Thanks,” she added.

A few people, mostly students that hadn’t even known Michelle that well, trickled toward the food.

Kelsey had never been to a funeral before. She had only ever seen them in movies. She thought everyone would be in tears. Instead, only a few people were crying—not counting a couple of babies, who didn’t know why. She wasn’t one of them. She thought there was going to be a coffin lowered into the ground, and that it would be raining and gray. Instead, they had all stood outside the funeral home on the bright, cold day with Michelle’s burnt remains in a gilded tin, like a take-out box.

She thought she would have a moment with the body, bending over Michelle’s waxy face looking up at the ceiling forever.

Instead, once they confirmed her identity with the coroner, her parents had decided not to look at her sister again. She had only had a few cuts. After the Volvo had veered off K-10 on her way home from the airport, the bleeding had mostly been internal, the doctors said.

Kelsey thought she would weep and moan and clench her fists, like her mother had done when she first heard the news, like she had been cut open.

But she couldn’t do any of that. Even if she wanted to, Kelsey couldn’t feel a thing.

She took a seat, putting Tabbie on her lap, wrapping her arms around the little girl’s velvety body.

Kelsey heard someone, probably a teacher or an aunt, say, “What a beautiful photo they chose for the memorial.”

It was her school photo from last year. Michelle had hated that picture. Her mermaid hair had covered the straps of her tank top, and everyone had made fun of her for looking naked. But there weren’t a whole lot of photos to choose from; most of the ones their mom and dad had around the house were of Kelsey and Michelle together.

Facing each other, blowing bubbles in the backyard.

At Christmas, holding up their presents.

Wearing matching hideous dresses for their first middle school dance, back when they were really into dressing alike.

And the one they took when they were fifteen, Michelle’s hair dyed purple and Kelsey’s bleached blonde: standing on the newly built porch in the summer, giving “rock on” signs with their hands, their tongues out.

Prints of these photos were scattered on a white tablecloth, with a book and a pen for people to write messages.

Michelle, one of the messages read in the loopy handwriting of the art teacher at Lawrence High, Your spirit and enormous talent will never be replaced.

Michele, said another one, her name misspelled in chicken scratch, You were my favorite wandering soul.

Kelsey recognized her grandma’s cursive. You’re with the angels now.

“Bunch of bullshit, right?” Davis sat next to her in pleated pants, filling the air with the smell of mint. Kelsey covered Tabbie’s ears.

“I guess,” she said.

“You don’t have to be here if this is too much,” Davis said. He scooted close, putting an arm around her.

“Yes, I do,” she replied.

“You can do whatever you want.” Whatever she wanted, he said. Like it was her birthday or something. He leaned in close to her to kiss her lips, but Kelsey turned away.

“Hey,” a voice said above her. The word went down at the end, as words said to Kelsey did a lot lately. Gillian and Ingrid stood in front of them, mascara streaked under Gillian’s almond-shaped eyes, Ingrid’s blonde hair looking unwashed.

“I brought your homework,” Gillian said. “It’s just history and calc. Mr. Schulz said not to worry about Geography.”

Ingrid sniffed, her jaw clenched. “Screw that. Screw school, Kels. You come back whenever you want to. We will be waiting for you.” Her voice started to shake. “We won’t do any new dances until you come back. We won’t choreograph anything, because you are our captain, and we’re not going to—”