"What the Heart Can Take"

By: The Baditter-Bunny Queen

1
This has been the most miserable day of my whole life. Here I am, sitting as forgotten as a dead man's memories, watching all these people who claim to be my relatives mill about the foyer of Evergreen Funeral Home. Who are these people anyway? I've never seen them before and yet here they are, wandering around as if they had every right. At the moment, my life seems like one of those ridiculous cartoons you see on television every Saturday morning- without the laugh track.

I hate funerals. This is my first, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out they are not the most endearing of family get-togethers. It's my grandmother's funeral, but I don't care. Horrible to say, I know, but I never really knew the woman. She's never been a grandmother to me, or a mother to my mother.

I have a paper in my hands that reads: Martina Cortlin, Dearly Beloved Mother, Grandmother..." I crumble it and pitch it over my shoulder and don't give a hoot about the stares I get from the pseudo-relatives. I don't know why I'm here anyway. I'm only fourteen. I should be at home watching television or out riding my bike on the Lonesome Valley Trail with my cousin Binky. Instead, I'm sitting here like an old potted plant, waiting to leave.

There's Mom, standing with my dad and talking to my aunt and uncle who are in from Detroit. I like them a lot, since they don't mind coming in on occasions other than funerals, albeit not very often. I always thought they were the smartest ones in the family. They moved away from Eastern Kentucky when they were first married. That way, my grandmother couldn't control their lives like she did with the rest of her children.

Mom motions for me to come over, so I do like a stiff-legged marionette. Mom puts her hands on my shoulders and says, "This is my daughter Sherry. I know you remember her."

Even though I am feeling very anti-social, I smile politely and extend my hand. They shake it, commenting on how much I've grown. What do they expect? I can't stay short forever.
I ask Mom if I can go outside. She gives me that disappointing, guilt-inducing look she has mastered so well, but nods and tells me not to stay out too long. Yeah, right. I'm hoping everyone will forget about me and I can stay out there during the whole funeral.

I head for the door, barely able to keep from running. It smells like death in here: dead air, dead flowers, dead people.

I meet my cousin Binky and her parents at the door. Binky turns her sad face up and pleads to her mother. "I wanna stay outside and talk to Sherry for awhile."

Aunt Vera's pinched face is considering for a moment. "Just don't stay out too long." What is it with mothers? Are they psychic or do they have a handbook of quotations?

Aunt Vera gives Binky's blond head a pat before going inside. I watch her go. "I thought you weren't coming, " I say.

"I wasn't, but then Mom and Randall made me come. I hate this!"

"So do I." I put my arm around her shoulder. She cries in to the stiff sleeve of my dress. I've always been a big sister to Binky. She's extra sensitive. The least little thing gives her nightmares. I'm very angry with Aunt Vera for making her come. She'll probably have to go into therapy for this. I hope she saves me a seat.

Binky shakes her head. Her frizzy blond curls fly all over the place. "It's not fair, Sherry." Her blue eyes fill with tears. "I'll have nightmares. I'll never sleep again!"

I hold her that much harder. I glance up and who do I see walking towards our little pity- party? Miss Dirty Harry herself: always cool under pressure Madeline, my older sister. I don't want her over here. I wish she would go away. I don't need her to make me feel any more insane than I already do.

"Are you two doing all right?" she asks.

"We're fan-freaking-tastic." I say.

"You don't have to be so sarcastic,” she says. I roll my eyes but don't speak. What would be the point? She's older, more mature, more sophisticated... Try as I might, I can never get angry at her because she is usually right. I wish I could be a little more like her and a little less like myself.

A car pulls up to the funeral home and a new group of people gets out. People I haven't seen before.

"Who are they?" Binky asks.

"Relatives," Madeline says, "from all over."

"Why don’t we ever see them at Christmas?" Binky echoes my thoughts.

Madeline shrugs. "I dunno. They don't come in, I guess."

"Well that's real nice of them." I spit the words. "They won't come in and see you when you're alive but they'll come in and see you when you're dead."

Several heads turn our way and I become the center of more attention than I like.

"Keep your voice down!" Madeline hisses.

"I don't want to," I say. "It's the truth." I get the satisfaction of seeing several of the
Newcomers’ heads drop, but Binky's face contorts. She's ready to cry and it's all my fault.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I didn't mean to say that. I just lost my temper."

