Dany
My mother comes in the morning. Jack called her because he was worried. My mother cuddles me, showers me, dresses me and pops me into the back seat of the Jaguar. She gives Karl directions and in no time at all we’re at the funeral chapel.
“Darling, you don’t have to go in,” she says.
I haven’t spoken since she found me. I’ve only nodded yes or no. I’m afraid if I speak, either I’ll cry or more ugliness will come out.
She reaches her hand to touch my face and I flinch back.
“Right,” she says. “Well, at least we look fabulous. Never say I didn’t raise you to be a lady.”
I’d like to say otherwise, but I don’t. She takes in my expression and sighs.
“Darling. Please. Be happy. It’s always been my greatest desire. I want you to be happy.”
I look down at my hands.
Karl comes round and opens the back door. My mother climbs out and I follow. We’re in black from head to toe. Black silk funeral scarves and black hats. Black.
“Miss,” Karl says. He tips his hat.
I walk into the chapel.
It’s the smell that hits first. The pungent odor of embalming fluid and lilies. My stomach churns. Why do funerals have to smell sweet? That sickly, unnatural sweet?
“Do you know those ladies?” my mother asks. She’s gesturing to Gerry, Sylvie and Cleo. Sylvie is discreetly waving to me from the front row of chairs by…I block out the word, then force myself to think it, by Matilda’s coffin.
“Darling, would you like to sit with them?” she asks.
No. Yes. I don’t know. The last time I saw them wasn’t my best moment.
The hushed whispers around the room are starting to aggravate me. Someone comes into the chapel behind us. I turn. It’s Jack.
He pauses when he sees me.
He clears his throat. “I came to pay my respects,” he says.
I nod. I can’t do this with him. I turn and drag my mother to the front row.
She walks next to me gracefully, nodding politely at a cluster of people as we pass. I’ve never been more grateful for my socially conscious mother in my entire life.
I slide into the seat next to Sylvie. Gerry is next to her, then Cleo at the end. My mother sinks down next to me.
There’s a board with pictures of Matilda. Images of her as a child. Of her at her wedding. Of her in one of her awful cat T-shirts. There are flowers behind the baby blue coffin. Then, finally, I bring my eyes to where I’d been avoiding looking.
Her body is done up, full of makeup and fake color. It hits me hard. It’s not her. There’s no Matilda-ness left. No smile. No gentleness. No grace. It’s an empty shell.
Matilda is gone.
I look at the photos again. Of her on her wedding day with Steve.
I look back around the small chapel.
There’s Jack.
A couple near the back.
The funeral director.
A family with three teenage children.
I turn to Sylvie. She gives me a reassuring smile and pats my hand.
Then something strikes me as odd. Doesn’t the family usually sit in the front row at funerals?
I crane my neck around the girls. The front row on the other side of the casket is empty.
“Where’s Steve?” I whisper. My voice is dry and hoarse.
“What, dear?” asks Sylvie.
“Where’s Matilda’s husband. Steve?”
Is he too overcome? I imagine him sobbing in the other room. This has to be hard for him. Losing the love of his life.
Sylvie watches me. She shakes her head.
“Where?” I ask. I look over the room again. I don’t see him.
“Steve died,” she says.
My heart stutters. I didn’t hear her right. “What?”
“Sweetheart. Steve’s been dead for fifteen years.”
I shake my head. This doesn’t make any sense. I stand and push away from the chair. I walk up to the picture board. There’s Steve. There’s Matilda. They are getting married. And there’s Steve and Matilda dancing. She’s grinning at the camera. And she looks…twenty-five at most. I scan the board. There aren’t any pictures of Matilda and Steve from recent years.
Sylvie joins me at the board.
“I thought you knew,” she says.
“How would I know? She was always talking about him. Always saying they were going on their second honeymoon when this was all over.”
Sylvie nods. I look past her at Matilda’s body.
“When it’s all over,” I say.
“Yes, dear,” says Sylvie.
I start to cry. And I hate it. Matilda knew. She knew that she was going to die. And she was telling us all that she was going to see her love again when she died.
I wipe at my eyes. Cursing the tears.
“Her second honeymoon was in death?” I ask. Appalled.
Sylvie nods. “She told us her story the week before you came.”
I look away, bitter at the loss of Matilda’s story. “She never told me.”
“Let’s sit down. The service is about to start,” Sylvie says.
