Emma and Joe walked hand in hand through the double doors
into the vestibule. A kind, unobtrusive gentleman, who seemed to materialize
out of nowhere, directed them to the right room and then glided away soundlessly.
Joe released her hand, and Emma signed the guestbook for Joe, herself, and
Andrew, and then stared at the two caskets that stood side by side across the
room. Thankfully, no one else was in the room.
One casket was closed, but in the other she glimpsed
Rachel’s light brown hair. After a moment’s hesitation, she walked over to
Evan’s casket, her feet scuffing slightly against the plush carpet. Joe walked
a few paces behind her and stopped a couple of feet from the casket, his arms
crossed.
The frigid air reminded Emma of the computer room at
Joe’s office, which had also been her office before Andrew was born. Dressed
for the Texas heat back home, she hugged herself with both arms as she stared
silently at the gleaming lid of the polished maple casket. What was she
supposed to do? What was she even feeling for Evan, whom she’d never known all
that well?
He smiled grimly and raised his own shoulders slightly in
answer. He watched her as she turned toward Rachel’s casket, her chest
expanding as she drew in a big breath. He touched her forearm lightly. “Do you
want a minute alone with her?”
Emma nodded, and he gave her arm a gentle squeeze before
he retreated to a row of chairs along the wall. Her heart pounded as she
approached her sister, whom she’d last seen at Christmas six months before. Her
mouth was dry, and her clammy palms trembled, still clutching her upper arms.
She averted her eyes until she was standing directly over the casket, and then
she slowly turned her head and let her eyes rest on Rachel’s still form.
The first thing she noticed was the swell of her sister’s
belly. She quickly did the math and determined that she must have been about
six months along. Without thinking, she reached out to lay a palm on her
sister’s abdomen, but she caught herself and clenched both fists, holding her
arms tightly against her sides. A wave of unbearable grief swept over her as
she realized that she would never feel Rachel’s unborn daughter kicking and
twisting in her womb—just as Rachel had never felt Andrew kicking in her own.
The latter hurt even more because she knew it was her own fault. Her throat
tightened around a painful lump as she remembered Rachel’s phone call offering
to throw her a baby shower here in Indiana. She’d told her that she wouldn’t be
able to get away, and that her friends at work were throwing her a big shower
anyway so it really wasn’t necessary.
She looked at Rachel’s face now, blurred through the
shimmer of gathering tears. It was hard to believe that she was dead, for her
face was unmarred, and she only seemed to be sleeping. Emma wanted to touch her
cheek, but she kept her fists clenched because the feel of her cold flesh would
spoil the illusion.
I’m so sorry, Rachel, she thought. If only I could give
back the years we lost. But when she opened her mouth, she only breathed,
“Rachel.” A single pair of tears cut meandering trails down her cheeks and
dropped into the cloud of Rachel’s hair on the satin pillow.
Before she turned around, she brushed her knuckles over
her wet cheeks and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. She drew a quavering
breath and headed toward the door, her eyes gliding past Joe. He rose and met
her at the door, handing her a tissue and holding out his arms to her. She blew
her nose and pretended not to notice his invitation.
“Let’s go,” she murmured as she dropped the crumpled
tissue into her purse. “I think visitation is almost over.”
***
In the car, Emma stared silently out the back passenger
window while Joe handled all of Andrew’s questions about the bodies. As they
drove farther into the country, she kept her eyes on the rich greens and browns
of the fields. No matter which way she looked, the rows were perfectly
symmetrical. At a few of the houses, bright, solid-colored dresses flapped on
clotheslines in the evening breeze.
On this stretch of two-lane road in the gathering
twilight, it appeared that absolutely nothing had changed in the 13 years since
she’d moved to Texas, but she knew that the urban areas were relentlessly
encroaching upon the farmland.
It was the pungent smell of manure that really took her
back. She didn’t exactly like it, yet neither did she find it terribly
unpleasant. Andrew complained loudly, though. “How can you stand it, Mom?”
“You’ll get used to it,” she promised. Joe looked
relieved that she’d finally spoken. “Do you see that big red barn, with the
little pond next to it?” she asked, pointing to Joe’s side of the car. Andrew
turned around in the front seat and then nodded. “Whenever you see that farm,
you know that it’s less than a mile more to Grandma’s house.”
“I know! Her house is on the left side, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Robert answered, slowing the car as the
farms gave way to smaller town lots. “In fact, you can see it right… now!”
“Finally!” Andrew yelled. Emma smiled. From his tone,
you’d never guess that they’d left Goshen only 20 minutes ago.