"More like your mind." Madeline murmurs.

I see a flash of scarlet at the door of the funeral parlor. Only my cousin Crissy would wear red to a funeral. "Sherry, Beatrice, Madeline! Please come inside!" She throws her voice like an opera singer, drawing the attention of even the people across the street. This time, I'm not the only one who frowns. Madeline bites her lips, something she does only when she's really ticked off.

"We're coming!" she calls back, trying to put as much music in her voice. She fails, sounding like a banjo twang in comparison. It puts a smile on my face. Even Madeline has her insecurities. So prim, and she's trying to be just like Crissy. Then my joy sours. What does that make me, if I'm trying to be just like Madeline? A third-rate copycat, that's what.

We walk into the funeral parlor and I'm feeling more miserable than ever. I take Binky's hand at the door. Several relatives we don't even know begin asking questions about us. Binky presses against me. I squeeze her hand, as much for my peace of mind as hers. Names drift around me, compliments and conversations I don't care to hear. I just want to leave.

Mom ushers us into the next room as the seemingly countless people pile in. Binky's hand gets jostled free. I glimpse her terrified face between the press of bodies. I can't get to her.

I sit tensely in the pew, looking at anything except the coffin. It's so large, like a mummy's sarcophagus. The hairs on the back of my neck rise and panic churns in my stomach. I wonder what it would be like to be buried alive. Books have been written about it, movies have been made about it... I feel like I'm suffocating. I'm going to smother!

Mom shakes my arm. "Sherry, are you okay? Look at me."

I turn hasty eyes towards her, not wanting her to read what's on my mind. Nothing on earth is going to make me go look in that awful thing. Nothing.

As if she reads my mind, Mom gets up and starts towards the coffin. "Come on," she says and reaches for my hand.

I shake my head, more stubbornly when she insists. She gives me a wounded look I would back down to for any other reason. This time I don't budge.

Mom and Dad go up to the coffin and stare. If this is what it will be like at my funeral, I think I'll have my body cremated. Or buried at sea, think and choke back a laugh. Nothing like a funeral to bring out your hysterical side.

They come back, but Mom doesn't look at me. Now I'm ashamed. What I day! I feel like I've lost my grandmother, my mother and my mind all in one day.

The congregation hushes as the pastor takes his place at the podium. He looks nothing like Preacher Greene, a soft-spoken man in his late seventies with white hair and rimless spectacles. This man looks as wily as a carnival trickster, like he has a secret and is ready to taunt us with it.

He begins his sermon, and I quickly realize this will not be a peaceful one like those of Preacher Greene. This is a barrage of fire and brimstone, a violent testimony to the wicked ways of the world. This is much worse than being buried alive only six feet away from the sunlight. I just want to go home!

A soft sobbing reaches my ears, then a loud wail. I finally find Binky. Her stepfather rises, cradling her against his shoulder. Finally he leaves, holding her in his arms, looking simultaneously chagrined and grateful to have an excuse to leave.

I wait, trying to hold out. Every proclamation of evil, every second of this fire burns into me a cold searing fear I can't take. I lean towards my mother, barely able to keep the tears from falling.

"I- I have to go." I say.

Mom turns to me and I can see the tears of fear in her as well. "Do you need someone to go with you?"

I blink, momentarily baffled. Mom hasn't asked me that question in years, and I wonder if she has misunderstood me. Then I realize she hasn't.

I nod. We take each other's hand and flee to the lobby. We break down and cry in each other's arms.

"That was so awful!" I say. "I've never been through anything so bad."

"I know," Mom says. Through everything, the funeral, my selfishness, the disapproving glares, I've been able to be strong. Until now. Those tears from my mother break my heart.

We hug and I am sorry, so sorry, that I didn't go up with her and look into that coffin. I was selfish, and I let her down when she needed me most. I was a coward.

"I'm so sorry I let you down."

"You know you didn't let me down, Sher-Sher." Mom hasn't used that nickname in so long. "I'm very proud of you."

I cry again, though not as noisily this time. That means so much to me. More than anything in this world. Knowing that, it seems to make everything a little bit better. I think I can even put up with the nameless relatives now.