Electra Rose
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Old Friends
🕑 Added 2017-12-30 12:33:45 +0000 UTC Sheila watched the clock carefully out of the corner of her eyes, both incredibly aware of the old adage that a “watched pot never boils” and comfortable in the knowledge that while time seemed slow as all hell, it continued to move on anyway. Her hands were positioned carefully over her keyboard, so it looked vaguely like she was still working if her boss happened to glance over. It wasn’t all that good of a sell, but it was nearly 5 pm and Sheila could no longer be bothered to give a shit about being more convincing. She had suffered enough for the day.The obnoxious fluorescent lights painted the office in a sickly off-white color. It was a disappointing background for the dingy analog clock on the back wall, which was the star of the office. She knew she wasn't the only one staring. The clock had been rapidly growing absolutely fascinating for the last twenty minutes. It was Friday and literally everybody was sick to death of this place and everyone else in it.
At long last, the merciful second hand ticked over and the hour hand slid into the 5 slot. Everyone appropriately feigned disbelief that the day was ‘already??’ over while tripping over themselves to grab their coats and purses and head for the parking lot. If the office was in good form, they could clear out the building by 5:06. The weak link was usually Michael, he was a lingerer and a chatter and it was risky to allow him to reach your desk before you were out of your chair.
Sheila was out the door faster than a shot, having already shut her computer off ten minutes before and retrieved her keys from her purse to speed her flight. Carrying a bag was great, digging through it for every little thing was not. She almost preferred not carrying one at all.
Once in the safety of her car, she checked two things, just like always: that the little patch on her abdomen hadn’t bunched up or fallen off (it never had, but still), and that her e-cig was full of vapor and ready to go. Quitting smoking was a real pain in the ass, and she wasn’t sure it was better than regular cigarettes, but it was something. Anything to lower that risk of blood clots.
Reassured, Sheila turned the keys in the ignition and exhaled heavily. The week was over, she was beyond exhausted, and didn’t even have any plans for the weekend as of yet. Maybe the bar? It was probable that some of her friends weren’t busy for a night out or a night in. A night in was sounding more appealing, to be honest.
Plans, plans. She had to eat, cooking sounded like death, and delivery was not an option in the 200-300 person hamlet Sheila lived in. Any food she didn’t make needed to be either acquired here, or picked up from one of Franklin’s two bars.
...Tacos? Drive-through tacos? Or she could call and wait for Chinese, but... That was so good, but perfection takes at least 15 minutes and she wanted to put distance between herself and her work area.
Red's bar in town, then. They did make some amazing chicken and fish fry. That might be good for a chilly, boring Friday evening with the TV. Yeah, fried food and maybe some reality tv, or a talk show, or maybe a good movie on Netflix. Tomorrow night she could go out to dinner with Emily or Kayla or somebody, and Sunday was for attending awkward church services and napping.
The drive home felt quick in juxtaposition to the eternally long work day, and Sheila found herself at the local bar ordering a five-piece meal and a basket of fries to go, with a Coke. Three chicken, two fish. The perfect margin.
The usual suspects were along the long table. She saw her grandfather, his buddies, and some other farmers she didn’t know on a first name basis. Neil was in place of honor under the wooden plaque reading 'Liar's Table'. She made eye contact with her grandfather and waved at him with her index and middle fingers. They all lifted the customary two fingers back and continued talking.
It was probably about how bad this year’s weather would be for the corn crop this year. Same old, same old.
If she went over there now, they might even move on to talking about the company managing the grain elevator and what they were buying for this year compared to last. It was a conversation she’d like to avoid, because life was for the living and she would have all she could stand long before she was able to drive away. Her food would definitely get cold.
'...Maybe I should go over and say hi.' Sheila sat at the bar and turned her glass in her hands. 'I haven't talked to Grandpa since church last week.'
She glanced back and blinked in surprise. The group was smaller than she'd thought it was. There were only 4 men back there now, and her Grandpa wasn't one of them.
After a 30-minute wait and a small beer, Luke the barman came back with her order from the fryer. Flush with success (and maybe a little bit of the alcohol), she tucked her carefully on the passenger side seat with her bounty of special tartar sauce and ketchup.
