more like a bank than a house of worship. “I’ll never get a parking space,” Dad said. “Marge, I’ll drop you two off. Maybe there’re some places around back.”
Cara and her mother climbed from the car, the brisk wind blowing around their legs. Cara held her dress down with both hands. Well-dressed people in overcoats and suits were standing in clusters on the step, chatting. Cara spotted Sarit in a group of their classmates. She smiled and nodded, but Sarit either didn’t see her or didn’t want to see her. Cara let her mother steer her by the elbow through the crowds into the overheated vestibule of the church.
The church bell rang once, and people began filing inside. The air in the vestibule quickly took on the smell of damp wool. The babble of people around her was low but unceasing. Cara felt the noise worming its way down her ear passages and into her brain, where it lodged above her forehead like a swarm of bees. She let the crowd carry her into the large, airy sanctuary, decorated with stained-glass windows in abstract designs. No gory crucifixes for the Methodists—the only cross in the whole place was a modest, light-wood structure over the altar in front.
Cara spotted Sarit, Julie, and the others crowding into a back pew. Alexis limped up the aisle with her friends surrounding her as if she were a grieving widow and was inserted into a side pew halfway from the front. Ethan was nowhere to be seen. Sydney’s parents were visible as stick figures sitting stiffly in the middle of the front pew. A large photo of Sydney in a low-cut black dress—Cara recognized it as cropped from last year’s Prom Court portrait—sat on an easel at the front, flanked by large sprays of purple delphiniums.
Dad hurried up the aisle, and Mom nudged Cara into a nearby pew. She obediently slid in with her parents on each side. Their presence seemed to close in on her. A bland-looking young man with spectacles stood up from his chair at the side of the altar and opened a large black binder. He was clearly the minister, though he wore an ordinary suit and tie. The crowd grew respectfully quiet.
One of the doors at the back opened. Cara turned to see Ethan, looking impossibly handsome in khakis and a crisp blue shirt, his hair still damp from the shower, hurrying up the aisle. A little murmur ran through the crowd as he slid into the pew next to Alexis and put his arm around her. She pressed her damp face into his shoulder.
The minister began. “Dear friends and family, today we are gathered to remember a special young woman, someone who left us too soon.”
Cara wiggled in her seat, trying to get comfortable on the hard wood, while the minister buzzed on about Sydney’s lust for life, as he put it, her love for her parents, friends, school, the world. A parade of relatives and classmates appeared on the podium and disappeared. Lips mouthed words of sadness, mourning, remembrances of Sydney on the football field sidelines, at family holiday parties, stocking the local food pantry for World Hunger Day. Cara could feel her legs going numb as the edge of the pew cut into the bottom of her thighs. A draft curled around her ankles. She glanced over at her mother and caught her surreptitiously checking her BlackBerry. Mom looked up guiltily and slid the phone into the open handbag at her feet.
“Let us pray.” The minister bowed his head. Cara stared at the bitten nails pressed together in her lap. The cuticles were ragged, and the backs of her hands were rough. She really had to start using hand cream.
“Amen.” The minister looked up. Everyone stood and began gathering purses and jackets, talking to one another in low voices. Several groups filtered up to the front and embraced Sydney’s parents.
Cara stood up, knees cracking, and stretched her back.
“Well, now, wasn’t that nice?” Mom sounded like she was on auto-parent.
“Very nice,” Dad echoed.
Cara mouthed Mom’s next words along with her. “I
Cara and her mother climbed from the car, the brisk wind blowing around their legs. Cara held her dress down with both hands. Well-dressed people in overcoats and suits were standing in clusters on the step, chatting. Cara spotted Sarit in a group of their classmates. She smiled and nodded, but Sarit either didn’t see her or didn’t want to see her. Cara let her mother steer her by the elbow through the crowds into the overheated vestibule of the church.
The church bell rang once, and people began filing inside. The air in the vestibule quickly took on the smell of damp wool. The babble of people around her was low but unceasing. Cara felt the noise worming its way down her ear passages and into her brain, where it lodged above her forehead like a swarm of bees. She let the crowd carry her into the large, airy sanctuary, decorated with stained-glass windows in abstract designs. No gory crucifixes for the Methodists—the only cross in the whole place was a modest, light-wood structure over the altar in front.
Cara spotted Sarit, Julie, and the others crowding into a back pew. Alexis limped up the aisle with her friends surrounding her as if she were a grieving widow and was inserted into a side pew halfway from the front. Ethan was nowhere to be seen. Sydney’s parents were visible as stick figures sitting stiffly in the middle of the front pew. A large photo of Sydney in a low-cut black dress—Cara recognized it as cropped from last year’s Prom Court portrait—sat on an easel at the front, flanked by large sprays of purple delphiniums.
Dad hurried up the aisle, and Mom nudged Cara into a nearby pew. She obediently slid in with her parents on each side. Their presence seemed to close in on her. A bland-looking young man with spectacles stood up from his chair at the side of the altar and opened a large black binder. He was clearly the minister, though he wore an ordinary suit and tie. The crowd grew respectfully quiet.
One of the doors at the back opened. Cara turned to see Ethan, looking impossibly handsome in khakis and a crisp blue shirt, his hair still damp from the shower, hurrying up the aisle. A little murmur ran through the crowd as he slid into the pew next to Alexis and put his arm around her. She pressed her damp face into his shoulder.
The minister began. “Dear friends and family, today we are gathered to remember a special young woman, someone who left us too soon.”
Cara wiggled in her seat, trying to get comfortable on the hard wood, while the minister buzzed on about Sydney’s lust for life, as he put it, her love for her parents, friends, school, the world. A parade of relatives and classmates appeared on the podium and disappeared. Lips mouthed words of sadness, mourning, remembrances of Sydney on the football field sidelines, at family holiday parties, stocking the local food pantry for World Hunger Day. Cara could feel her legs going numb as the edge of the pew cut into the bottom of her thighs. A draft curled around her ankles. She glanced over at her mother and caught her surreptitiously checking her BlackBerry. Mom looked up guiltily and slid the phone into the open handbag at her feet.
“Let us pray.” The minister bowed his head. Cara stared at the bitten nails pressed together in her lap. The cuticles were ragged, and the backs of her hands were rough. She really had to start using hand cream.
“Amen.” The minister looked up. Everyone stood and began gathering purses and jackets, talking to one another in low voices. Several groups filtered up to the front and embraced Sydney’s parents.
Cara stood up, knees cracking, and stretched her back.
“Well, now, wasn’t that nice?” Mom sounded like she was on auto-parent.
“Very nice,” Dad echoed.
Cara mouthed Mom’s next words along with her. “I
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