March 3, 2006
Emily Shaw stood in front of her open closet, her eyes drawn to the black dress hanging there as if someone was shining a spotlight on it. She remembered buying the dress—a wardrobe basic, some fashion article had called it. Every woman needs a basic black dress, she had read, and, being a rule follower, she’d gone out and purchased one almost immediately. But she’d never worn it, preferring to wear colors like red and pink, yellow and blue. Happy colors, she’d always thought. Colors that made people happy to see her. Colors that made her feel happy when she wore them.
But Emily wasn’t happy. Not anymore. Might as well dress the part.
She reached for the black dress, tugging it free from the hanger. She held it up to determine whether she could still wear it. She’d lost so much weight in the past weeks as Ryan started to slip away. Her appetite had gone the way of his fight. She pulled the dress over her head and walked over to stand in front of the full-length mirror in their bedroom. When would she stop thinking of it as their bedroom? Now it was her bedroom, hers alone. The bed was made. There was no laundry left on the floor, no folded piles waiting to be put away. There wasn’t a collection of discarded, half-drunk coffee cups and soda cans littering the surfaces. She didn’t have a thing to clean up, and she missed it. It’s finally clean, Ryan, she thought.
She looked at herself in the mirror, took in the image of the stranger reflected there. Her hair, once cut in a cute style, had grown ragged in the months after Ryan’s diagnosis. The highlights she’d splurged on had grown out, revealing long dark streaks on the crown of her head. She was so thin her head looked too large for her neck. Her eyes no longer held a spark but blinked back at her dully. And the once-flattering black dress looked exactly like a sackcloth on her. She would be a sight at her husband’s funeral. And she couldn’t care less.
She imagined what her mother would say, the way her mouth would form that grim little line of disapproval even as she bit back her critique of her only daughter. Her mother was the quintessential preacher’s wife—used to living in a fishbowl and prone to caring what “the people” thought of them. It just wouldn’t do for Emily to have anything less than a positive attitude, a smile on her face, some roses in her cheeks as she bravely faced the untimely death of her young husband. What would the people think? If her mother had her way, Emily would address the mourners today wearing vibrant red or brilliant blue, share an inspiring message of hope for a bright future. She’d quote some pithy verses and rally everyone with talk of God drawing near even in the valley of the shadow of death.
But God, as far as she could tell, was nowhere around.
She turned away from the mirror and went to put her hair in a ponytail instead of styling it. She should probably have washed it but the truth was, she just didn’t care how she looked. She had actually considered not attending the funeral; let her parents and Ryan’s explain to “the people” that she was just too grief-stricken to drag herself out of bed. The ones who counted would understand. The rest she didn’t care about anyway. But a cooler head had prevailed and she’d relented when she looked out the window by her bed that morning and was greeted with a weeping sky. It was as if the world was telling her it was okay to be sad. She’d promised herself she would go and pay tribute to Ryan, but she would not look happy about it when she did. Hence the black dress, the lack of makeup, the unwashed hair.
Marta arrived to drive her to the funeral a few minutes early—more evidence that all was not right with the world. Her best friend had never been early for anything in her life. She frowned when Emily entered the kitchen where Marta was helping herself to the coffee Emily had made but not drunk.
Marta shook her head and blew on the hot coffee. She took a few sips as Emily shifted nervously from foot to foot, watching her. Between sips she saw Marta take in the too-big dress, the way the fabric billowed around her body. She gestured at the dress. “That new?”
Emily narrowed her eyes. “As if,” she responded.
Marta ignored her unfunny retort. “When this is over I think you should get rid of it. It doesn’t do much for you.”
Emily shrugged and looked at the microwave clock.
“You should want to pay your respects,” her mother had said yesterday when she’d admitted she was seriously considering not going. “This is your time to honor Ryan.” Her mother used guilt to guide her like ranchers used cattle prods. Walking out with Marta, she caught her unsightly reflection in the stainless steel oven door. Her mother’s guilt maneuver had worked yet again. Maybe she would take one look at her daughter and regret using it. As sad as she was, the thought made Emily smile just the tiniest little bit.
