Chapter 5
Dear Diary,
I hate funerals.
CeeCee
Sitting at my desk, chin in hand, staring out at the gray skies, I hoped the rain would at least let up while we were at the cemetery.
Preferring to wait in my room for the limo to arrive, I figured Mom and Mark were downstairs, blonde heads close together whispering about me, wondering if I was about to snap…again.
Glancing out of my window, I noticed the limo had pulled up to the curb, and I reluctantly headed toward the stairs. Mark was halfway up, choosing to come and get me rather than having to yell. None of us had the energy or inclination to project anything much above a whisper.
I shot Mark a grimace that was supposed to be a smile. Mark grimaced back. We needed no words…understanding was immediate. Being there for Mom was the most important thing to both of us so we would try our best, even if we weren’t able to make it easier for her, at least not make it any harder. I had done enough of that already.
My main frustration was that Mom wouldn’t let me apologize. Every time I tried, she would cut me off with a tired smile and change the subject. Finally, when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I unloaded to Mark. Surprisingly, I received no support from him.
“Just drop it, okay? Mom is barely holding it together as it is, and I don’t think she could handle an emotional scene from either of us right now.”
Translation: behave yourself and stop causing trouble.
I dropped it.
Getting into the limo wasn’t any easier for me than the last time I’d tried. I would never get the hang of it. Mom, on the other hand, was incredibly graceful and looked like she had ridden in limos all of her life.
If I had known that before, I would have asked her for tips on limo entrances and exits. I still wouldn’t have done it justice, but perhaps it would have prevented me from falling into and out of the limo every time.
Mom was absolutely gorgeous. True she had lost quite a bit of weight, and her skin looked extremely pale with no sign of the healthy tan she used to have in better times, still there was no denying that she was beautiful. She wore a lot more makeup than she used to in order to cover up the dark circles under her eyes that had become even more pronounced while Dad was in the hospital.
Dad had always said that she was the most enchanting creature he had ever laid eyes on, and makeup only detracted from her natural beauty. He was right. Lipstick was the only cosmetic she had used for as long as I could remember.
I knew that she only wore so much makeup for other people. Mom hated for anyone to feel uncomfortable around her so makeup was an important part of her mask. She used it and her personality to hide most of her grief and pain from outside eyes.
Regrettably, most people had no idea what to say or how to act around victims of tragedy, but somehow Mom always seemed to know just what to say or do to ease others’ discomfiture. People loved her because she always knew how to make people feel good even under the most rotten of circumstances.
Mark and I were determined to be whatever she needed us to be realizing that it was the best way to help her. I certainly owed her that much, and more.
The funeral was at the church building, and the auditorium, which seated close to three hundred people easily, was more than halfway full and still filling up by the time we arrived. Even though we had only lived in the DFW area for three years, Mom had a way of drawing people to her.
There were many church members, of course, but also most of Mom’s fellow teachers, quite a few of her students, and Frank. For some reason seeing big, strong Frank with tears in his eyes was almost my undoing.
The biggest surprise of all was the people from our old hometown. Teachers who had taught with Mom and Dad, former students, parents of former students, and members of our old church had loaded into chartered buses to attend the funeral. Mom couldn’t help the tears that filled her eyes at the sight.
Right before we got to the door of the activity center where we would wait until time to walk in, I heard someone calling “CeeCee!”
It can’t be, I thought as I turned my head toward the sound, she’s in Canada on vacation.
It was!
“Felicia! What are you doing here? I thought you were in Canada!”
We were hugging and laughing, and it felt good.
“Dad left our number with Mr. Forsythe in case of an emergency; he’s my parents’ lawyer, too. He let us know your dad was in the hospital not doing well. We didn’t know he…we didn’t know about…the funeral…until we got home,” she finished hesitantly.
“I am so glad you’re here. Can she walk in with us, Mom?” I asked as we entered the activity center.
“Of course she can, if her parents don’t mind,” my mom smiled at Felicia warmly and squeezed her hand.
“Thanks, Mrs. Wilson,” Felicia returned the smile.
My parents had been overjoyed when Felicia had become the friend I needed so badly and had a soft spot for her.
Actually, I had always thought that Felicia looked more like my mom’s daughter than I did. Interesting how that didn’t bother me. If it had been anyone else, it would have. Sad that I was so obsessed with physical beauty; obviously envious of what I didn’t have.
“I’m Mark, in case anyone is interested,” he casually introduced himself to Felicia. “Nice to finally meet you,” he added.
“I am so sorry. I forgot you hadn’t met,” I said apologetically.
“I’m always gone when you come in for a visit, and you always leave before I can get back home,” Felicia reasoned, “but I know all about you from CeeCee.”
“Well, that can’t be good. Hope you’ll give me the benefit of the doubt anyway,” Mark teased.
“I’ll try to keep an open mind,” Felicia promised solemnly.
The funeral director showed up to lead us into the auditorium at that point.
I was relieved to know that Mark and Felicia seemed to like each other. I had regaled Felicia with Mark’s many, many dates, and Felicia had occasionally made snide remarks about guys who date that much.
