her own loss, to save the day.
When my mother began to weep openly, the man in the pin-striped suit reached across the headstone with a handkerchief, which she waved away. She used the heel of her palm to wipe at her at eyes and then struggled through her tears to finish the eulogy.
“So I guess what I’m trying to say,” she concluded haltingly, “is that I hope we can all forget the tragic way that Serena died, and remember the most important things. Like how warm she was—how smart and beautiful and funny. Because that’s the best memorial Serena Taylor could ask for. And it’s the one we owe her.”
Finally, the weight of this situation crushed my mother, and she dissolved into messy sobs. Like me, she wasn’t a pretty crier. But something about her grief made her even more beautiful to me. I had to fight the nearly irresistible impulse to surge forward and throw my arms around her shoulders.
As I replayed her final words in my mind, I wanted to cry, too. Whatever had passed between Serena and me—whatever might still pass in the netherworld—Serena Taylor had been my best friend. I had to keep thinking of her as the smiling, laughing girl I used to know—not the rotting puppet I met that morning.
I kept my burning eyes trained on my mother as she moved aside so that the other funeral goers could stand and pay their final respects. After what felt like ages, an attendant told the people in my row that we could file past the coffin. I stood in the center aisle behind a line of strangers, waiting dutifully for my turn, and then finally stepped forward.
No expense had been spared on this casket: its ornate metal fixtures glinted in the morning light, and an enormous arrangement of white lilies covered the top of the coffin and drooped over its edges. I faltered, just for a second, before leaning forward to add my last iris—hot pink, Serena’s favorite color—to the pile.
I was just about to withdraw my arm, but a soft gasp made me look up from the casket. I nearly tripped backward over my own feet when I saw that my mother had made the sound . . . and that she was staring right at me with a mixture of fear and uncertainty. Her hand, which had been clutched firmly to the lapel of her coat, wavered midair, and for one horrified second I thought she would point at me and scream. The urge to run and the urge to reach out to her warred within me, but I couldn’t seem to move. My paralysis didn’t pass until my mother’s hand dropped back to her lapel and she looked away, her face suddenly impassive.
I forced my own head downward and tugged at the brim of my hat so that I wouldn’t be tempted to look at her again. Then I hurried away from the casket, skirting the crowd as I made a beeline for the cemetery gates. As far as I was concerned, this funeral was officially over. I needed to get away from this place immediately.
But I’d only made it within a few feet of the entrance when someone called out, “Miss? Miss!”
It was my mother’s voice . . . and she was nearby. Although I didn’t turn around, I knew she called out for me—who else would she be following this close to the exit? I ignored her and picked up speed, walking so fast that I almost ran out the gates. But that didn’t deter her.
“Miss!”
This time she shouted it, and I knew she wouldn’t give up until she’d caught me. So I had to make a choice: bolt, or finally turn around and face the person I’d basically stalked for the last few months.
I skidded to a stop, cursing myself for not going invisible when I had the chance, right after my mother looked away at the casket. Then, with a shiver of apprehension, I spun around slowly on one heel.
My mother had stopped too, and now she stood a few feet away, panting from the effort of the chase. To my surprise, she didn’t say anything at first. Other than the heave of her shoulders, she didn’t even move. I followed her lead, keeping stock-still and silent in the gravel parking
When my mother began to weep openly, the man in the pin-striped suit reached across the headstone with a handkerchief, which she waved away. She used the heel of her palm to wipe at her at eyes and then struggled through her tears to finish the eulogy.
“So I guess what I’m trying to say,” she concluded haltingly, “is that I hope we can all forget the tragic way that Serena died, and remember the most important things. Like how warm she was—how smart and beautiful and funny. Because that’s the best memorial Serena Taylor could ask for. And it’s the one we owe her.”
Finally, the weight of this situation crushed my mother, and she dissolved into messy sobs. Like me, she wasn’t a pretty crier. But something about her grief made her even more beautiful to me. I had to fight the nearly irresistible impulse to surge forward and throw my arms around her shoulders.
As I replayed her final words in my mind, I wanted to cry, too. Whatever had passed between Serena and me—whatever might still pass in the netherworld—Serena Taylor had been my best friend. I had to keep thinking of her as the smiling, laughing girl I used to know—not the rotting puppet I met that morning.
I kept my burning eyes trained on my mother as she moved aside so that the other funeral goers could stand and pay their final respects. After what felt like ages, an attendant told the people in my row that we could file past the coffin. I stood in the center aisle behind a line of strangers, waiting dutifully for my turn, and then finally stepped forward.
No expense had been spared on this casket: its ornate metal fixtures glinted in the morning light, and an enormous arrangement of white lilies covered the top of the coffin and drooped over its edges. I faltered, just for a second, before leaning forward to add my last iris—hot pink, Serena’s favorite color—to the pile.
I was just about to withdraw my arm, but a soft gasp made me look up from the casket. I nearly tripped backward over my own feet when I saw that my mother had made the sound . . . and that she was staring right at me with a mixture of fear and uncertainty. Her hand, which had been clutched firmly to the lapel of her coat, wavered midair, and for one horrified second I thought she would point at me and scream. The urge to run and the urge to reach out to her warred within me, but I couldn’t seem to move. My paralysis didn’t pass until my mother’s hand dropped back to her lapel and she looked away, her face suddenly impassive.
I forced my own head downward and tugged at the brim of my hat so that I wouldn’t be tempted to look at her again. Then I hurried away from the casket, skirting the crowd as I made a beeline for the cemetery gates. As far as I was concerned, this funeral was officially over. I needed to get away from this place immediately.
But I’d only made it within a few feet of the entrance when someone called out, “Miss? Miss!”
It was my mother’s voice . . . and she was nearby. Although I didn’t turn around, I knew she called out for me—who else would she be following this close to the exit? I ignored her and picked up speed, walking so fast that I almost ran out the gates. But that didn’t deter her.
“Miss!”
This time she shouted it, and I knew she wouldn’t give up until she’d caught me. So I had to make a choice: bolt, or finally turn around and face the person I’d basically stalked for the last few months.
I skidded to a stop, cursing myself for not going invisible when I had the chance, right after my mother looked away at the casket. Then, with a shiver of apprehension, I spun around slowly on one heel.
My mother had stopped too, and now she stood a few feet away, panting from the effort of the chase. To my surprise, she didn’t say anything at first. Other than the heave of her shoulders, she didn’t even move. I followed her lead, keeping stock-still and silent in the gravel parking
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