A truck pulled up next to her car in a crunch of gravel. The driver rolled down the window by hand. Ah, another one of her grandpa's homies. “Whatchu got there, Sheila, fish and chicken?” Dave asked, grinning through coffee-stained teeth. “They’re hard to beat, ain’t they?”
Sheila pulled herself out of her car a little bit, since she was still bent over the passenger side. “Yep, gonna take it back and eat it all by myself.” She closed the door and crossed over to the driver’s side of the vehicle, eager to get back home. "Have a good night! Enjoy a beer or two for me."
Dave hummed from the warm safety of his car, the bastard. “No time for a drink tonight, then, huh? See you later.”
She waved her good-bye, and raised the customary two finger driving salute to another two drivers on the way out. She’d forgotten how busy the bar was right after work, and the tiny parking lot was packed.
Safely ensconced at home, she flopped onto her couch with her prizes and turned on the TV. The soothing sounds of a David Attenborough nature vid helped the food nearly lull her into a short coma. Curled up on the couch, she felt safe and warm. Thank God she didn’t have to go anywhere tomorrow. Cell phone on the charger, she kept her eyes open through five episodes of How It’s Made before surrendering to the need for sleep.
What could have been either ten seconds or ten years later, Sheila’s cell phone started to ring from its position an inch away from her face. Her sleep-blurred eyes read the caller id as “Mom”, and since it wasn’t work, she answered the phone.
“Sheila? Honey, you there?”
Her mother sounded stressed. Her voice was cracking and she was doing that thing where her voice continued to raise in pitch throughout a sentence. She knew from experience that this would escalate until she was near hysterics if she didn't calm down.
“Mmmhmm, Mom. I’m here. I’m listening,” Sheila tried to cough out a little of the gunk in her throat that made her sound so sleepy. “What’s going on?”
“It’s your grandfather, honey. You had better come right away.”
Hospitals were not Sheila’s favorite place. Good news rarely came out of hospitals, unless someone was having a baby. People in Sheila’s family didn’t go to the hospital to do anything but die with supervision.
She sat next to her mother in a full waiting room, filled with hers and other worried looking families. The hospital had obviously tried to make the room a bit more comfortable with taupe paint and hotel art of uncontroversial things like flowers and horses. She had to admit that none of it was upsetting. The fake Gerber daisies in vases failed to cheer, however.
Uncle Mark stood like a lonely monument, totally unaware of the fact that he was blocking everyone’s view of the television.
(No one wanted to watch it, exactly, but it would be good to have the option for numb distraction.)
They were brothers, so that kind of emotional reaction was to be expected. He was trying to be strong, but really he should just sit down. He was looking far too pale to be pulling that hyper-masculine bullshit, especially at 78. Nobody was going to tell him to do any differently, though.
The hospital buzzed with far-off noise, doctors and staff shuffling around amid the beeping of machines. But the waiting room was mostly silent, despite all the people in it.
There was nothing so solitary as a family waiting room in the hospital. Everyone trying to take up as little space as possible, staring at the tv, a magazine, or their own phone.
Sheila watched as a never-ending parade of families came in and out of the waiting room and tried not to look at the clock. Her brother hadn’t been able to come, either. His college was a few hours’ drive away, and that was a long way to drive in the dark and cold. The family consensus had been that it was safer for him to stay at his dorm and they’d call him before they went to bed with any news.
Uncle Mark had just finally sat down when the doctor came looking for them. Mom had anxiety-shaken herself to sleep on Sheila’s shoulder, and she had a leg cramp like you wouldn’t believe. The doctor looked as worn-down as Sheila’s nerves felt, so she gently shook her mother awake.
Once everyone had been roused and gathered into a group, the doctor gave them the news. She had straw-blond hair in a bob and it moved when she moved her head to the side. It was hard to concentrate on the horrible things she was saying. "I'm sorry to say that Mr. Davidson passed away. He was admitted for heart troubles this afternoon. He recovered from the first heart failure, but it presented too much strain. I'm sorry for your loss. Can I answer any questions for you?"
Uncle Mark started wheezing.
Sheila swallowed, feeling horrifyingly divorced from the situation. Someone was helping Uncle Mark try to breathe and her mother was crying but she was- just, what?