Numerous “dating machines” had asked her out in her short dating career, and they’d never turned out well. Although she was not a cynic by nature, that would be me, she generally avoided those types of guys.
The funny thing about Mark was that usually girls asked him out, and he was just too nice to say “no” and risk hurting their feelings. Because he had been raised a gentleman, he also insisted on paying, but warned them up front that it would have to be an inexpensive date, since he was having to help pay for his college education. The girls never seemed to mind.
Another unexpected arrival interrupted the short walk between the main building and the activity center.
“Mark!”
We all looked around at the owner of the new voice; it sounded vaguely familiar.
“Nick!”
Mark and the new arrival locked in a bear hug, pounding each other on the back. They looked about the same height, but Nick was burlier than Mark.
“Mom, this is my roommate, Nick Barrett. Nick this is my mother, Allison Wilson,” Mark introduced them.
“It’s a great honor to meet you, Mrs. Wilson; I feel I already know you from talking to you on the phone as well as all the things Mark has shared with me.”
He held my mom’s hand and looked deeply into her eyes. Mom’s weary smile brightened just a bit.
“I’ve heard good things about you, too, Nick. James and I…” my mom’s voice cracked just a bit from mentioning my dad’s name, “We were very grateful that you offered Mark the chance to share your apartment. It’s helped him out so much.”
“I would be hard put to find a better roommate,” Nick assured her, “a win-win situation.”
I cringed, trying to hide behind Felicia, which was very hard to do since I topped her by a good three inches.
I’d liked Nick on the phone, but it suddenly dawned on me that if Mark had told Nick about us then Nick had heard as many bad things about me as he had heard good things about Mom.
Mark, being the loving brother that he was, would try to sugar-coat me, but even with tons of sugar-coating, I would come out sounding an extremely bitter pill. I was mortified thinking about the things Mark might have told him. There were so many from which to choose.
Thankfully, we had no more time for introductions. Since Felicia looked more like Mom and Mark than I did…maybe he would think that she was me. If he didn’t stay long, maybe I could get away with it.
I was such a cop-out.
I could see him giving me the once over, maybe wondering who I was, then glancing at Felicia.
Turning my back on him, I determinedly decided not to care. Who was he to judge me anyway?
As we entered the auditorium, my bravado left me and I felt a twinge of sadness. There were only the three of us.
Mom never talked about her family and Dad had no family in the states, his mother having moved to the U.S. from Scotland with her parents when she was around five years old.
She’d died right before I was born, which was why I’d been named after her, Elsee Caitrin Wilson.
I was glad that, even though my mother loved her dearly, she realized that I would be teased my whole life if Elsee was the name I went by, so she came up with a compromise, a nickname, for which I would be forever grateful.
Taking the last syllable of Elsee and putting it together with my middle initial had truly been an inspiration. She had seen her mother-in-law sign her name Elsee C. Wilson so many times that her signature, along with Mark’s childhood name for our grandmother, had given her the idea.
Mark had always called her Gramsee so Mom had decided that CeeCee would be an acceptable variation and a nickname she could live with. My dad usually let Mom have her way, which I thought a wise move on his part. He had definitely been the peacemaker in the family.
The service was mostly a blur to me. Mark and Mom walked in together first, then Felicia and me, and Nick, because Mom asked him sweetly to join us, brought up the rear. He couldn’t resist Mom’s charm anymore than anyone else could.
I tried not to listen to what the preacher was saying, I figured that was the only way I was going to get through the whole thing dry-eyed, and I did pretty well, I thought, until they played Dad’s favorite song.
The song “I Can Only Imagine” had gained quite a bit of popularity, and played all the time on the Christian radio station Mom and Dad listened to frequently. Mom had informed us the previous night that since it had been one of Dad’s favorite songs—he liked to “imagine” that we would, one day, all be up in heaven together with his mom and dad and his brother Michael who died before he was born—she’d warned us that she requested that song be played during the funeral.
Forewarned should have been forearmed, and I did control myself through the first part of the song, but I couldn’t stop the tears from falling freely down my cheeks about half way through. I was squeezing Felicia’s hand so tightly I was sure she was losing all feeling in her fingers, but I couldn’t stop. I kept thinking how mortified I would be if I lost all control and began blubbering uncontrollably. Unlike Mom, I was not a silent crier.
The service finally ended, and lines of people filed past us as well as the open casket while background music played. Everyone stopped to hug Mom. They mostly shook hands with Mark and me, murmuring condolences, but Mom was special. She was the reason they were all here; if she had loved the deceased, then he must have been incredible.
People back home had known Dad well and loved him, but after we moved, no one had been able to actually get to know him because he was already slurring his words and having major muscle spasms by then.
Even so, they all felt like they knew Mom. The phrase one-in-a-million had been created specifically with her in mind.
After what seemed like an eternity, we were escorted to the limo. Unlike the stretch limo I had ridden in before, the funeral limo—for lack of a better term—had two bench seats facing each other so it could seat six people.
