,
FOR DARKNESS IS AS LIGHT TO YOU .
PSALM 139:12
An ironically appropriate memorial, but not something Serena’s parents would have chosen for her. At least, not the parents I knew.
Like an answer to my unasked question, a hearse and two black Town Cars finally pulled up outside the cemetery gates. A group of old men who looked like funeral-home attendants got out of the first Town Car and moved in unison, opening the back of the hearse and removing the casket. The sight of it made me flinch, and I almost turned away. Until I caught a glimpse of the sole person exiting the second Town Car.
I guessed that was the family car—the car that should have carried Serena’s parents and her younger brother to this service. But none of them stepped out of the vehicle. Only my mother did, wearing a worn gray dress and carrying the same purse she had used when I was in high school.
Seeing her smooth the wrinkles from her dress—something I did almost incessantly when I was nervous—I frowned. Why was she the only person in the family car? Why was she in the family car at all?
My curiosity notwithstanding, I hung back, hiding in the thickest part of the crowd while my mother followed the casket’s procession. After the pallbearers had placed the casket on a steel mechanism hovering over the open grave, the man in the pinstripe suit motioned for us to take our seats. I chose one in the last row, where I could slip away easily if I needed to. Then I watched apprehensively as my mother moved to stand near Serena’s headstone.
I thought one of the funeral-home employees—most likely, the pin-striped man—would start the service. But instead, my mother stepped forward and cleared her throat.
“Serena Taylor,” she began, “was an exceptional woman. Most of you know that because you worked with her. You knew her as a good accountant: someone whose work could be trusted; someone who your clients could rely on; someone who you were friends with, outside of work. But I knew her . . . as my daughter.”
When my mother spoke that last word—“daughter”—I gripped my plastic chair and dug my fingers into its rim until they ached.
That’s not true. That’s not possibly true.
I hissed the thoughts so loudly in my mind, I almost missed the next part of the eulogy. I had to pry my fingers off the chair and fold them, one by one, into little fists in my lap. Unaware of the storm of jealousy and hurt that she’d just brewed inside her real daughter, my mother continued.
“Although you knew Serena, most of you probably don’t know me. My name is Elizabeth Ashley, and I met Serena when she and my daughter Amelia were both eight years old. They became close friends, so Serena became like a member of my family; that’s just how the Ashleys—and Serena—operated. We all stayed friends, throughout the girls’ childhoods and teen years. Then, after what happened on my daughter’s eighteenth birthday, Serena’s parents decided to . . .”
My mother paused, obviously searching for the right words. She shook her head decisively, and changed directions.
“When Serena could no longer count on the love and support of her own family, I made her a permanent part of mine. If her mother couldn’t see what the blessing of having a daughter meant, I certainly could—especially a daughter like Serena. I stood beside her through her hardest times, and she stood beside me through mine. Even after she graduated from college and found a job, she drove all the way from Tulsa at least once a month to visit me. That’s just the kind of girl she was: loving. I will miss her, as much as I miss my own daughter and husband.”
As she spoke, I began to understand what my mother didn’t actually say aloud: after my death, which had undoubtedly seemed suspicious, Serena’s parents assumed that their daughter had something to do with it and threw her out of their home. And as was often her habit, my mother ignored her own financial troubles,
FOR DARKNESS IS AS LIGHT TO YOU .
PSALM 139:12
An ironically appropriate memorial, but not something Serena’s parents would have chosen for her. At least, not the parents I knew.
Like an answer to my unasked question, a hearse and two black Town Cars finally pulled up outside the cemetery gates. A group of old men who looked like funeral-home attendants got out of the first Town Car and moved in unison, opening the back of the hearse and removing the casket. The sight of it made me flinch, and I almost turned away. Until I caught a glimpse of the sole person exiting the second Town Car.
I guessed that was the family car—the car that should have carried Serena’s parents and her younger brother to this service. But none of them stepped out of the vehicle. Only my mother did, wearing a worn gray dress and carrying the same purse she had used when I was in high school.
Seeing her smooth the wrinkles from her dress—something I did almost incessantly when I was nervous—I frowned. Why was she the only person in the family car? Why was she in the family car at all?
My curiosity notwithstanding, I hung back, hiding in the thickest part of the crowd while my mother followed the casket’s procession. After the pallbearers had placed the casket on a steel mechanism hovering over the open grave, the man in the pinstripe suit motioned for us to take our seats. I chose one in the last row, where I could slip away easily if I needed to. Then I watched apprehensively as my mother moved to stand near Serena’s headstone.
I thought one of the funeral-home employees—most likely, the pin-striped man—would start the service. But instead, my mother stepped forward and cleared her throat.
“Serena Taylor,” she began, “was an exceptional woman. Most of you know that because you worked with her. You knew her as a good accountant: someone whose work could be trusted; someone who your clients could rely on; someone who you were friends with, outside of work. But I knew her . . . as my daughter.”
When my mother spoke that last word—“daughter”—I gripped my plastic chair and dug my fingers into its rim until they ached.
That’s not true. That’s not possibly true.
I hissed the thoughts so loudly in my mind, I almost missed the next part of the eulogy. I had to pry my fingers off the chair and fold them, one by one, into little fists in my lap. Unaware of the storm of jealousy and hurt that she’d just brewed inside her real daughter, my mother continued.
“Although you knew Serena, most of you probably don’t know me. My name is Elizabeth Ashley, and I met Serena when she and my daughter Amelia were both eight years old. They became close friends, so Serena became like a member of my family; that’s just how the Ashleys—and Serena—operated. We all stayed friends, throughout the girls’ childhoods and teen years. Then, after what happened on my daughter’s eighteenth birthday, Serena’s parents decided to . . .”
My mother paused, obviously searching for the right words. She shook her head decisively, and changed directions.
“When Serena could no longer count on the love and support of her own family, I made her a permanent part of mine. If her mother couldn’t see what the blessing of having a daughter meant, I certainly could—especially a daughter like Serena. I stood beside her through her hardest times, and she stood beside me through mine. Even after she graduated from college and found a job, she drove all the way from Tulsa at least once a month to visit me. That’s just the kind of girl she was: loving. I will miss her, as much as I miss my own daughter and husband.”
As she spoke, I began to understand what my mother didn’t actually say aloud: after my death, which had undoubtedly seemed suspicious, Serena’s parents assumed that their daughter had something to do with it and threw her out of their home. And as was often her habit, my mother ignored her own financial troubles,
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