A Mournful Song

I usually have to stifle a grossly inappropriate, hysterical laugh when I attend a funeral. Not today. Today they are going to put my closest friend in the ground. My normal nervous tics have been smothered by the enormity of the loss I feel. I falter as I try to figure out where to sit. I am not family. I am more than family, but these people don't know that. Not wanting to feel on display, I choose a seat next to the wall, half way back. My purse is stuffed with tissue. I haven't cried yet. I'm afraid to. I am not sure there would be any coming back from it.

"Hey, Lynn."

An acquaintance acknowledges me and I nod my head. I don't want to talk to anyone. I feel off balance. I lost my cool when my boss told me I wouldn't get bereavement pay for the time I took off to come to the funeral. I wanted to rip his eyes out. Instead, I told him to go fuck himself and figured he wouldn't have the guts to fire me.

I watch people roaming around, talking in whispers and patting each other. Black is still the color of death. It seems formal black is out and casual black is in vogue. I stare at the sea of forgiving black leggings passing by. I want to scream and say, 'YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW HER!' Well, at least not like I did. She was my CLOSEST friend... closer than my own sister or my husband. My parents died long ago so they don't have to compete in the line up. We both married men much older than ourselves and planned on living together once we became widows. Obviously that was presumptuous. I have no back-up plan. My mind wanders. I replay the last week in my mind...again.

LizBeth left my house at ten p.m. We played scrabble, gossiped, laughed, and basked in the feeling we always have when we're together. The phone rang at two a.m. Her husband woke up and realized LizBeth wasn't next to him. I cringe at late night calls. They have never brought me anything but heartache.

I scramble to find my phone. No need to be concerned about waking my husband. With his hearing aids out, he is pretty much deaf. I hoarsely stammer, "Hello...uh...hello?" Larry's voice is tentative when he asks if LizBeth is still at my house. I bolt up in bed. Adrenaline is shooting through me. I start pacing as I question Larry. Are you sure she isn't in another room? Did you check to see if her car is in the driveway? I know he is recovering from shoulder surgery. I tell him I will try to find her. The three miles between us is mainly rural and shouldn't take long to cover. I look down at my husband. He is sleeping soundly and I decide to go on my own. I hate to drive at night, but my fear forLizBeth outweighs my fear of night driving. The surge of adrenaline has left me feeling shaky and I struggle to insert the key in the ignition of my twenty-year-old Lexus. My mind is grasping for possible explanations of why LizBeth wouldn't be home. I put my headlights on bright and slowly drive towards LizBeth's house. I try to shake off rising panic. "Please...please..." I start the begging I resort to when I feel impending doom. It has seldom done me any good.

I vigilantly scan in both directions, as far as my headlights will allow. One mile down and nothing. I round a curve in the road and see a kaleidoscope of flashing lights. My heart literally drops and my anxiety goes into overdrive. A large tow truck is winching a tangled mass of metal and the color is red - bright red. Unmistakable. I skid to a stop and rush to the nearest policeman. My voice does not feel like it is a part of me. I scream, "Where is she??!!" He steadies me as I start to fall to the ground.

"Miss, do you know the passenger of this vehicle?"

I look at him. Of course I do. My mouth is dry. "Where is she??!!"

The policeman pulls me over to lean against his cruiser. He hands me a bottle of water and tells me to drink. I do. I feel something in me slipping away. From here I can see the mutilated carcass of a deer; the blood still fresh enough to glimmer in the flashing lights.

"Yes. It's LizBeth Nelson's car. She left my house at ten this evening and her husband just called to tell me she never made it home." The words sound far away, but I know they are coming out of me. My voice quivers and breaks, "Where...where is she?"

"Listen. I'm afraid her injuries were catastophic. The ambulance took her to Hayes Hospital. They will pronounce her there."

I watch his lips moving as his words become lost in the ringing in my ears. I slide down his cruiser and feel the gravel road stop my descent. The officer reaches in his back seat and pulls out a blanket and tucks it around me. He leaves to go talk to the other two officers. I am numb. I hear the mournful song of the barn owls that frequent this area. LizBeth introduced me to them on one of our many walks down this stretch of road. I watch the lights tumble round and round and round. Like the deer torn asunder, I am gutted.

When the officer returns, he asks if I know her next of kin. I nod my head. Larry. Oh, my god! How can this be? He is so dependent on LizBeth. Oh, my god! I let the officer do most of the work pulling me up. He asks if I would drive my vehicle to her house and he will follow. I say no. I can't drive. He motions for one of the other officers to drive my car and I lead him two miles down the road.

I look around the room and it's almost full. I see LizBeth's three small grandchildren being ushered up to the casket. Why? Do they have to see her like that? She didn't want an open casket. Didn't she tell Larry that? She wanted a picture set out that celebrated her when she was at her best, at her most beautiful. She did not want people gawking at her, making ridiculous comments on how good or poorly she looked. I close my eyes to avoid watching the bewildered looks on her grandbabies faces. They are three, five, and eight. Her love for them was so intense. I hope to god they don't forget her. She shared her grandbabies with me. My only daughter died long ago and the only experience I have in the grandma department is 'Cherrie, William, and Josiah.' They've called me 'grandma two' all their lives. Will they now?

I see the hunched figure of Larry in the front row. His shoulders are shaking and I quickly look away. I hate to see men cry. I start feeling lightheaded again. I know I should have eaten before coming, but everything tasted like cardboard and set like a brick in my stomach. I reach in my purse and find a peppermint candy that is still partially wrapped. I pop it in my mouth, hoping it will stave off any untoward hypoglycemic event. People are being ushered to their seats. The service is about to start. Within two minutes, it is apparent this man knows nothing about LizBeth and I tune him out. Instead, I grasp at my own memories.

I was four years old when I met LizBeth in preschool, which is as far back as I remember anything. Our birthdays were two days apart and I took that as a sure sign we were meant to be friends. I was tall and spindly with a sad-looking ponytail and she was short and round with a magnificient head full of coppery-colored hair. I loved school and she loved animals. I loved vanilla and she loved chocolate. We have always seemed to be opposites from the outside, but we were soul sisters on the inside. She knew every secret I held and I hers. She was my first kiss. In the summer between sixth and seventh grade we practiced for what we knew would eventually be coming and thought nothing of it. I've never kissed softer or sweeter lips. She was my maid of honor. She was with me when I gave birth to my daughter and when I buried her. She held me each time I miscarried and helped me name and honor each little soul that didn't survive. I start to doze off, swimming among the memories of LizBeth and our fifty years together.

In the distance I hear a buzzing that becomes insistent. On and on it goes and it becomes increasingly louder. I try to piece together what is going on. My husband speaks to me. "Lynn....wake up! What's going on?" I look around and see the pale blue drapes framing the window in my bedroom. I'm confused. My armpits are sweaty and my breath is shallow.

"Hal...um...what time is it? LizBeth....Is LizBeth ok?"

My husband looks at me and sees I am shaking. He sits on the edge of the bed and assures me that all is right in the world. I tell him I dreamed LizBeth died and he scoffs, 'oh, that was just a dream.' No, I thought, it was a nightmare! I get up, splash cold water on my face and pick up my cell phone. I need to make sure.