Robert turned into the driveway and parked behind her
mother’s rusted Ford Tempo. Andrew scanned the street for other cars. “Is Adam
here, Uncle Robert?” he asked hopefully.
“No, but you’ll see him tomorrow. I figured you guys
would want to relax tonight and just spend time with your grandma. Now, I need
a strong man to help me carry in all these suitcases. Do you think you can
handle it?”
Andrew grinned proudly, almost dancing as he jumped down
and ran to the back of the car. “I can carry two!”
When they walked around to the front of the house, Emma’s
mother was waiting at the door of the screened porch. “Oh, I’m so glad you guys
made it!”
Emma struggled to pull her laptop case up the cracked
cement steps. She leaned it against the white painted railing and hugged her
mother awkwardly on the narrow top step. “It’s good to see you, Mom.”
Her mother kissed her cheek. “You, too, honey.”
Emma picked up the laptop and squeezed between her mother
and the glass storm door so that Joe and Andrew could greet her. She glanced
around the spacious porch, savoring the threadbare green outdoor carpet, the
white wicker porch swing, and the tin of Lincoln Logs that she and Rachel had
played with right here on this porch.
As soon as he’d helped Andrew carry all the suitcases up
the narrow staircase to the upstairs bedroom, Robert said his goodbyes. He
hugged each of them again, holding Emma the longest, squeezing her so tightly
that she could hardly fill her lungs. She pressed her cheek against his chest
and pressed her lips together to keep from crying.
Last, he took his sister’s face between both of his
large, callused hands and kissed her forehead. “Hang in there, Ellen,” he said,
almost gruffly, and Emma knew that he was fighting tears also. “I guess I’ll
see you at the funeral. But if you need anything—anything at all—you call me.
You hear?”
“Thank you, Robert. And thank you for picking up the kids
at the airport.”
“Don’t mention it. It's the least I could do.”
After she’d shut and locked the door behind him, Ellen
watched him drive away. She stood still for almost another minute, as if she’d
forgotten they were there. Just as Joe was motioning Emma forward with his
head, she turned around and said cheerfully, “You guys must be famished. Did
you eat anything on the way?”
“Not really. They don’t even give you those little bags
of peanuts any more,” Emma said.
“We did have a little snack at O’Hare,” Joe reminded her.
Emma heaved an exasperated sigh. “Well, that was hours
ago. I’m hungry.”
“Me, too!” Andrew agreed.
“Come on into the kitchen, then. I’ve got enough to feed
an army.”
“Mom, you shouldn’t have gone to that trouble,” Emma
chided.
“I didn’t. The casseroles and cold cuts have been pouring
in by the hour. Oh, and the cakes and pies, too.”
Ellen wasn’t exaggerating. The stove and the kitchen
counters were lined with scalloped potatoes, baked beans, green bean
casseroles, lasagna, and numerous other dishes. She leaned into the overloaded
refrigerator and emerged with a tray of deviled eggs and a plate of sliced ham,
turkey, and cheese slices.
“Help yourself,” she said. “Eat as much as you can,
because whatever we don’t eat now we’ll be eating for the rest of the
week.”
Emma tried to calculate what would be the healthiest
option, the nitrite-filled deli meat or the fat-laden pasta. She chose turkey
and cheddar, which she reluctantly stacked on white rolls. After she’d made her
own plate, she microwaved some lasagna for Andrew even though he was perfectly
capable of doing it himself. She didn’t have the energy to argue with him
tonight.
Her mother seemed equally exhausted, and there wasn’t
much conversation while they ate. Emma studied her surreptitiously, looking for
signs of a breakdown, but Ellen’s face was composed. The wrinkles on her
forehead and mouth were deeper than she remembered, though, and her eyes looked
dull—maybe cataracts. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed her mother aging before.
“I thought we’d see you at the funeral home,” Emma said
as they carried the empty plates to the deep sink.
“I’d been on my feet for hours,” Ellen answered. “And I
figured you might want some time alone with…”. Her voice trailed off as she bent to pull a roll of
plastic wrap from the drawer and then busied herself covering the casseroles.
Emma looked at her back, watching her shoulder blades
shifting as she worked. Her bones looked sharp under her worn T-shirt, but she
knew Ellen was anything but frail.
She suddenly felt very small beside her tiny mother. She
wanted to be wrapped in her arms, needed an infusion of her strength. But she
didn’t know how to penetrate that wall of busyness.
She reached out a hand but let it drop before it touched her shoulder. She waited silently while Ellen rearranged the refrigerator,
cramming casseroles into every cranny. Finally, Emma turned her own back and
started the water running in the sink.
“Don’t bother with
the dishes,” Ellen said, pausing in her work. “I’m sure you guys are worn out
from all that traveling. Go on up to bed.”
