At the funeral, 2

For a dead woman, she looks fantastic. My aunt Melanie went from cancer, younger than Mrs. Hollister, and she looked like she was about seventy by the time she finally died. Mrs. Hollister looks like she was in her forties, even though I know she was over sixty. I don't get it. Maybe it was her faith in God. Maybe I should consider going back to church. My husband would shit bricks.

I wish to hell I knew how she did it. I'd love to look that good in a coffin – not that I expect to be buried with this kind of pomp and circumstance. I don't expect to be buried at all, actually, although I'd prefer not to think about that at the moment. Not easy, under the circumstances.

I wonder how it started for her. I wonder if it was like mine, striking out of the blue without a single warning symptom, no risk factors, no sense to it at all. Because if I hadn't felt the lump with my own fingers, if I hadn't seen the scan yesterday with my own eyes, I wouldn't believe I was sick at all. I don't feel any different. I walk, I run, I breathe, I get the kids to school, I go to work – but they tell me it's stage 2 already, and how is that even possible?

I heard someone say on the way in that she stopped treatment back in September. But I think I misheard them – they must have been talking about someone else. Because that night at the shelter, Abby told me Mrs. Hollister was pretty far gone, and that was... when was that, anyway, August? How do you keep going for six months with terminal cancer? Jesus God, I hope I never find out. I'm glad I didn't have to bring the kids, but I could really use some company. Abby should have come instead. She knew Mrs. Hollister better than I did anyway. Shame she's in Florida. For me, not for her.

The choir starts, and I realize I have to pee. Damn. I can't make it through a Catholic funeral mass without a piss first. No line at the bathroom, small miracle. I get in and out quickly and try to walk quietly back across the entryway to the church but these damned heels seem so loud on the floor. It's embarrassing, but there's no one here anyway; everyone's already in the church. I can sneak in and sit at the back. Perfect – I'll get out early, too.

Oh. Someone's even later than I am – or she doesn't want to go in either. The woman sits on the polished wooden bench down the hall from the church doors. She's got her heels off, and she's rubbing one of her feet. It doesn't look like she's any happier about wearing the damned things than I am.

"That looks like a great idea," I say without thinking.

She glances up at me and smiles vaguely. It's enough of an invitation for me, and I sit down on the bench next to her. Her hair is pulled back into a tight French twist, the kind of style that would look absurd on my frumpy head, but she does it justice. Her eyes are empty, and there are dark smudges under them. It doesn't look like she's been sleeping very well.

"I'm Lana," I say. "Lana Darling."

Her eyes sharpen a bit at that and she focuses on me for half a second. Then she blinks, and the vacancy sign is back on in the motel window. Not much going on there. She won't mind me slinking away, then; I doubt she'll even notice. I've seen people at the shelter like this – weird, hollow, but mostly harmless. I turn back to her to say good-bye and then I catch a glimpse of her face in a perfect profile. My stomach drops. Damn. I never know what to say, but clearly I have to say something.

"You must be Mrs. Hollister's daughter," I blurt. "You've got her face."

She looks at me as if she's forgotten I'm here. "Oh," she says, so softly I wonder if I imagined it. "Thank you." I'm guessing she's said that about a million times today.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," I say. "I work at the Shelter and your mother meant so much to us. She was..." Good Christ. I give up.

The choir ends their piece then starts up another one. I check my watch and it's seven after one. I don't know why they haven't started.

Oh. I think I do know, after all.

I stand up. "Are you ready to go in?" I ask. "I think they're waiting on you to start the service."
She raises her eyes to me and I'm sorry I said anything at all. In this moment, I can see how she must have looked when she was little, five or six maybe, those pretty green eyes so trusting and open. I feel like I'm about to tell a kid there's no Santa Claus.

"Let's go," I say, holding out my hand to her. "The sooner you start, the --"

"The sooner it's done," she finishes, taking my hand. She stands up and leans on me to put her shoe back on. I tuck her hand firmly in the crook of my arm. "Thank you," she says, as if it's normal for a perfect stranger to lead her into her own mother's funeral.

"You're welcome," I say automatically, patting her cold hand. I wonder if it will be like this for my daughter, when I go. Not that it'll be soon – I'm in good health, aside from the obvious, and I'll handle the surgery and the treatment just fine. I'm here for a long while yet. And as long as I'm stuck in this church for two hours, I might as well be of some use to someone, even if she has no idea who I am. It's probably better that way, for both of us.