Jon had found her. I hadn’t asked him about it. I didn’t want to know the details. I wanted to do my best to remember the way her blue eyes, almost the same color as my own, sparkled when she talked about Grandpa. I wanted to remember her scent and the way small strands of hair slipped from her loose bun and framed her soft face. She was a gracious woman, and she had loved me as if I were her child rather than her grandchild.
Pushing back tears, I pulled into the parking lot of the funeral parlor and parked the car. Taking one last cleansing breath and drying my eyes on a tissue, I stepped out into the gray that permeated everything and walked toward the open doors. Immediately, people greeted me with condolences. It was packed with most of the town, and though they meant well, I wanted to scream, especially when Aunt Bertha came to stand beside me in the reception line. I kept quiet, trying to keep it together rather than lashing out at her. I could see it turning into one of those trashy Southern funerals where the family got in a fight. A few of my cousins, her children and grandchildren, stood on her other side. It only made me feel more alone as they did their best to avoid eye contact or risk engaging in conversation.
I ducked into the bathroom to freshen up and take a moment to myself, splashing cold water on my face and dabbing it with a paper towel. The sound of the door opening startled me from my thoughts and I turned to find myself face to face with Aunt Bertha. She looked me up and down dismissively, and I could no longer maintain my silence. “Why are you doing this?” I asked.
“Doing what, dear?” she asked in that fake, sugary tone that always made my skin crawl.
“Filing a claim against Grandma’s estate.”
“That property should have belonged to my Jack. It should have come to me when he passed.”
“But he didn’t inherit it. He passed before Grandma and she left it to me.”
“Only because she thought you would take care of it.”
“I will. I’m not a little kid anymore.”
“You’re not a responsible adult either. You’ll be selling it off in lots by the end of the year.”
“That’s not true!”
“Well, I’m not taking that chance. I shouldn’t even be talking to you. We’ll let the lawyers sort it out,” she said, walking into a nearby stall and closing the door behind her.
I fought the urge to storm in after her and demand that she stop her nonsense. Nothing good could come of that. Instead, I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm myself before I stepped back out. I felt more like screaming than ever.
By the time the service began, I was getting closer to that scream. It echoed in my own head, threatening to project outward at any given moment. Somewhere nearby a man was wailing loudly as I took a seat on the front bench with what passed for family. A little girl, one of Aunt Bertha’s grandchildren, sniffled with a cold beside me. I was faintly aware of her wiping her nose with the back of her hand and then smearing it down my dress. I looked down at it bleakly and then over at her. She smiled apologetically and sniffled, her eyes bloodshot and her nose half-raw. Why had they brought her here? I couldn’t fathom the answer.
“We are here today to say goodbye to a wonderful member of our community. Mrs. Rebecca Leigh Harper. She is survived by her granddaughter, Rene,” the minister began.
What? My grandmother’s name was Elizabeth Leigha Harper, and who was Rene? For that matter, who was this guy? I had contacted my grandmother’s church to send her minister, and they had told me that he was, unfortunately, quite ill, but that this guy, Pastor Locke, had been overseeing services in his absence. I had made the unfortunate assumption that he had known my grandmother or would at least bother to learn her name, and mine. Still, he was easily in his late eighties, and what could you do? An inexplicable smile crossed my face as I thought about my grandmother’s reaction to this. She would have laughed it off, so why should I get upset about it?
I was relieved when it was over. Everyone gathered outside to line up for the funeral procession, and I spotted Jon across the way, keeping a safe distance from me. I wasn’t sure if he was late or had skipped the reception line, but I was glad he was here. Grandma would have wanted that. Despite any hard feelings I might still hold against him, my grandmother had adored him. That was mutual. Jon had grown up without a mother and had gravitated toward my grandmother when we were in high school. She treated him largely like the son she had lost and was just as heartbroken as I was when he had disappeared, but she had forgiven him when he returned. I wasn’t sure I ever could.