Free Isle of Palms by Dorothea Benton Frank Page B

hugged me so hard I thought I would faint. It was like it finally hit me and there was nothing I could do to stop the panic I felt. People said, We are so sorry. If there’s anything we can do . . . We’ll keep y’all in our prayers.
    I just sobbed and sobbed.
    “Is terrible,” Grandmother Violet said, angry tears rolling down the pleats of her wizened face. “Terrible. Terrible.”
    She handed me a handkerchief and I had two fleeting thoughts as she did. One, her hand was reptilian, and two, the handkerchief smelled like lavender. It was the only time I ever felt my heart move in her direction.
    I looked at my daddy. He was completely miserable and his grief was more than I could stand. He had loved her, she was gone, and that was all. Love was dangerous. I understood at that very moment that passion could be fatal. If I ever made the mistake of marrying the wrong person I could wind up dead. If I let myself feel passionate I could be like Daddy, hanging over a fresh grave. Love could wreck your life.
    At some point, we wandered back to the limo and went to the reception. Momma was buried, and I felt like kicking the crap out of somebody. (Crap. Bad word number four. So what?) But I couldn’t do that. My throat was all scratchy and dry and I just wanted to go back to before all this hell happened to Daddy and me. I would rather have had a mother who didn’t love me than not have one at all. I wanted to crawl into my bed and stay there. Maybe I was just having a long nightmare. If I went to sleep and woke up maybe it all would be gone.
    There was no peace and quiet in our house. Even though there had been a crowded reception at the church hall, it seemed like everyone who was there had followed us home. It wasn’t often that a young mother died. We were getting a rush of diversion from every friend we knew, plus the families of Daddy’s patients. They meant to sustain us through the most horrible day of our lives.
    Cars were parked up and down the street and all over the yard. The house was bursting with people who had brought enough food for a month. Egg salad, tuna salad, chicken salad, all seasoned but without the mayonnaise, in plastic containers for sandwiches on another day. Glazed hams, macaroni and cheese, and chicken divan in Pyrex dishes to freeze, chocolate pound cakes, cases of Coca-Cola, and a whole turkey with stuffing and gravy. There were cheese balls and eggs rolled in crushed pecans, and chocolates from Russell Stover. I felt like I was going to throw up just looking at it. Someone set up a bar and started serving drinks. The adults seemed to be having a party, a seriously depressing party, but to my mind, the atmosphere was too much like there was something to celebrate.
    The neighborhood kids I knew so well barely talked to me and were unusually awkward, not knowing quite what to say. I didn’t know what to say to them either. I had an overwhelming urge to pretend, to run and play and pretend nothing had happened. I couldn’t manage it because I knew it would be wrong. But wasn’t everything wrong? We were all standing around in our church clothes, humidity and heat having its way with shirttails and hair. Sparky Witte finally said, “You okay?” I said, “Yeah, I guess.” That was about it. It seemed to me that they all knew about the circumstances of my mother’s death and what she had been doing. I mean, it was bad enough to lose a parent, but were they supposed to be sympathetic in this case? So everyone acted uncomfortable, except Lillian, who knew I was deeply upset and tried to make me see the world wasn’t coming to an end.
    “That was the worst part, Anna. The funeral, I mean.”
    “No, that wasn’t the worst part. This is awful. Don’t you understand? My whole life has been stolen away from me.”
    “Yeah, but it’s not gone and you’ll be okay. I swear you will. My mom says time heals everything. Man! I’ve never been to a funeral before.”
    “I hope your mom’s