It seemed impossible. She had just seen her grandfather a few hours ago, in the bar. He'd been fine. The doctor was lying, he hadn't come into the hospital in the afternoon, it wasn't possible.
That was insane, she told herself. The doctor was not lying. There was no reason for it. No one would do that.
She’d just assumed he was there and hadn’t paid attention. After all, she hadn’t gone over there to talk and the bar was badly lit. She was probably just mistaken. She had thought she saw him because she had expected to see him.
The doctor only stayed for a few minutes to answer their questions before striding off to try to save someone else’s family member. That had to be a difficult job. Maybe she was going off to recover quietly by herself.
They went in to view Grandpa’s body in a quiet hospital room before leaving. Mom snaked her hand out and held Sheila's hand far too tightly. The tendons were standing out on the back of her mother's hand. She tried to rub them down.
He looked so small and old under the hospital gown and sheets- the strong and proud farming man Sheila’d known since childhood wasn’t really evident. The hands that had always seemed so large next to hers looked frail, covered in liver spots and sunken thin skin. She felt her hand shudder around her mother's. An empty terror shook her chest.
His face didn’t even look right- the features were his, but he just looked… empty. No muscles pulled his mouth into his normal intense concentration. He didn’t look weathered, but like a house that had been forcibly emptied in the night.
It was awful.
Somehow, the sight didn’t make Mom feel any better, either. She stood at the side of the bed, perilously still with a numb look in her eyes. Sheila ended up having to steer her out of the room and into Sheila’s car. There was no way she should be driving tonight, and they could get Mom’s car from the parking lot in the morning.
The drive home was a slog. There was very little said, but the only thing Mom seemed ready to say was to ask if Sheila thought he’d looked that sick lately. They both agreed they hadn’t thought he’d been very ill-looking in the weeks prior. The conversation rotated between that and silence for the entire forty-minute drive back home.
“I should call Aaron.”
Sheila stopped with her keys in the door lock, and turned back to look at her mother. She was obviously not doing well and really needed a lie-down. But Aaron was probably up worried waiting for news. Someone should call him.
“Nah, Mom, I’ll do it. I think you need to rest for tonight. We can go get Aaron from his school in the morning.”
Her mother nodded somewhat vacantly. It was hard to see her like this, so Sheila opened the door and pulled her mother inside for a long hug. Mom’s arms went tight around her back. She could feel mom’s hands shaking where they dug into Sheila’s shoulderblades. She breathed unsteadily and put the side of her face against the top of her mom’s hair.
Today had been absolutely awful, and tomorrow wasn’t looking any better. There’d be a funeral to plan, more relatives to notify, bereavement leave to file for. It was gonna be utter hell.
Mom drifted off to change for bed, and Sheila resigned herself to staying in her old room/guest bedroom overnight. There were probably still some clothes of hers in the dresser- at least a clean old shirt to sleep in, if nothing else. She dug through the dresser and found one of the old metal band t-shirts she’d worn in high school. Sheila was vaguely gratified to find that it fit larger than she remembered.
He picked up on the second ring. "Hello? Sheila, what's going on?" His voice was choked and thick.
She leaned into the wall and rubbed a hand along her jaw. "Hi, Aaron," she said. She didn't want to say this, she didn't want to. "Grandpa passed away."
He inhaled sharply- no. Those were gasping sobs. He was crying. She pulled her knees into her chest and leaned forward. It was not enough to stop the pressure building in her chest, or to distract her from her eyes welling up.
"Come home," she said. She swallowed. Don't cry, don't cry. "In the morning. Okay, buddy?"
Her baby brother took a shuddering inhalation. She waited while he probably scrubbed at his face. His eyes would be all swollen and his nose bright red. "Yeah," he got out. "Yeah, I'll email my professors before I go to bed, pack up, and take off in the morning."
"Be safe," Sheila pleaded. Goddamnit, she was crying now. "Don't drive too fast or too tired. I love you."
The conversation sucked the last of the energy out of her, leaving her limbs feeling heavy by the end. It had been a long day.
The comforters were cold and a little stiff with lack of use. Sheila moved from her back to her side, wishing that it would warm up faster. She still felt uncomfortable and out of place in a room she hadn’t really lived in since high school- especially since it still had odds and ends of what felt like a life she had entirely left behind.
