The Familiar Dark(13)

“People are gonna ask about Junie’s funeral,” Cal called from the living room as I was slipping on a pair of scuffed black pumps. “They don’t understand why you’re not having one. Think it’s strange.”

“I don’t care what people think,” I said. For so long, that had been all I cared about. Measuring every action, every word, every thought against how it might reflect back on Junie. It was a kind of relief not to have to worry about it. Nothing I did, or didn’t do, could hurt her anymore.

The church parking lot was already full by the time we arrived, but I refused Cal’s offer to drop me off out front. Small groups were clustered along the sidewalk, and I didn’t want to stand there alone, have to nod and accept condolences and hugs. I wanted to be whisked inside like a criminal before anyone had time to notice me. Cal sat with me in the car parked a block down the road until everyone else had filtered inside, and we snuck in right as they were closing the doors for the service.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been inside a church. My mama had the same opinion of religion that she did of the law—nothing good ever came from either one of them, and they both used fear to persuade fools to follow their rules. If she had indulged an urge to bring us closer to God, this bland Methodist chapel would have been her last choice. She would have taken us to one of the “churches” scattered throughout the holler, instead. The kind of place with dirt floors and snakebit parishioners speaking in tongues. Something with a little fire to it. Something with teeth.

I slid into one of the back pews before Cal could pull me forward, kept my head tilted down into the hymnal I’d opened on my lap. I was scared to look up, scared to see all the people filling the church. Scared of my own reaction. Because in a town this size, the person who’d killed Junie and Izzy was bound to be sitting right there among us. Praying and singing and crying as if they hadn’t wielded the knife themselves. Slowly, I raised my head. Ran my eyes along the rows of mourners. Jack Pearson from the tire store, with the gaze that always followed young girls a little too close. Sally Nickels, who’d hated me since I’d slept with her boyfriend in tenth grade. Dave Colson, whose love affair with the bottle made him mean and unpredictable. It could have been any of them. It could have been none of them.

“Hey,” Cal murmured. “Hey, breathe.” He reached over and rubbed my back, his hand warm and rough through my shirt.

I looked back down, kept my eyes on the hymnal until my vision blurred. When I looked up again, Zach and Jenny were approaching their daughter’s casket. It felt like the entire church was holding its breath, the only sound Jenny’s hoarse sobbing. A mean, hateful part of me wondered if she ever stopped. Her shoulders hunched as she placed a hand on Izzy’s closed (thank God) casket and Zach reached forward, supporting her. He whispered something into her ear and began to guide her gently away. Everyone else averted their eyes, dying to look but not wanting to be caught staring. But I stared, and Zach’s gaze caught mine, his face pulled taut with grief. A bright shock of anger pulsed under my skin. Who was going to hold me up? Who was going to put their arms around me? Cal couldn’t do it forever, that was asking too much of him, but who else was there? I jerked my eyes away.

When it was over, the last prayer voiced, the last hymn sung, I wanted to escape the same way I’d arrived. But Zach and Jenny were allowed to exit first, and then they lined up by the front door. A gauntlet we had to run before we were free. I had no idea what to say to them. Sorry for your loss sounded wrong considering I’d suffered the exact same misfortune. And I had no words of comfort, no real belief that someday our loss would no longer feel like a gaping wound or that our daughters were better off. The dead were gone and the world could be a nasty, festering place. And somehow, our daughters had gotten tangled in its ugliness. That was the only truth I knew. At least I was smart enough to know that saying it out loud wouldn’t be helpful to anyone.

Zach and Jenny were standing together in the vestibule, arranged under a banner of silver foil balloons spelling out IZZY and attached to the floor with hot-pink ribbons. I wondered if the person responsible for them was the same one who’d left me the cookies. A thoughtful gesture turned macabre and ghoulish in actual execution.

I was still worrying over what to say when Jenny saved me, her social graces much more polished than mine. Turned out I didn’t need to say a word. She swept me into her thin arms the second I approached. Her tearstained cheek pressed into mine, and her shuddering breath whispered past my ear.

I pulled back as gently as I could, gritting my teeth against the urge to shove her off of me. “The service was very nice,” I managed.

Jenny’s lip quivered as she tried to smile. “Thank you.”

Zach laid his hand on my back and I flinched away, feeling surrounded, buried under their grief and good intentions when I was struggling to stay afloat myself. “Is there anything we can do for you?” he asked.

I shook my head without looking at either of them. The air in the vestibule was too warm, the heater pumping even though the temperature outside was spring mild, and a bead of sweat slithered down my spine. I swallowed down the lump forming in my throat. “No, I’m okay. You worry about yourselves.” The words came out harsh, accusing rather than conciliatory.

“Come on,” Cal said, grabbing my hand. “Let’s get some air.”