See You at Harry's(37)

The parking lot is already filling up when we get to the restaurant. We park in the back and go in through the kitchen. It’s been almost a week since I’ve been here. A few of the regular cooks are busy heating up the various dishes people dropped off. They hug my mom and dad and cry. We inch closer to the swinging door that leads to the dining room, where people are already gathering.

The door swings open and the minister comes in. He shakes my dad’s hand and pats my mom’s shoulders.

“The chairs are all set up, and people are starting to settle in,” he says.

My parents latch on to each other as if they are holding each other up. Sara and Holden both reach for my hands.

“The table looks beautiful,” the minister says. “The flowers are perfect. I understand you didn’t bring the urn with you.”

My mom shakes her head.

I hadn’t thought about an urn. That there would be one. My grandparents died before I was born, and I’ve never been to a funeral before. But I guess they must put the ashes in something. I squeeze my eyes shut to try to erase the thought of Charlie in some sort of vase. All of Charlie in some tiny bottle. It feels so wrong. So impossible.

We wait a bit longer in the kitchen while the minister goes out to the dining room to welcome people. Though I guess welcome isn’t the best word. The smell of all the food heating up is making me feel sick to my stomach. The tag inside the collar of my shirt starts to scratch.

Finally, the minister comes back to get us. There’s a row of empty seats saved for us in the front of the dining room, and we all sit down. I don’t look out at the sea of people crammed into the restaurant. I look at my hands in my lap. After we’re all seated, the minister goes to the front of the room and stands next to the table with the flowers and Charlie’s photo in a large frame. Charlie’s brown hair looks like it’s glowing, with the beautiful fall light shining through. Sara took the photo when she and my mom brought Charlie apple picking a week or so before — before. Holden and I didn’t want to go, and my dad was working. They came home with apple-cider doughnuts and two bags of apples. Charlie kept pulling apples out of the bag to show me and Holden which ones he’d picked. We told him he couldn’t possibly know which ones were which, but he just scowled at us and said, “Do, too.”

“These are the times when words fail us,” the minister says, making eye contact around the room. “It isn’t often that I’m asked to preside over a child’s memorial service. And I admit, when I am, I take pause. I wonder, like many of you are probably wondering, how this could happen? We search inside ourselves. We may even question our faith. But always, I do find faith.”

All will be well, I think. What a load of crap. What is there to have faith in? That bad things happen? That life isn’t fair?

“When my own sister died, a friend shared a poem with me by Merrit Malloy. It’s called ‘Epitaph,’ and I’ve kept it in my wallet for years because I find comfort in the words.”

He clears his throat and begins to read. It starts with the line “When I die,” so I stop listening. I don’t want to hear that word. I don’t want to feel its meaning.

My hand tingles with the memory of Charlie’s sticky one in mine. I reach over and take Holden’s hand to stop the feeling. It’s warm and dry, and he holds on as tight as I do.

“ ‘Look for me in the people I’ve known,’ ” the minister reads.

I close my eyes. No, Charlie. No. I want to see all of you, not pieces. I squeeze Holden’s hand harder and feel tears slip down my cheeks. My throat aches so much. I am choking on these words.

“ ‘Love doesn’t die, people do,’ ” the minister continues. “ ‘So, when all that’s left of me is love, give me away.’ ”

He says the last words very slowly, carefully, as if he wants to make sure their meaning sinks in. I hate them.

When all that’s left of me is love, give me away.

How could I ever do that? Why would I want to do that?

“Today these words may seem too radical to bear,” the minister says, as if he read my mind. “I know they were to me when I first read them. But over the years, as I think of my sister and the love she spread, I am inspired by this goal. Love doesn’t die. No. Love never dies. And your love for Charlie will not fade. It will grow.”

Beside me, I feel Sara’s shoulders shake as she cries, and I reach over and take her hand in my free one.

“But do not let that love be out of guilt. You all provided Charlie with a beautiful childhood. Many of the people who work at this restaurant have shared stories about Charlie. About his beloved Doll and the pure joy he took in every moment. How he waited at the window every day for his sister Fern to come from school. How he loved his sisters and brother the way only a youngest child can.”

I squeeze my sister’s hand harder and on my other side, Holden’s. I don’t know if I can bear to hear more. I don’t know if I can keep myself from screaming, I hurt so much.

“Charlie was a very special child. Like all children. And so I ask you today to embrace that love you have for Charlie. Let it heal your heart. Let it guide you tomorrow and all the days of your lives. That is the kind of love that is a gift you can give away and still never be without.”

Warm tears drip down my cheeks, but I don’t wipe them away. I clutch Holden’s and Sara’s hands tighter.