She folded her hands together and just looked at an old art class painting that was still hanging. She had been proud of it- entered it into a competition. But now, the drab little brown bird on a branch seemed immature. She was glad that the name in the corner wasn’t visible in the dark.
At one point, late at night, Sheila heard her mother shuffle outside of her bedroom door and linger in the dark. She’d always done that when they were kids- checked on them every time she got up for water or the bathroom in the night. Sheila was never sure what she was checking on them for, but it seemed to make her feel better.
Tonight she stood there for whole minutes, swaying a little bit in the ambient light. Eventually she left, pulling the hallway door shut behind her.
The house was silent.
The morning was incongruously bright and cheerful-looking for Sheila’s taste, but she eventually rose to meet the day anyway. Her mother was still in bed by 9 am. Sheila had to take a deep breath. Mom was usually the early riser of the family.
She looked at the fridge. She saw condiments, kale, and despair. She decided today was a day where she would be picking up breakfast from Jenny Mae’s diner instead of cooking anything. Doubtless all the little old people that gathered there already knew about Grandpa anyway- there was no getting out of the condolences. Baked goods and casseroles would doubtless start arriving around 11am. You could rely on that.
She couldn’t imagine cooking today- cutting and washing and doing dishes seemed like a thing that other people did. It was too mundane. Her grandfather was dead and still. How could she cut potatoes on a day when Grandpa was dead?
But going out. Going out to Jenny Mae’s was going to mean looking at tables full of people who were going to tell her they knew the news.
It sounded absolutely impossible. But her mother was still in bed and she was going to take care of this, at least.
She remembered when Grandma had died. Mom hadn’t done much of anything for a month. At that point Aaron had done a lot of the daily things to keep people fed and the house running, but he was off in college now. It was Sheila’s turn today.
She put on enough layers that she looked like she was going to go skiing and ventured out into the cold. It was a short but miserable walk to Jenny Mae’s from her mother’s house. From outside the door she could already hear the chatter and clinking of coffee cups.
It was warm inside. What her mother had always lovingly referred to as the “breakfast gang” was in full force at their usual spots. All the older ladies that had always run every aspect of Sheila’s life and social schedule sat at one table, and their farming husbands at another. The chatting was put on hold long enough to greet Sheila good morning, just like any other. The illusion of normalcy was nice and comforting.
Sheila peeled off her thick mittens and stuffed them into her pockets before walking past the quarter machines and up to the order window. Jenny Mae was back working at the grill, but her daughter and son-in-law were re-stocking the fridge and candy.
She ordered steak and eggs with pancakes for her mother, to go. While she traced the menu a little half-mindedly, Neil, one of her Grandpa’s many friends, stood up and stood at her side. He wasn’t a talker, but he put a hand on her shoulder. It was warm and strong and it was the kind of thing that her Grandpa would have done. She leaned into it.
“French toast, I think.” Neil said, rubbing her shoulder. “With bacon?”
She nodded.
“And a couple Cokes, probably. You look like you need the wake-up.”
Jenny Mae’s son-in-law took the order and Neil paid for it, while Sheila stood there, feeling awkward and oh, so tired.
“That brother of yours is coming back for the funeral, right?”
Sheila nodded, and found a little bit of her voice again. “He should be here sometime this afternoon. We didn’t want him driving that far in the dark.”
“Good. Not in winter, that’s too dangerous anyway. Your momma doing alright?”
She gradually realized the room had gone silent but for the occasional clinking of a coffee cup making contact with the table. All eyes are always on you in a small town, but they’re usually not quite that obvious about it.
“She’s upset. Sleeping now, though. I’m bringing her some breakfast, so she doesn’t have to cook anything.”
He nodded decisively. “Good kid. Try not to let it get you down too much, though. We’re here for your family. I’ve known your Grandad since we were nothing but sprouts. And nobody in this town is ever really gone, anyhow. Just try to bear down and get through, yeah? The first weeks are the roughest.”
Of course he was actually gone. He was never coming back. She took in a shuddering breath and nodded at Neil. It was an odd thing to say, but she knew what he meant. “Thanks,” she choked out. “I’ll tell Mom you said so.”