Felicia agreed to ride with us—I envied the style with which she and my mother gracefully entered the limo—but Nick decided to take his own vehicle. I was glad for the slight reprieve. I could tell the one time our eyes had met, that he didn’t think much of me, and was waiting for the right moment to tell me so.
I usually wasn’t so easily intimidated, but there was something about him…I couldn’t put it into words, and I realized I wasn’t going to emerge from any encounter with him unscathed.
The rain had temporarily turned into a fine mist, which was much better than the downpour we could hear during the funeral service, and we all heaved a collective sigh of relief. At least the graveside service might not turn out as miserably wet as we all had expected earlier in the day. Even if half of the people from the funeral attended, there would be a mass turnout, and only a few of us were going to be able to fit under the tent at one time.
In deference to the weather, the preacher didn’t dally over the graveside service. Mom had decided against opening the casket again, so it was basically a scripture reading, a prayer, and then more hugging and crying.
Mark suggested I give Felicia my house key so she and her parents could go help Mrs. Murray get things ready for the meal, which I thought was a great idea. Mrs. Murray and the Howells were some of the first to leave with whispered promises of ‘taking care of things’.
After everyone else had departed—except Nick who was waiting in his pickup, not knowing where we lived—Mom had the director open the casket one last time so we three could say our final goodbyes before we left Dad there…forever.
I wasn’t sure Mom would be able to leave. I wasn’t sure I would be able to leave.
How could anyone do that? Just abandon someone they love lying in a casket knowing they were about to be trapped forever in that small container? Lowered into the ground and buried? Underground? With all that dirt on top of them? Unable to breathe?
Even though I knew he was dead, Dad looked like he was just asleep, that if I reached over and shook him gently he would wake up.
I desperately wanted him to wake up.
How can I just walk away and desert him? I wondered frantically.
In a sudden panic, I knew there had to be some mistake. He couldn’t be gone, there had to be something...a reset button...or an undo button…where was the undo button? Everything else had one, there had to be one for life. Death was so…so…irrevocable…so final, too final for there not to be an “out” somewhere.
I would never see him again…never hear him again.
This just can’t be right! I wanted to scream. I can’t do this!
I shook my head to clear it, trying to swallow around the lump in my throat that was preventing me from uttering any sound. All I could do was stand there, crying. Desperately, I reached for Mark’s hand, and felt his gentle squeeze. He was silent, and I wondered if he was feeling the same overwhelming emotions that I was experiencing.
Mom, deciding that Mark and I had spent enough time there, told us to wait for her in the limo. I didn’t want to go, couldn’t take my eyes off of Dad lying there, but Mark tugged at my hand and gently managed to lead me away from the gravesite. I kept turning around, gazing longingly back towards the casket, as we made our way to the limo.
Neither of us wanted to go, I could feel Mark’s reluctance as if it were my own, despair filling me at the prospect of the emptiness in my life, the big hole left by Dad’s death no one else would ever be able to fill.
By leaving him there, I was admitting that he was truly gone…there would be no more “Ditto Kiddo” ever again…and I couldn’t do it.
I turned back towards the gravesite, unable to stop myself, but I felt Mark’s hand on my waist,
pulling me backwards against him, wrapping his arms around me as he buried his face in my hair, preventing me from intruding on Mom.
We watched Mom touch Dad’s hands, his face, his hair, leaning over him, her hands straightening his jacket adjusting his pocket, her lips moving the whole time. We were too far away to hear what she was saying, and I, for one, was glad I couldn’t lip read.
Whatever it was, I was sure it would be heartbreaking to hear, and I couldn’t stand anymore heartache than what I was already suffering at that point.
Mark concluded that she had been out there alone long enough and after firmly installing me in the limo was about to go get her when we saw her motion to the director that she was through.
While he closed the casket for the last time, she made her way, a little unsteadily, towards us. Mark moved to meet her and helped her negotiate the uneven ground between the grave and the limo…tears streaming silently down her face.
None of us said a word.
By the time we arrived at the house, Mom was composed again. She had invited everyone to come to join us at the house to eat and she knew she’d have to face them all.
There had been a steady stream of people bringing food for two days, and we were never going to be able to eat it all ourselves. A lot of it wouldn’t fit in the fridge, and Mrs. Murray had kindly offered to keep the overflow at her house, but even so, it had to be eaten or most of it would spoil, there was that much.
I took a deep breath, stumbled out of the limo, and followed Mark and Mom into the house. Excusing myself in order to change clothes, I ran upstairs and shut the door.
After donning my standard sleeveless, fitted blouse and jeans, I stood at my bedroom window staring blindly out at the rain. How appropriate, I thought morosely, it hadn’t rained in…I couldn’t even remember the last time it had rained…but it had poured buckets since early that morning.
I supposed it would be too corny to think that the skies were crying over my father’s death, but that was how it seemed to me.
As usual, I was stalling. I should be downstairs with all the guests…Mom and Mark would be expecting me to help…but I wanted to stay up in my room, hiding.
Sighing heavily, I headed to the stairs.