When the last of the visitors finally left, including Mrs. Elizabeth in a pretty pink suit because, she said, “Black isn’t my color,” with her ghostly husband in tow, I closed the front door and locked it. The smell of the wildflowers was so overpowering, we elected to keep some of the windows cracked to air the place out. But even with them open, the funeral home felt so quiet, I almost couldn’t stand it. Mom busied herself in the red parlor room, picking up the dried flowers off the ground and situating the wildflower vases. The arrangements wouldn’t be moved until tomorrow, when we had the graveside service, and I had to wonder how we’d get all of these damn flowers hauled over to the cemetery.
I leaned back against the front door and breathed out a long breath.
“Everything okay?”
I glanced up toward the voice. Ben was standing awkwardly in the middle of the foyer, his hands again in his pockets. I hadn’t seen him since he disappeared on the Ridge, and I felt instantly better justseeinghim. His presence was a balm.
“You missed all the fun,” I said in greeting, wiping the edges of my eyes. Thankfully I’d worn waterproof eyeliner today.
He glanced around. “The wake... is over already? How long was I gone?”
“A few hours,” I replied. The Ridge felt like an elephant in the room. What had he been about to say? What would he have wished for?
“Are you okay?” he asked, worried. “I mean—that’s the wrong question. Is... is there anything I can do?”
Even though he couldn’t interact with the world, even though no one else could see him, even though I was the one who was supposed to be helping him... “You’re very thoughtful.”
“You’re hurting. It’s hard to see.”
“Am Ithatugly a crier?”
“No—I mean yes, but no—I mean...” He pursed his lips. “I wish I could do something. Anything. Take you in my arms and hug you and tell you that things are going to hurt for a while, but it gets better.”
A knot formed in my throat. The grooves on the front door pressed into my back, I leaned so hard against it. Isn’t that what I had wanted to tell him, what felt like eons ago? “Does it? Get better?”
He nodded. “Bit by bit. I lost my parents at thirteen in a car accident, and my grandmother adopted me. This is my dad’s ring,” he said as he took off his necklace, felt the ring between his fingers. “I keep it with me so I don’t feel so alone. She told me that you don’t ever lose the sadness, but you learn to love it because it becomes a part of you, and bit by bit, it fades. And, eventually, you’ll pick yourself back up and you’ll find that you’re okay. That you’regoingto be okay. And eventually, it’ll be true.”
“Your grandma sounds like my dad,” I said, and sniffed, wiping my eyes with the backs of my hands.
He curled his fingers around his ring and put it in his pocket. “I’m sorry, Florence. I know you’ve heard those words a lot today, but...”
“Thank you,” I replied. “You’ve been really great.” And then I couldn’t help it—I laughed. “Oh, god—I just realized. Ben and been, get it? Your name? It’s a play on—I’m sorry, you’re trying to have a serious moment and I’m... a mess.” I scrubbed my face with my hands, mortified.
“You’ve Ben waiting to make that joke, haven’t you?” he commented wryly.
“I’ve Ben resisting, honestly.”
He sighed, and then gave the smallest chuckle. It cracked the sides of his face, and there was a smile. I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. I bent toward him to get a better look. “What?” he asked.
“I wanted to see if you were actually smiling, or if I was hallucinating.”
“You’re so strange.”
“Absolutely. Don’t you wish you’d never let me walk out of your office?” I joked.
“Yes.” He said it so resolutely, it made me blush.
Was that your wish? The one from the Ridge?I wanted to ask, but it wouldn’t do any good. I was here to help him move on, and he was here to leave.
Ghost stories never had happy endings.
“Well, you got off lucky, then,” I replied, grabbing the tiny trash can from beside the door, and I started picking up trash the guests left behind. Plastic champagne glasses and napkins from the finger foods outside. It was like people forgot trash cans existed.
For the next twenty minutes, I walked around the funeral home in the silence, righting everything, cleaning the tables, closing the guest book.
When I rounded to the red room where Carver stood, looking down at Dad in the coffin, I paused. He was muttering quietly under his breath, and slowly reached out a hand to Dad’s, folded so neatly over his chest, and rested it there for a moment.
Quietly, I backed out of the room.