Free Good Mourning by Elizabeth Meyer Page B

Annie was prepped and brought to a church on Park Avenue for an ­impressive funeral. Almost all the pews were filled. A choir sang. Her son gave a eulogy that touched on everything from his mummy’s amazing taste in design and affinity for cute dogs (she’d had four, before the coma) to her hidden dream of being an astronaut. Afterward, they held a reception in a grand space on Fifth Avenue, where Annie’s friends—now old—ate cucumber sandwiches and sipped champagne in her honor. Perhaps her kids let the murder thing go; proving Frederick guilty wasn’t going to bring their mother back. But it was hard not to feel like there was something unfinished about the whole thing.
    When I got back to my apartment that night, I had an urgent feeling that I needed to see my mom. Max had toldme the day before that she was doing fine—she was mostly busying herself with learning about investing, since Dad had always taken care of that—but that was about as much detail as he gave me. I kicked off my Aerosoles and hung up my Ann Taylor black blazer; changed into jeans, a button-down, and a string of pearls; and called her, thinking of those kids, who’d been grieving their mother for decades.
    â€œHello, Elizabeth,” she said, sounding exhausted.
    â€œI’m on my way over,” I said. “Is that okay?”
    It was quiet for a moment. “You know you don’t need to ask if you can come home.”
    Maggie greeted me at the door the way she always did, by barreling into me and slapping my legs with her tail. I pet her ears and gave her a kiss, wishing that I could bring her home with me—but I knew my mother needed her. Still, it was so much easier greeting the dog than my mom, who was standing in the foyer with a cashmere shawl wrapped around her. I was startled by how much weight she had lost. Dad’s death had stressed us all to our limits, but Mom looked frailer than I’d remembered.
    â€œHi,” I said softly, walking toward her. I gave her a hug. “How are you?”
    Mom nodded her head. “I’m fine,” she said. She was always so strong, stronger than she needed to be.
    We made a pot of Earl Grey tea and a plate of cookies and sat down in the den. The apartment had a sadness hanging in it—I could actually feel my dad’s not beingthere, like a cloud hanging over the place. I imagined my mom alone in this space, night after night, and felt a pang of guilt.
    â€œHave you been going out with friends at all?” I asked. I hated to think of her here by herself.
    Mom shrugged. “Sometimes. They’re starting to drop off,” she said.
    â€œDrop off? What do you mean?” I asked.
    â€œAll of our friends, your father’s and mine, they’re all couples. We hung out in couples. Well, I’m not a couple anymore. It throws the whole thing off balance, I guess.”
    â€œNot the Bergers though, right?” I said. The Bergers lived two floors down and had been close friends of my parents for over a decade.
    â€œOh, don’t be mad at them, this is just what happens,” said Mom. “At first, people come over all the time and they call you to get coffee or dinner. But after a month goes by, they just . . . move on. And they feel . . . I don’t know, weird, I guess, inviting me now. They don’t want me to be the third wheel. Or the fifth. Or the seventh. Odd numbers are far less comfortable than evens.”
    â€œYeah, but do they have to do everything with their husbands?” I said. I couldn’t imagine Gaby and me abandoning each other like that.
    â€œYou don’t have to worry about me,” said Mom, touching my hand. “I’m worried about you. This funeral thing. Isn’t it time to do something else?”
    I pulled my hand away, annoyed that she couldn’t see that I was helping people . . . and myself. Planning funerals was the one thing