Free The Second Sister by Marie Bostwick Page B

on the rasp in my voice. “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, not on the day of your sister’s funeral.”
    â€œNo, no,” I said, swiping at the corner of my eye. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
    â€œTake some time, Lucy. Mourn your sister. Get reacquainted with yourself and your hometown. Wisconsin must be a beautiful place to spend the holidays.”
    â€œThe holidays?” I choked out a laugh. I couldn’t help it. “Mr. President-elect, I have no intention of spending the holidays in Nilson’s Bay.”
    â€œThen where will you go?”
    â€œI don’t know. But I can tell you this; the second I’ve wrapped up my business, I’ll be on the next plane to anywhere that isn’t here.”

Chapter 9
    W e say that we mourn the dead, and there is some truth in that.
    We lament the flower frozen in full bloom, cut off at the moment of promise, or another long wilted, whose slow fading and drawn-out, painful diminishment cast a shadow over a vibrant and glorious past.
    And yet.
    Once the eyes are closed and the heart is stilled, we come to understand that the worst of the pain has passed. For them. The dead have no more use for pain, for memory or regret. Regret is for the living.
    And so when we stand at the bedside, the graveside, the casket, our mourning is less for the beloved departed than it is for ourselves. We mourn the missed opportunity, the word unspoken or spoken in haste, the hole in our lives and the unsettling of our souls, our own disappointments and the loss of innocence. We gaze upon the stillness that is unending and feel our self-importance crack and the myth of our immortality smash. We stare upon the face of death to see ourselves more clearly, to satisfy our curiosity, to make peace with the inescapable.
    We hold our breath, try to imagine what it would be like never to take another and what the departed know now that we don’t. We try to conjure what the life we have left would look like if such knowledge were ours. We try to imagine ourselves kind and expansive and giving, balanced and patient, more honest, more thankful, more peaceful, content with what we have, mindless of what we have not.
    We imagine ourselves happy. For a moment, we believe we can be.
    And then, because we can’t help ourselves, we breathe and, breathing, are reminded of the many other things we cannot help.
    The faith of a moment fades and hope is replaced by the intimate knowledge of our imperfections. Lonely, weeping, we stand with our feet anchored to the ground, watching our better angels fly above us and beyond us to time out of mind, and we mourn.

Chapter 10
    I heard the clearing of a throat.
    â€œLucy? May I close the lid now?”
    My heart clenched like a fist inside me. I bent my head over the still form in the casket, brushed my fingers across the brown curls spread across the satin pillow. Her face was so still and pale, an expression carved from ivory, like the face of someone who reminded me of someone I used to know.
    I wanted to say something, but couldn’t remember what. I took a step back, trying to think what it could be. Mr. Sedgwick moved into the vacancy and placed his hands on the coffin lid.
    â€œWait!” The sound of my voice stayed his movements. “Wait a minute.”
    I reached out and plucked a pink rose, still in bud, from the spray of flowers that stood nearby and carried it to the casket. I lifted the edge of a quilt of pink, green, and white, bound with periwinkle blue, and slid the long stem of the rose underneath so the flower was just peeping out, then pressed the fabric smooth across Alice’s chest, tucking her in for the night ahead.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I whispered and kissed my sister’s forehead.
    I lifted my head, took a last look, and turned to face the mortician and his sober-suited assistants.
    â€œAll right. You can close it now.”

    I wasn’t that