Push(88)

The minister is reading a verse from the Bible, and as his words tumble out, I look up at the colored window behind him. I hated the sight of that window when I was a girl because it reminded me of my father’s funeral. And now it will remind me of my mother’s, too. It is the same church. The same minister. The same service. Michael doesn’t know it, but I do. I know that when my mother picked out my father’s casket, she said it had to be lined with dark gray satin. She chose the Bible verses and the songs and the poetry for his ceremony. She buried my father in his favorite red tie, the one I picked out for him on his birthday. I wonder if Ricky and Evan remember. It doesn’t matter, though, because I do. And when Michael set me the task of arranging my mother’s funeral because he “had a business to run,” I picked a casket lined with dark gray satin. I picked the exact same Bible verses and songs and poetry that we heard twelve years ago. I am burying my mother in the red shawl my father gave her, and she is wearing the small gold band he slid on to her finger on their wedding day. I put the gaudy diamond ring she got from Michael in a homeless man’s collection cup.
Her casket is closed because of the accident. Because Michael sent her to the airport in the middle of the night to pick up his colleague. Because Michael forgot to arrange for a town car to pick the man up, and when he got a call from the airport about the lack of transportation, Michael was three sheets to the wind in someone else’s house. In some other woman’s house. So Michael called my mother. He woke her up and screamed at her until she agreed to go get the man and take him to his hotel in the city. She fell asleep, and the truck driver didn’t see her car slip into his lane. It was three o’clock in the morning when she died.
My brothers flank Michael in the pew, and I can’t help but wonder why they aren’t angry with him for sending my mother to her death. They don’t even seem sad. At my father’s funeral, they cried until their eyes were rimmed in red. They held my hand and told me how brave I was and how much my daddy loved me. But now, now that Michael has formed them into these “other” people, it’s as if they don’t remember any of that. They don’t remember having been loved.
I am staying with my friend Susan and her parents because there is no f*cking way I am ever going back to Michael’s. Susan came home from college for a few days to attend the funeral, and her parents were nice enough to give me a place to camp out for as long as I need to. Case Western gave me three weeks leave, but they would also allow me to opt out for the entire semester if that’s what I preferred. I don’t want that, though. I want to get back to school as soon as possible. I want to get away from here. I already have my bus ticket. I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon.
The pipe organ starts playing from the balcony above us, and I watch Michael and my brothers stand up. After I rise to my feet, the minister asks us to open up our hymnals and everyone begins to sing. Everyone but me. My voice is stuck in my throat, trapped there like smoke. I move my mouth to the words of the hymn, but no sound comes out. I’m on the verge of tears. I’m glad when the song is over.
At the end of the service, the minister thanks us all for coming and invites everyone to join the family in the fellowship hall to share some good food and fond memories. There are so many of my mother’s relatives here. So many that I don’t recognize. I haven’t seen them in years because we stopped going to family reunions when my mom married Michael. As I walk up the center aisle of the church a few paces behind Michael and my brothers, I look at everyone’s faces. There aren’t many tears, not compared to all that were shed at my father’s funeral. It makes me feel sad for my mother. Sad that people forgot what an amazing person she once was. Sad that she lost herself twice—first to my father’s death and then to Michael. Sad that she spent so many years punishing herself for losing her first love in such a terrible way.
I smile a little when I pass Susan and see that her whole family is here. She is holding a Kleenex, and her puffy eyes are full of emotion. But I don’t think she cried for my mother; I think she cried for me. When I get to the back of the church, I see Peter Beckman. He is standing in the second-to-last pew, dressed in a dark suit and a blue tie. He looks beautiful. It is clear that he was crying, and he looks at me with enough warmth and compassion to fill the whole room. Besides my brothers, he is the only one here who has even an inkling about Michael’s cruelty. His sorrow for me is painted across his face, and it brings a rush of tears to my eyes. His father is here, too. Mr. Beckman’s hand is on Peter’s shoulder, and he is wearing a small, sympathetic smile. They both tighten when they see the fresh tears on my face, and Peter immediately walks toward the aisle. His arms wrap around me, and as people file past, he hugs me as I sob into his shoulder. We separate a few minutes later, and I tell him how grateful I am that he could come and how much I miss our conversations. We chat for a while about college. He tells me Northwestern is treating him well. He has a girlfriend there and is busy with soccer training and course work. He seems content, and when his father tells him it’s time to say goodbye so that I can visit with the rest of our guests, I am reluctant to walk away. I feel a twinge of regret that this gentle boy is no longer a part of my life. We trade cell numbers and promise to keep in touch. I know we won’t, though, because that’s the way life is.
When I make my way to the fellowship hall, my eyes scan the room. Ricky and Evan are standing next to the food table chatting with a few of our relatives. Michael is sitting at a table off to my left, surrounded by a group of men neatly dressed in suits. They are all wearing big gold rings, and I think immediately that they must be somehow involved in Michael’s business because they all look as dark and twisted as he does. Michael looks up at me when I walk into the room. His eyes are blank and hollow. He stares at me for a few seconds, and when one of the men notices that Michael is looking elsewhere, he, too, turns his head toward me. The man nods in my direction, then both he and Michael turn their faces back to the other men at the table. My hands clench into fists, and I bite at my lower lip to keep from walking over there and giving Michael what he deserves—a kick in the f*cking crotch. I will not lose control at my own mother’s funeral.