grew up and followed in his father’s footsteps, and old Mr. Cicero proudly changed the name. He passed away a few years ago, but Glenn has left the sign the way it is.
When Jen last saw him, about a year ago at her great-uncle Frank’s funeral, he said, “No reason to change it. My son Connor tells me he might want to go into the family business, too.”
“How old is he now?”
“Seven.”
Jen nodded, smiling politely, wondering whether any seven-year-old truly wants to think about growing up to become a mortician, even if it is the family business.
The Ciceros have presided over many a Bonafacio family funeral, and quite a few others Jen has attended over the years. Just the sight of the stately old structure is enough to send a pall over her on an ordinary day, when she barely gives it a second glance.
Today, however, she drives past the funeral home with slow deliberation, noting that the large gravel parking lot alongside it is already full, and the street is lined with parked cars.
The wake for Nicki Olivera doesn’t even start for another fifteen minutes, but dark-clothed mourners are lined up out the door. Groups of teenagers cluster on the walkway; crying girls shivering bare-legged in dresses console each other alongside uncomfortable-looking boys in dress pants, down coats, and sneakers.
Jen takes a deep breath; exhales shakily.
Oh Lord. Suddenly, Nicki’s death has gone from surreal to shockingly real.
This is going to be brutal enough for the adults who are attending. But for those poor kids . . .
For Carley . . .
Jen fleetingly considers sparing her daughter the ordeal.
No. She has to go. She needs to go, in order to fully grasp the shocking reality that Nicki is gone.
On Saturday morning, Jen had faltered right before they told Carley the news, when she saw her lying there in bed. She was clutching her stuffed flamingo, Bubblegum: a long-ago birthday gift from Nicki. Childhood innocence personified.
She knew that Carley was about to lose something that she’d never get back. Not just in the literal sense—not just the monumental loss of her friend, which in itself would leave a void that would never be filled.
But Carley’s world was about to be shaken because of the way Nicki had died. An accident, or an illness . . . that’s one thing. But when someone deliberately chooses death, without explanation or warning . . .
But you don’t know that , Jen keeps reminding herself. You haven’t seen Nicki in a while; you don’t know, and Carley probably didn’t know, what was going on with her.
When they told their daughter the news, she went from disbelief—asking “ What? ” over and over—to hysterical tears.
They had to reveal that it was suicide. There was no point in lying.
“But . . . but that means she’s not going to go to heaven!”
Jen tried to console her, telling her that the church had changed its views on suicide, but she could tell Carley wasn’t buying it. She’d spent too many years in an old-fashioned parochial school to completely disregard what she’d been taught about the mortal sin of taking your own life.
It wasn’t until hours later, when the initial shock and grief had subsided, that Carley wanted to know exactly how Nicki had done it.
“With a knife,” Jen said reluctantly and then, seeing the look of horror on her daughter’s face, she hugged her close and consoled her as a fresh wave of tears broke.
The violence of Nicki’s death, more than anything else, is what’s been troubling Jen.
You always read that it’s the male victims who use knives or guns to kill themselves. Not women. Certainly not young girls who cower behind the couch pillows just trying to watch one of the old Scream movies at a sleepover.
“No! I can’t look!” Nicki shrieked as Carley giggled. “Are there blood and guts, Carls? You know I can’t deal with blood and guts!”
Remembering the many overnights Carley and Nicki spent together, Jen
When Jen last saw him, about a year ago at her great-uncle Frank’s funeral, he said, “No reason to change it. My son Connor tells me he might want to go into the family business, too.”
“How old is he now?”
“Seven.”
Jen nodded, smiling politely, wondering whether any seven-year-old truly wants to think about growing up to become a mortician, even if it is the family business.
The Ciceros have presided over many a Bonafacio family funeral, and quite a few others Jen has attended over the years. Just the sight of the stately old structure is enough to send a pall over her on an ordinary day, when she barely gives it a second glance.
Today, however, she drives past the funeral home with slow deliberation, noting that the large gravel parking lot alongside it is already full, and the street is lined with parked cars.
The wake for Nicki Olivera doesn’t even start for another fifteen minutes, but dark-clothed mourners are lined up out the door. Groups of teenagers cluster on the walkway; crying girls shivering bare-legged in dresses console each other alongside uncomfortable-looking boys in dress pants, down coats, and sneakers.
Jen takes a deep breath; exhales shakily.
Oh Lord. Suddenly, Nicki’s death has gone from surreal to shockingly real.
This is going to be brutal enough for the adults who are attending. But for those poor kids . . .
For Carley . . .
Jen fleetingly considers sparing her daughter the ordeal.
No. She has to go. She needs to go, in order to fully grasp the shocking reality that Nicki is gone.
On Saturday morning, Jen had faltered right before they told Carley the news, when she saw her lying there in bed. She was clutching her stuffed flamingo, Bubblegum: a long-ago birthday gift from Nicki. Childhood innocence personified.
She knew that Carley was about to lose something that she’d never get back. Not just in the literal sense—not just the monumental loss of her friend, which in itself would leave a void that would never be filled.
But Carley’s world was about to be shaken because of the way Nicki had died. An accident, or an illness . . . that’s one thing. But when someone deliberately chooses death, without explanation or warning . . .
But you don’t know that , Jen keeps reminding herself. You haven’t seen Nicki in a while; you don’t know, and Carley probably didn’t know, what was going on with her.
When they told their daughter the news, she went from disbelief—asking “ What? ” over and over—to hysterical tears.
They had to reveal that it was suicide. There was no point in lying.
“But . . . but that means she’s not going to go to heaven!”
Jen tried to console her, telling her that the church had changed its views on suicide, but she could tell Carley wasn’t buying it. She’d spent too many years in an old-fashioned parochial school to completely disregard what she’d been taught about the mortal sin of taking your own life.
It wasn’t until hours later, when the initial shock and grief had subsided, that Carley wanted to know exactly how Nicki had done it.
“With a knife,” Jen said reluctantly and then, seeing the look of horror on her daughter’s face, she hugged her close and consoled her as a fresh wave of tears broke.
The violence of Nicki’s death, more than anything else, is what’s been troubling Jen.
You always read that it’s the male victims who use knives or guns to kill themselves. Not women. Certainly not young girls who cower behind the couch pillows just trying to watch one of the old Scream movies at a sleepover.
“No! I can’t look!” Nicki shrieked as Carley giggled. “Are there blood and guts, Carls? You know I can’t deal with blood and guts!”
Remembering the many overnights Carley and Nicki spent together, Jen
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