The days before the funeral passed by in a haze. Hours either sped away, spent before I realized it, or dragged along, seeming to never end. Some days I couldn’t remember if I’d eaten or gone to the bathroom or when I’d last showered. Others, I was aware of every moment I’d been awake.
A few days in the interim Frank had gone back to Bliss to “tie up loose ends.” Mom went to work. Joel attended school and I popped in for a few hours here or there at the diner.
The world continued to spin, carrying us along with it whether we liked it or not.
Suddenly and finally, the night before the funeral arrived. Mom had set up her ironing board, pressing all of our black clothes for the next morning and starching Joel’s button-up shirt. She had her hair in rollers and cold cream smeared on her face.
“Your dress is hanging up in the laundry room,” she said. “You’ll need a sweater to wear with it.”
“Thank you.” I took my dress off the hook, walking with it to the foot of the steps.
“Do you think Michael would hate us for making such a fuss over him?”
Facing her again, I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“Frank wanted the whole shebang.” She stood the iron on its end and moved the shirt she was pressing. “The honor guard and the salutes and ‘Taps.’ All of it.”
“It will be nice.”
“Nice?” She scowled at me. “None of this is nice. Nothing about this is nice.”
“Mom . . .”
“I didn’t want any of this for him. I wanted him to go to college so he could get a deferment. I wanted him to be safe.” She lifted her arms, palms up. “I worked so hard. Still, he went. And now look at the mess we’re in.”
She yanked the plug of the iron out of the wall and ripped the shirt off the board. The way she fit it on the hanger, I feared she’d tear the sleeves right off.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she said, her voice raised an octave. “Not to my son.”
She placed her hands on the ironing board and breathed in and out through her mouth.
“Mom?” I said, taking one step toward her.
“I don’t know what to do. I can’t fix this.”
Rushing past me down the stairs, Joel made his way to Mom. Without a word, he put his arms around her and she didn’t fight him.
“It’s all right, Mom,” he said. “It’s all right.”
She didn’t argue with him and she didn’t push him from her. Because, I thought, she knew that what he meant was that it was all right for her to let go, to not try to be so strong.
It was all right.
I sat on the bottom step, my funeral dress still in my arms.
There was nothing else I could do.