I blink my eyes and walk back to my seat.
I don’t hear what the minister says. I can’t hear it.
I had everything so wrong. Everything I thought. Everything I believed. Wrong.
Matilda was right. I’ve been afraid. I’ve been afraid nearly my entire life that if I show anyone my true self they’ll turn away. Reject me. So I rejected myself first. I didn’t love me. I didn’t let anyone see me.
A tear falls from my cheek to my hands.
The officiant asks if anyone would like to share a story about Matilda.
The woman who was part of the couple stands. She shares a touching story about Matilda volunteering at the animal shelter.
The family stands. Matilda was their neighbor. The children loved her.
But where is her family? Didn’t she have any?
I sniff back more tears.
Sylvie is crying next to me.
Gerry sobs quietly into a handkerchief.
Even my mom is crying.
“Anyone else?” asks the officiant.
I hear a rustling and then Cleo stands.
I look up at her. Her face is pinched and if possible she looks more sour and angry than usual.
“I have something to say,” she says.
The officiant nods and Cleo walks up to the podium.
“Bah,” she says in a low growl. She waves her hands at all of us. “Bah at you, and bah at you, and humph.”
I hiccup back my tears. I look around. Gerry has the handkerchief halfway to her mouth. Sylvie stares at Cleo in shock.
“I don’t know why you’re all blubbering.” She pinches her face down and then blurts out, “Here’s what I’d like to say—”
Cleo fumbles for a moment and then pulls her phone from her pocket. She gives each of us a sour look.
Next to me, Sylvie’s eyes are wide. My mom is staring at Cleopatra like she’s never seen anyone like her in her whole life. Gerry shakes her head, back and forth.
Then Cleo looks at me and winks.
I sit up straight.
“This is for Matilda. Dance, girl, dance,” Cleo says.
She holds up her phone and presses the screen.
Then the chapel microphone picks up the beat of the most inappropriate song in funeral history. Heavy bass. Thumping, beating drums. Cleopatra drops her phone beneath the microphone and struts out next to the podium. She puts one arm behind her head and her other arm swings around as she points at each of us.
Her black pants flare out and she starts to shake her hips.
“Let’s go,” shouts Cleo.
It’s Matilda’s song. From the party. The bass cranks out.
“What the shit,” says my mother.
I stifle a horrified laugh.
The officiant’s mouth drops open and he rushes toward the podium.
By the look on his face, he’s going to put a stop to it.
No way.
No. Freaking. Way.
I jump up and moonwalk my way across the floor. I block him out. This music isn’t stopping.
“Ma’am,” he says.
I shake my head and start to Cabbage Patch Dance around the stand.
“Ma’am, this is a funeral chapel, not a dance party.”
I do the robot and the sprinkler dance. Every bad eighties move I know.
There’s no way I’m letting this music stop. No way.
Cleo sings as loud as she can. She points at the front row.
There is one more second of stunned silence then Gerry jumps up. She bends over and drags Sylvie to her feet.
“Dance,” Gerry laughs. “Dance, girls.”
The officiant backs up. He knows a losing battle when he sees one.
We’re dancing. This is our moment. Matilda’s too. We’re not stopping.
“Daniella,” my mom cries, “what are you doing?”
I slide up to her. “Dancing, Mom. I’m dancing.”
She shakes her head. “But a lady—”
“I’m not a lady, mom.”
She looks me over and something shifts in her expression. She nods. “Okay.”
I stare at her in shock.
Okay?
Then my mother, in her four-inch black Jimmy Choos, starts to tap her foot to the music. She smiles at me and gestures for me to keep going.
My friends cheer.
Gerry grabs my hands and spins in a circle. Sylvie does a little shuffle. Cleo, once again, is moving like she was born on the stage. Her face is transformed from pinched and sour to radiant.
Suddenly, everyone has joined us at the front. We’re all dancing.
Every single one of us.
I feel it then.
Matilda’s here.
And she’s dancing too.
She’s swinging around and around. Laughing and dancing. And Steve is here. And they’re on their flipping second honeymoon.
I smile and blow a kiss in the air.
We dance and dance.
I’m free. Free of all the masks. All the fear. Matilda was right.
I’m just me now, dancing with my friends.
Something strikes me then. Where’s Jack? I look around the chapel.
The music fades.
He’s not here. He’s gone.