Absolution

I steeled myself for the first look as I stepped into the room. The air was cool and filled with the voices of those gathered, but I felt as though I stood alone. I could see his profile and the top of a hand. I stared numbly for some time before my eyes fell away to see the cascade of flowers. Huge sprays of roses with silken ribbon banners surrounded the casket, and I felt embarrassed. The yellow roses were beautiful - his favorite. I had learned that after.

I've been lucky really. In twenty-nine years, this is my first wake. I had expected a sea of black and somber faces speaking softly. Maybe even my grandmother weeping into a white tissue with my aunts clustered around her. Not that there wasn't black, or somber faces. Most though spoke in animated tones, and I even heard some laughter - a morbid family reunion. My grandmother stood near the casket as faithfully as she had my grandfather for all those years. She wasn't weeping into a white tissue but greeting the people that approached her to offer their condolences. I checked the ankles that rose from her black shoes. They didn't seem swollen.

This is a day for many firsts. I've never been in a funeral home before, but it looks as I imagined it. The colors are sophisticated, and there are flower arrangements in vases painted to look fancy. Hand-painted, I'm sure. The mahogany furniture is gleaming, and the red velvet seats look clean and not-too-worn. I see framed pictures of my grandfather scattered across various tables. The photos all show the same robust man - white wavy hair always over that same smiling face. His eyes are a watery blue, but they're friendly. The paisley-printed Kleenex boxes almost seem apologetic, as though they're ashamed of having intruded. It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it.

"Cassie! You made it." Immediately I'm engulfed into a hug as I turn towards my father. His arms tighten around me, and he says something into my hair. I clear my throat and return the hug. It feels awkward, but I'm good at pretending. He doesn't notice. Or maybe I'm not good, and he just doesn't notice.

He pulls away, and I can see his eyes are rimmed in red. The same watery blue eyes actually. He looks as though he'll begin crying again.

"Yeah, Jamie and I just got here not too long ago. How is everyone doing? How is grandma?"

"She's holding up. She's a strong woman. Everyone's doing as well as can be expected. Aunt Marsha is still taking it hard."

I'm beginning to feel angry at him again. He was pretty callous when I got to the hospital. “How's grandpa doing?” “He's dead.” Not a recommended method of breaking the news. It's probably one of the few instances where I've been completely speechless and shocked. Uncle Tommy was watching me. Such a strange look - like he was trying to gauge how I'd take the news.

"Sorry about my shoes. I couldn't find any in plain black." I shift my weight and feel self-conscious in my brown shoes. It wouldn't be so bad if at least they didn't seem so casual too. I figured it was better than coming barefoot though.

"It's okay. No one will care."

He drags me around to see the family. The faces are all familiar, but they're strangers to me. Aunt Marsha and Aunt Bari hug me and make the usual exclamations while my grandmother is preoccupied. My smile feels stiff. My sincerity seems false. As usual, I feel like an outsider. I scan the sea of chairs looking for the one person I know as some sort of anchor. Jamie is talking to Shelley, my father's girlfriend. I met her earlier, and she seems like a nice woman.

My brain is clamoring, but I'm not ready yet. The still figure is behind me, but I refuse to look again. Not yet. I wander over to the corkboards lining one wall. They're covered with pictures. Someone has assembled a collage of moments in my grandfather's life. A few are recognizable, but most are new to me. I study them all with interest. One shows a group of women sitting and smiling brightly at the camera. They're stunning. Beautiful women. All are sisters to my grandfather, and I wonder if I've ever met any of them.

People flow around me while I stare at a picture of a man in an Army uniform. His hands are on his hips, and he's staring at something in the distance. The lines of his face are clean and strong. His hair is dark and wavy. The same man I saw once when I snuck into my grandmother's room as a kid. It’s the handsome man smiling out from atop her dresser. I wondered at the time who it was. I see that picture on this board too, except now of course I know that the man who resembles Errol Flynn is my grandfather.

I haven't been what you would call the model granddaughter. I don't remember birthdays, and I'm not that great with holidays either. Although I only live two hours away, it's probably been two years since I visited last. Over the years, I kept thinking I should visit more, but I never did. Now for the past three days I've been trying to remember when I last saw my grandfather. I can't recall, and it's making me angry at myself. Anger is good. You can stoke anger to cover the shame and guilt. A litany runs through my head. You're a bad granddaughter. Bad, bad, bad. You shouldn't be here. You're a bad granddaughter.