Following the service, her parents opened the church gymnasium for a reception. All the old ladies from the church had made food, plates lining several long tables filled with every kind of food imaginable—fried chicken and deviled eggs, tea sandwiches and ham biscuits. Another table held pies of all kinds—fried pies and apple pie and blueberry pie and a chocolate meringue piled high with a fluffy white topping. Emily surveyed the food as if it were a foreign substance she’d heard of but had no need for. She felt like an alien among earthlings, watching them take part in this ritual known as eating. She was surprised her stomach rumbled in response to Marta’s filled plate, the smell of the fried chicken causing this one body part to betray the rest of her. Marta held up the plate. “You sure I can’t get you something?” she asked.
Marta’s overly attentive attitude was yet another indication that things weren’t right. Not that her best friend wasn’t kind and helpful sometimes, it just wasn’t that often. She looked around them at the collection of men—Ryan’s friends from college and his office, many of them single. Normally Marta would’ve been on a hunt. Even at a funeral. But she seemed not to notice any of them, her eyes focused and intent on her best friend, eyeing her as if she were an armed bomb missing her timer.
“You should eat,” Marta intoned, waving the plate under her nose.
Emily nearly remarked that she sounded like her mother, but held her tongue. Marta would take that as an insult when she only meant it as an observation. She just shook her head and ignored the smell of the chicken, her hand resting on her concave stomach to stop the rumbling. She couldn’t eat at Ryan’s funeral. It just didn’t seem right. There were ways to mourn properly, and scarfing fried chicken in the presence of his friends and family wasn’t one of them. “Maybe one of the ladies will make me a plate,” she mumbled. “For later.”
Marta, who was attacking her chicken, stopped midchew. “Great idea! I’ll go ask.” Obviously relieved to have something to do, she trotted off to find Mrs. Miniver, the grande dame of food at Christ Community Church.
Emily stood still and surveyed the room, grateful for this first moment alone. Her mother and father were occupied with other people and Ryan’s parents had ducked out shortly after the reception got underway. Emily had nearly asked to go with them but had taken one look at Mrs. Shaw’s face and known that the woman needed to be alone to grieve her son apart from the onlookers. At the very least, Emily understood that. She’d given her in-laws one last hug and watched them go, wondering if they were still her in-laws if their son was dead.
“Excuse me, Emily?” The voice at her elbow startled her and brought her back to the crowded church gymnasium filled with the smell of grandma’s cooking. She turned to find a face she recognized but couldn’t place, which had happened often that day.
“Yes?” she asked.
“I’m Phil, Phil Griffin?” He watched her face for some sign of recognition and, seeing none, continued. “I worked with Ryan, but not in the same department. I handled—” His voice faltered. “I handle wills and, um, things of that nature.” He finished, straightening his posture and exhaling loudly. “Did Ryan ever mention me?”
She searched the recesses of her mind, thinking back through the months after his diagnosis, the decision not to prolong his life with treatment, the stunning reality that cancer would take his life quickly, and their valiant efforts to enjoy every last minute they’d had together. They’d talked through so much—the gift of time, her father had called it in his eloquent service that day—but had the name Phil Griffin from his office ever come up? No. She shook her head at Phil. “I’m sorry but that doesn’t ring a bell.”
Phil held up his hands. He wasn’t eating either. “ ‘S’okay. I didn’t think he would. Ryan . . .” She was startled to watch the man’s eyes fill with tears. He swallowed hard and continued speaking. “Ryan loved you very much. He made me promise I’d wait ’til . . . after to divulge anything to you. He made some plans a long time ago, plans that affect you now.” He looked away, scanning the room before looking back at her. “I came today to pay my respects but also to find you and set up a time to have you come to my office. Would you be willing to do that?”
Intrigued, she nodded as the rest of the room fell away—gone was the idle chatter of the collected mourners, the smell of food. All that mattered was this stranger who promised to tell her something she’d not known about her husband. “How soon could we do it?” she asked, waving Marta over so she could introduce her to Phil. She would beg Marta to take her to his office immediately, to this last piece of Ryan she hadn’t known existed, whatever it was. Suddenly, even though she was at his funeral, he felt close again. She found herself wanting to wrap her arms around this feeling and hold it forever. But she knew the more she tried to hold on, the more it would slip away.