HELENA - Chapter Two

Among the Mourning Faces

Before we even entered the church, I knew this was the last thing my mother would have wanted.
The floral arrangements were over the top--lilies, carnations, roses--wrapped around the wicker coffin like a tacky display at a home-and-garden show. The coffin itself felt disconcertingly light, almost like a mockery of what it represented. I stood there as a pallbearer, flanked by my father and a collection of distant cousins whose faces I couldn't have picked out of a line-up a week ago. I could have easily lifted it by myself; its weight was worryingly insubstantial.
As we gradually made our sombre procession down the rose-coloured carpet of the church, my thoughts drifted back to one of the poignant conversations I had with her during her first round of chemotherapy.
"What does it matter if you're buried?" sitting on the edge of her bed, playing with the threads of the blanket, "You'll be dead. You won't know any different."
Her eyes narrowed, sharp as they could manage back then. "How can I possibly be 'resting in peace' if I'm six feet underground in a box, rotting away two feet from a stranger?"
I almost laughed at the time. Her logic had this absurd quality to it that made sense only to her. "And being burnt into ash makes you feel more at peace?" Her face softened then, her hand reaching out to clutch mine with what little strength she had left. "Just put me somewhere nice," she said, her voice quieter, almost pleading. "Please promise me."
I'd promise, of course. What else could I do? Say no? At the time, I'd thought it was a silly thing to fixate on, but standing here now, the coffin looming before me, I was starting to regret that promise. I wished she'd changed her mind in the years since and had some sudden epiphany that being buried wasn't so bad after all.
The church was small, with a high arched ceiling that made every cough and sniffle echo. I chose a seat near the back, far enough away from my father and Verity that I wouldn't have to feel their eyes on me. The thought of sitting beside them, pretending we were some united front in mourning, made my stomach churn. It was bad enough knowing people would already be looking at me, expecting me to carry her memory. My father sat in the front row, his back rigid, his face a blank slate. He hadn't cried--not that I'd seen, --but grief clung to him in other ways. His suit, perfectly pressed, hung awkwardly on his frame. The once broad shoulders seemed shrunken, the fabric pooling around his wrists. Beside him, Verity sat with her hands neatly folded, her face a portrait of practiced sorrow. She had always been good at that--masking whatever emotions she felt with something that looked appropriate from the outside.
Among the mourning faces, a couple of middle-aged women sat in the second row, all sniffles and Kleenex. They passed the tissues between each other with such urgency that it made me wonder if their noses were made of glass. I think I recognised one of them as Elaine, my mother's old co-worker. It made me wonder where Elaine and the others had been during the worst of it. When Mom was bedridden, pale and frail, crying softly through the walls at night. When she needed someone to carry her to the bathtub because she couldn't make it up the stairs on her own anymore. Where were they then? Watching reruns of Bridget Jones with her? Sitting by her bedside when she was too weak to eat? No. They were busy, I imagined, caught up in their lives while my father had his assistant bent over the kitchen counter.
The coffin stayed closed, which I was thankful for. I didn't want to see her, not like this. But that didn't stop my mind from wandering, picturing what might lie inside. Her skin, pale in life, must be almost translucent now. Her wrists were too thin to hold her favourite bracelets anymore. And her hair--the golden curls she was so excited to grow back after chemo--brittle and frail, a ghost of what they used to be.
The priest approached the microphone, shattering the heavy silence that enveloped the room. He appeared too youthful for the role, perhaps in his early thirties, with an appearance more suited for a department store catalogue than a house of worship. I had always envisioned priests as bent, weary men, burdened with the weight of faith and years. This man, on the other hand, looked like he had just walked off a fashion shoot for Abercrombie & Fitch.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, suddenly aware of how ill-fitting my suit was. It was the same three-piece ensemble I had worn to prom two years prior. The cuffs constricted my wrists uncomfortably, and my trousers betrayed me with their unmistakable display of Christmas-themed socks.
The priest's voice resonated, calm and steady, as he read from the Psalms. "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me."
As he spoke, I let my gaze wander over the gathered crowd--strangers who had come to grieve someone they likely hadn't thought about in years.
When the priest finished, he glanced around the room, his gentle smile inviting anyone to share their memories. He asked, "Would anyone like to come up and say a few words?" My heart raced. The thought of speaking had never crossed my mind; I hadn't prepared anything or penned a heartfelt eulogy. A quick look around revealed that no one else seemed ready either. The silence hung in the air, thick and uncomfortable, as everyone avoided each other's eyes. Good. Let's just get this over with, I thought.
The sooner this spectacle ended, the sooner we could all retreat back to our normal lives.