The anger is high as I turn towards the figure in his satin bed. Anger, it seems, can also pass for some strange sort of courage. Or maybe I want to punish myself. Maybe I just want to apologize. I wait for a gentleman to move away. It seems wrong to approach on someone's grief and farewell. I linger at a table and pick up a pamphlet. I read it once, and then twice. I'm not sure what it says. It’s all a pretense after all. For a moment I'm overwhelmed with fear, as if everyone is staring at the bad granddaughter pretending to read a pamphlet. As if they know. My brown shoes make their way to the casket, and I'm painfully aware of how irreverent they look. How everyone must be staring.

The casket is simple and elegant. The dark wood is polished to a high sheen, and it reminds me of cherry. Maybe it is cherry. I shift my focus to the curtain of roses behind it. They really are spectacular and make a magnificent backdrop. I stare hard at the roses and take a deep breath before lowering my eyes.

He looks as though he is sleeping, which is a relief. Someone has dressed him in a navy blue pin-stripe suit, and I stare at the tie. It doesn't seem my grandfather's taste, but it's very snazzy. I wonder who bought it. His hands are clasped at the waist, and I notice a small cut on the back of one. I'm becoming more aware of a smell - a sweet smell as though someone has worn too much perfumed powder. I stare at his hands and his face. I can see the faint imprint of the ties that held the oxygen mask in place, and I become angry once more. How tightly did they have that on?

Tokens have been left in the casket, and I'm embarrassed. I wasn't aware of this custom, and I've brought nothing with me. I wrack my brain thinking of anything I might have with me, but I've brought nothing that holds any meaning. I'm just a bad granddaughter with no flowers, no black shoes, and no token. The silent litany has turned into apologies punctuated by memories.

My eyes are drawn to his hands once more. The backs are wide and freckled, and it seems as though every vein and hair stands out in perfect clarity. I've seen those hands before. They look a lot like mine, although mine aren't freckled. I see the concealed yellow rubber band that holds his hands clasped, and I feel the urge to touch him. Fear makes me hesitant, and then I remember my dog, Rex. I was afraid of touching him as well, and I regret it. There are already too many regrets, and I tentatively touch the back of his hand. It's cool and hard. The skin feels like fine paper, and it really hits me then. My grandpa is dead. I cover his hand with my own for a long moment before walking away. I'm on the verge of crying, but I refuse to do it here with all these people.

*****

Aunt Bari yells through the open door, "Let's get some dinner cooking. Everyone is hungry, I bet!"

The house is brightly lit, and everyone is inside. It reminds me of an ant colony - a rather noisy one, at that. The kitchen is a bustle of activity while the women start preparing a late dinner, and I can hear laughter and the hum of conversation. It's hard to tell that we all just came from a wake. Surreal. It's as though these people spent a completely different day than the one I experienced. I wonder if they're normal. I wonder if I'm normal.

I'm alone in the dark garage, and a burning cigarette dangles between my fingers. The dark is comforting and protective, and it's been a long evening. For the past three days, a question has been hounding me. It's something that needs an answer, and I debate whether or not I have the reserves to ask it. My feet plod back and forth across the driveway. I flick the spent cigarette onto the grass and walk into the home.

My head is bent, and I'm careful to avoid anyone's gaze. My grandmother is sitting at the dining room table. "Do you have a moment, grandma?" It emerges in a whisper, and I clear my throat. It's been aching all day.

"Sure. What do you need, hon?"

"I need to speak with you, please."

I lead her into the guest bedroom and shut the door. She smiles at me and makes a joke that I can't hear. The bathroom door is open, and I stare at the sink. There's a rushing sound in my ears, and I wonder if maybe this is a mistake. I can sense her confusion as the silence stretches.

"Are you okay, Cassie?"

Finally I turn to look at her; her eyes are a rather pretty hazel. For some reason I always think this when I look into them. They're staring at me now in concern, and my throat tightens. I can feel my own eyes tearing, and I clench my jaw. I know I have to answer her, but my voice feels trapped somewhere in my chest.

"I was wondering..." My eyes slide over to the dresser. I clear my throat again and again, and I swear I'm trying to talk. Her hazel eyes are prompting me. "I was wondering if... if grandpa knew. If grandpa knew that I loved him?" I force myself to look at her again as I ask this, because it seems important.

I've become more aware of a soft, welling sensation all day. I'm sure it sounds cheesy, but it's as though a deep reservoir has been filling and pushing acidic lumps upward through constricted channels. And as her face softens in understanding, the feeling overwhelms me, and the control I've fought for all day breaks. First it manifests as a tear, and then another, and soon there are too many even though I struggle to bring them to bay. My mouth is open, and I think I'm apologizing.

Now I hear another litany spoken against my shoulder, "Of course he knew. Grandpa always knew."