Her order came out quick and hot- she could smell the sweet French toast batter wafting through the bag. It was heady and comforting. Luckily, it would also be warm in her freezing cold hands on the walk back.
Neil held the door open for her, and she carefully crunched her way out into the horrible snow.
“Thank you, goodbye!” She called back, and everyone echoed their goodbyes as the door fell shut.
The walk home was silent, but at least it smelled great. It was easy to see when she passed onto their property line, because mom hadn’t cleared off yesterday’s snow yet. She stopped in ankle-deep snow for a moment and just looked.
The lights in the house were on, she thought. It was hard to tell in the daylight. But she thought so. That meant that Mom was awake.
“I should head inside,” she said to herself. The words hung in the cold morning air as puffs of steam. She swallowed. She took a deep breath and held the bag of food to her chest.
The door was still unlocked, which meant that mom hadn’t even considered leaving. Sheila kicked off her snowboots by the laundry machine and crossed through the empty kitchen. Mom had made it out to the living room in her robe and pajamas. She was nursing a black coffee and a pained expression.
“I have breakfast,” Sheila wiggled the bag in an enticing manner. The plastic was loud. “And every single old person in town says hi.”
Mom huffed, but smiled a little. “What did you get?”
She was starting to sweat in her winter gear. “The usual.” Sheila put the bag on the table and started getting out the plastic containers. “I got you a single, solitary grapefruit with no sugar and an Orange Fanta. I think that’s your preferred breakfast, right?”
“You shit,” Mom said fondly before shuffling in her slippers to the silverware drawer. “You wouldn’t dare. I gave birth to you.” She swiveled her body enough to point threateningly.
“Mmhmm. I just wanted to be sure you get your vitamin C, and this is how you treat your only daughter.” She gave an offended sniff. “I also got steak and eggs for us to trade, if you decided to abandon your love for sour morning fruits.” Sheila opened the Styrofoam containers and inhaled the scent of fried breakfast food. “Neil says hi, by the way. He paid for breakfast.” She began peeling off her winter coat and went to lay it on the counter. Then she remembered that her mother was watching and would normally not allow that, so she backtracked to hang it up by the door.
“Ahh.” Mom set the silverware and her coffee cup down on the table and took a seat. “He say anything else?”
“Like when we can expect him to return your snowblower? No.” Sheila collapsed onto the kitchen chair with such flourish that her mother gave her a Look for abusing the furniture. “He did say something philosophical about nobody in this town ever really dying. It almost gave me a feeling, so I left.”
Mom grabbed her breakfast and pulled it towards her side of the table. “Ain’t that the truth, though.” She rolled her eyes. “Nosy bastards.”
She didn't know what that meant but she Felt it, so she hummed in agreement.
They ate in companionable silence, which was a welcome change from last night’s Horrible Silence.
God. Fuck everything.
The day of the funeral was wicked cold, and Sheila pitied whatever poor bastard had had to dig out a grave in mid-February. She also pitied herself for having to go out in it and stand in a cemetery on a hill in frigid temperatures while in mourning. Fate really knew how to lay into you sometimes.
At least it was easy to dress for- they’d all had to buy black funeral wear for Grandma’s funeral last year. It was a simple, if somber, matter to pull them on again. Not that it would matter what they wore after the actual funeral. At the cemetery they’d all be stuffed into huge coats, hats, and gloves.
The church sanctuary was empty when they arrived, but the church kitchens and eating hall were bustling with little old ladies making ham sandwiches and putting out pies for the reception afterwards. It smelled good, but Sheila had to admit she wasn’t feeling particularly hungry.
The casket was currently in the atrium for the viewing, and the pallbearers were going to move it into the sanctuary for the funeral and then carry it out to the hearse. Sheila wasn’t sure she wanted to look inside, though. She’d already seen her grandfather’s body in the hospital, and it hadn’t done her any good.
A sick kind of sadness and longing eventually compelled her to, though. She wanted the comfort of seeing him again for the last time, even if it was a bit ghoulish-feeling. She steeled her nerves and strode over to the casket as confidently as possible before other people came.