Unshed tears stung Emma’s nose, and she felt an intense
longing to pull the covers up over her head. “Thanks, Mom.”
Ellen nodded. “I changed the linens today, and there are
fresh towels and extra bedding for Andrew in your room.”
She poked her head into the dining room, where Andrew was still seated at the table playing with his Gameboy. “Andrew, you can sleep on the pull-out couch in the
living room.”
Emma kissed her mother’s cheek and stepped past her
through the door.
“Mom, I don’t want—” Andrew started, but Emma silenced
him with a fierce look. She took the Gameboy from his hand and pulled him up
gently by the elbow.
Catching Joe’s eye, she cocked her head. “Come on, guys.
I’m beat. See you in the morning, Mom.”
“Sleep as long as you like. We don’t need to leave until
1:30,” Ellen called after them.
“Mom,” Andrew hissed as the three of them climbed the
stairs, “I don’t want to sleep on the couch! I don’t like to be downstairs by
myself.”
“Grandma’s downstairs, too,” Joe said, opening the door
to the little landing and struggling to pull it shut behind them.
“Yes, but the couch is right next to the porch. I don’t
like all those windows.”
Emma jerked open the door to the upstairs hallway, and a
blast of heavy, sticky heat rushed into the stairwell. “Andrew, you’ll be fine.
It’s much safer here than it is at home.”
“Please, Mom! Please, can’t I sleep with y’all? Just for
tonight? Dad, can I?”
“I don’t know. I guess,” Joe relented.
“I don’t know where he thinks he’s going to sleep,” Emma
snapped, rolling her eyes as she stepped into the room she had shared with
Rachel. “I do know he’s not squeezing onto my bed.”
“I’ll sleep on the floor. I don’t mind.”
“Suit yourself,” she said crossly, throwing the neatly stacked bedding off her old twin bed and into a heap on the rose-print area rug that covered most
of the scarred wood floor.
Andrew made a pallet precisely in the middle of the two
beds, folding the blanket in half and laying the flat sheet on top of it. He
lay down and covered himself with the fitted sheet, sighing contentedly.
“Thanks, Dad.”
Emma noted with amusement that he had not even complained
about going to bed at nine. He probably didn’t realize that it was only eight
back at home. She climbed over him and tried to wrestle open the window, stuck
in its ancient wooden frame. It budged by only a couple of inches.
Joe leaned past her, brushing against her back. She shifted her weight slightly to break the contact. He yanked
the window up as high as it would go and propped it open with a stick, and then
he sat down on Rachel’s old bed.
Emma turned the pedestal fan on high and stood in its
stale breeze, which found the wet spots under her arms.
“I think I’ll wash up before bed,” she said. “I might be
a while, so don’t wait for me.”
She gathered up her nightgown and towel and stepped over
Andrew again. “Night, guys,” she said.
She crawled over the high side of the old claw-foot tub
and ran about six inches of tepid water. After she’d washed with Ivory bar soap
and rinsed off, she felt goose bumps rising on her exposed skin. Leaning
against the back of the tub, she turned on the hot water tap with her big toe.
When the temperature was perfect, she turned it off and slid down until only
her head was above water.
Growing up, she’d hated this tub because it had no
shower, but now she could appreciate its generous depth and gentle slope.
She stayed in the water until she was sure Joe and Andrew
were asleep, until all the tension of the afternoon had drained into the slowly
cooling water. Finally she yanked the rubber stopper out by its chain, enjoying
the tickle of the water against her skin as it fell away.
When the tub was completely empty, she carefully climbed
over the side and stood on the braided rug. She rubbed away her goose bumps
with a threadbare, pink flowered towel and then stood on tiptoes to catch a
glimpse of her profile in the mirrored medicine chest. She smiled faintly at the double row of muscles that lined her taut abdomen.
She lifted her arms over her head and let her blue cotton
gown glide down over her clean, smooth skin. Hanging up her towel and gathering
up her dirty clothes, she opened the creaky door as silently as possible and
crept across the hall into the moonlit bedroom.
On her way to bed, she knelt next to Andrew. She brushed
his shoulder-length hair off his face and ran her fingers lightly over his
scalp. He sighed in his sleep.
As she climbed gingerly onto her squeaky old bed and slid
between the cool, crisp sheets, she thought she felt Joe watching her. She lay
perfectly still in the half darkness, straining to hear him over Andrew’s
snores. From the pattern of his breathing, she could tell he was still awake.
Had it bothered him that she had caressed Andrew but hadn’t touched
him?
“Joe?” she whispered.
When there was no answer, she didn’t know whether to feel
hurt or relieved.
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