Forever, Interrupted(41)
I get out of the car and straighten my dress. I take off my hat with the veil and leave it on the front seat of Ana’s car. She sees me do this and nods.
“Too dramatic for interiors,” she says.
If I open my mouth I will cry and spill my feelings all over this sidewalk. I simply nod and tighten my lips, willing the knot in my throat to recede, to let me do this. I tell myself I can cry all night. I can cry for the rest of my life, if I can just get through this.
When I find myself in front of Susan’s house, I am shocked at the sheer size of it. It’s too big for one person; that much is obvious from the street. My guess is she knows that already, feels it every day. It’s a Spanish-style house in a brilliant shade of white. At night, it must serve as a moon for the whole block. The roof is a deep brown with terra cotta shingles. The windows are huge. Bright, tropical-looking flowers are all over her front lawn. This house isn’t just expensive; it takes a lot of upkeep.
“Jesus, what did she do? Write Harry Potter?” Ana says as we stare at it.
“Ben didn’t grow up crazy rich. This all must be recent,” I say, and then we walk up the brick steps to Susan’s open front door. The minute I cross the threshold, I’m thrown into the middle of it.
It’s a bustling house now full of people. Caterers in black pants and white shirts are offering people things like salmon mousse and shrimp ceviche on blue tortilla chips. I see a woman walk by me with a fried macaroni and cheese ball, and I think, If I ate food, that’s what I’d eat. Not this seafood crap. Who serves seafood at a funeral reception? I mean, probably everyone. But I hate seafood, and I hate this funeral reception.
Ana grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowd. I don’t know what I was expecting from this reception, so I don’t know whether I’m disappointed or not.
Finally, we make our way to Susan. She is in her kitchen, her beautiful, ridiculously stocked kitchen, and she is speaking to the caterers about the timing of various dishes and where things are located. She’s so kind and understanding. She says things like “Don’t worry about it. It’s just some salsa on the carpet. I’m sure it will come out.” And “Make yourself at home. The downstairs bathroom is around the corner to the right.”
The guest bathroom. I want to see the guest bathroom. How do I run upstairs and find it without her knowing? Without being terribly rude and thoughtless? I just want to see his handwriting. I just want to see new evidence that he was alive.
Ana squeezes my hand and asks me if I want a drink. I decline, and so she makes her way over to the bar area without me. Suddenly, I am standing in the middle of a funeral dedicated to my husband, and yet, I am not a part of it. I do not know anyone here. Everyone is walking around me, talking next to me, looking at me. I am the enigma to them. I am not a part of the Ben they knew. Some of them stare and then smile when I catch them. Others don’t even see me. Or maybe they are just better at staring. Susan comes out from the kitchen.
“Should you go talk to her?” Ana asks, and I know that I should. I know that this is her house, this is her event, and I am a guest and I should say something.
“What do I say in a situation like this?” I have started saying “situation like this” because this situation is so unique that it has no name and I don’t feel like constantly saying, “My new husband died and I’m standing in a room full of strangers making me feel like my husband was a stranger.”
“Maybe just ‘How are you?’ ” Ana suggests. I think it’s stupid that the most appropriate question to ask the mother of my dead husband on the day of his funeral is the same question I ask bank tellers, waiters, and any other strangers I meet. Nevertheless, Ana is right. That is what I should do. I breathe in hard and hold it, and then I let it out and I start walking over to her.
Susan is speaking with a few women her own age. They are dressed in black or navy suits with pearls. I walk up and wait patiently next to her. It’s clear that I want to cut in. The women leave pauses in the conversation, but none feel big enough for me to jump in. I know that she can see me. I’m in her sight line. She’s just making me wait because she can. Or maybe she’s not. Maybe she’s trying to be polite and this isn’t about me. Honestly, I’ve lost perspective on what’s about me and what isn’t so . . .
“Hi, Elsie,” she says to me as she finally turns around. She turns her back away from her friends, and her torso now faces mine. “How are you?” she asks me.
“I was just about to ask you that,” I say.
She nods. “This is the most f*cked-up day of my life,” she says. The minute the word f*ck comes out of her mouth, she becomes a real person to me, with cracks and holes, huge vulnerable spots and flaws. I see Ben in her, and I start to cry. I hold back the tears as best I can. Now isn’t the time to lose it. I have to keep it together.
“Yeah, it’s a hard day,” I say, my voice starting to betray me. “Your speech was . . . ” I begin, and she puts her hand out to stop me.
“Yours too. Keep your chin up. I know how to get through these things, and it’s by keeping your chin up.”
This is about all I get from Susan, and I’m not sure if it’s a metaphor or not. She is pulled away by new arrivals that want to prove what good people they are by “being there for her.” I walk back over to Ana, who is now near the kitchen. The waiters are running back and forth with full and empty trays, and as they do, Ana keeps pulling bacon-wrapped dates off the full ones. “I did it,” I say.