Her first impression was that he looked… waxy. His skin was still red from all the years working in the sun, but it seemed like he was coated in wax like a grocery store apple, all shiny and fake looking. Almost like he was a fake body, a stand-in to fool passersby. And he was in a suit, which was an odd choice for her mother to make. Grandpa had never worn a suit outside his own wedding, from what Sheila could tell. Even to important events, he just wore his nicest plaid shirt and jeans. Did he even own a suit, or had they had to buy one?
“He looks like he’s sleeping.” Mom commented, from her shoulder. Creepy. She hadn’t even noticed anyone walking up behind her. “I think he looks nice in his suit, don’t you?”
He looked awkward and out of place in it, and Sheila was fighting the grief instinct to say the body was an imposter. The obvious thing to do, for her mother’s sake, was to lie out her goddamn teeth.
“He does.” Sheila said softly. “I think it’s nice how they did his hair, too.”
In that they’d definitely combed what little hair he had, anyway. It was actually how he tended to comb it, which was definitely appreciated. Her mother had probably given them a picture.
“Mmmhmmm.” Her mother placed a small, warm hand on Sheila’s back and started rubbing it in circles between her shoulderblades. “Come over here, will you? I want to talk with you and Aaron before people start getting here.”
Her mother led her back near the sanctuary doors and pointed. “Like last time, we’re going to stand here to do the condolences. People will walk in past you and sit down, and we’re sitting up in front with Uncle Mark and Aunt Shirley.”
“We remember.” Aaron said softly, looking both tired and small in his suit. The shoulders looked a little too big. On another day, she would have told him that he looked adorable. It made him look so young.
Mom looked at him for just a little too long. Maybe she was thinking the same thing that Sheila was. Aaron took a deep breath and seemed to decide against saying anything else. He broke eye contact and looked down.
After a long moment of silence, Mom sighed.
Sheila looked down at her hands. She glanced back up when her Mom started talking again.
“Your grandfather had a lot of friends, and you won’t know all of them. It’s okay if you don’t call them by their names, and you might not see them later. Just be polite and don’t worry about it too much.”
With that, their mother folded her arms in on herself, and looked towards the casket with an unreadable expression.
“Just be polite.” She reiterated.
Mom had been right to warn them. Taking condolences was the hardest part. The condolence line was forever long. How many people in a town of 300 could possibly come to one funeral?
Sheila clasped hands with old schoolmates, former teachers, and various friends of her mother’s and both grandparents’. The lines still stretched on to the doors of the church, and she could see more cars occasionally arriving in the parking lot. Some people seemed to come from absolutely nowhere.
The worst part is she never knew what to say. Everyone said “I’m sorry for your loss,” and then they waited. Sheila kept saying “thank you,” but the words never sounded right. But “You, too” was just plain weird.
“I’m sure you’re devastated, and so soon after your grandmother.” Cousin Irene said, clasping her icy cold hands over Sheila’s. She kept nodding her head with her own words, and then waited expectantly with her mouth hanging open half an inch.
What the hell kind of answer was she expecting? No? There was nothing to say.
Sheila just nodded. Irene didn't seem satisfied with that. She sighed. But thankfully Irene left and took her hands of ice death with her.
Someone down the line caught Sheila’s eye. A man was moving with more purpose than the rest of the congregants towards the receiving line. He looked familiar, but she just couldn’t place him.
“Uncle Mark?” She nudged him carefully, trying not to be too rude. “That man down there, what’s his name? I know I know him, but I can’t remember.”
Uncle Mark seemed to squint, screwing up his face in a kind of pained concentration. “Aahhh.” He breathed out at last. “That’s an old school friend of your grandfather’s. He was your favorite- he used to play with you a lot when you were a tyke. Gave you that stuffed tiger for your second birthday. Haven’t seen him in years, but of course he’d come back for this. Merlin Danvers.”
She still had that tiger, actually. He occupied a place of honor on her dresser. And Uncle Mark, of all people, should know his name is Harold.
“So that’s why I know him. Thanks, Uncle Mark.”
She went back to greeting chilly friends and relatives. Merlin came up to her a minute or two later, looking decidedly more comfortable than everyone else.
“How are you holdin’ up, kid?” He asked, clasping a hand on her shoulder instead of going for the customary awkward handshake. It was a bold choice, and she respected it. If nothing else, it was interesting, and his hand was warm. The church was still cold because no amount of central heating could make up for the doors constantly being opened.
“Bad.” She said honestly. “I’m tired and cold and sad.”
He chuckled a little bit. “Understandable. Take it easy. Things’ll be ok.”
He moved to leave, but hesitated. “I won’t be able to come to the cemetery, but bundle up. It’s damned cold out there.”
“Too cold for you?” She asked. It was pretty typical for an older person, especially if they were sick, to take a pass on an hour-long ceremony in the freezing cold. It would lead to a funeral epidemic in this weather.
Merlin gave an awkward, pained smile and didn’t answer. “Take care.” Then he moved on to her uncle, towards the sanctuary.
Twenty minutes later, she finally went to sit inside the sanctuary in the front row with her family. The church was packed- some people were even standing at the back and by the walls.
The actual funeral was a blur of tears and the usual pastoral remembrances- he was a good man, well-loved by his family and friends, religious man, obligatory joke about farmers only coming to church for Christmas and Easter. To be honest, it was still comforting, even though it seemed like the same sermon she’d heard at every funeral she’d ever been to.
Afterwards, she crawled into her car with her mother and brother to follow the hearse to the cemetery. Uncle Mark had washed his car and hers the night before so they looked nice in the procession, but she honestly couldn’t see how it mattered. It was nice of him to vacuum out the inside, though.
It was a slow and almost painful drive, even though it was only a few miles away. The hearse kept a constant speed of about 15 mph regardless of whether they were on a local road or the highway. Sheila had to be very careful about her following distance. She didn’t actually want to run into Uncle Mark (or the hearse, how horrifying), and ice was everywhere.
From the passenger seat, Mom sighed. “I’ll never be able to sell that house,” she said. It was mostly to herself, Sheila thought. “I’m going to have to sell my house and move into the family place.”
Sheila saw herself frowning in the rearview mirror when she glanced over at her mom. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t know why Grandpa’s house would be unsellable. It was perfectly nice.
Aaron looked concerned in the backseat as well, arms around his own chest in a sad little hug.
The cemetery was quiet and covered in a thick blanket of snow. Sheila, her mother, and Aaron slowly made their way across the shoveled walkway to the tent constructed in the family plot.
“There’s your Uncle Andy.” Her mother gestured to a snow-covered gravestone as they passed. “And your cousin, Lucy- she died young. I used to babysit her when I was in high school… She was a sweet baby. I should really come out here and clean them off.”
“The board maintains the cemetery pretty well, Mom.” Sheila said, feeling pre-emptively exhausted. “I think what we do for Memorial Day is enough, isn’t it?”
Her mother hummed, not really listening. “Oh, and over there are some of your Grandpa’s friends. They all bought plots together at some point. A bit morbid, I thought, but kind of nice…”
“Yeah, like who?” Aaron asked. “I don’t remember any of these people. How are there so many?” He only sounded half-interested, but he was right.
“Oh, he had lots of friends.” Mom dismissed casually. “You might not remember them, but they all knew you. There’s Arthur and his wife, Trudie, over there. And Charlie- you should remember Charlie, Sheila, he’s right next to them, on the other side of your Grandpa. And then Merlin is just on the other side.”
That was a unique name that she didn’t expect to hear twice in a day.
“Merlin? Merlin…. Danvers?” Sheila asked, suddenly feeling something she couldn’t and wouldn’t dare to describe. “Grandpa’s friend from school?”
Her mother turned back and gave her the most sympathetic of stares. “Uncle Neil was telling you right, honey. No one in this town ever really goes away. They might leave for a while, but we’ll all come back here.” She seemed small and frail. "Doesn't matter how far you go."
There was a rock in Sheila’s stomach. She didn’t have any words. She stared at her mother, horror wiping her thoughts clean.
Aaron blinked. “What?” He looked between the two of them. “What did I miss?”
Comments
furiousfelt
Ooh, more ghosts! Or at least I assume they're ghosts. I like the casual interactions she has with them, not even knowing that they're ghosts. And her uncle saw Merlin too, so it's not just her. This is a fun intro to a new story.
