At the funeral, 15

Blood loses its power when the heart that pumped it is no longer beating. There is a scar on my – no, there was a scar, high up on my thigh where no one would notice. Horry used a very sharp knife, so sharp I barely felt it pierce the skin. Then he dug deeper, to nick the artery and get a good flow going – and that, I felt. Hearing my own blood dripping into the bowl was almost as uncomfortable as the cut itself.

I would rather spend the rest of my life spilling blood for that damnable spell than be caught up in the atrocity that this man has committed against me, against God. I trusted him, oh God, I believed him, how could I have believed him? It could have been the drugs, it could have been desperation, it could have been a particular scripture passage that he read at a vulnerable moment – I was so weak, in such misery, that I would have done anything to give my girl another chance at communion with God. I thought then that it might save her. I was wrong.

Now she goes one way and I go another – her friends, her chosen family around her, and I pray, yes, I still pray to God despite the betrayal of His priest, I pray that they can keep her safe. If I have to endure this torment then please, God, don't let me see her die. Please let me go to my rest before I witness that. Please.
And if You deliver your justice to this priest for the trap he has laid for my soul, a soul that belongs to You and always has, I vow I will not take pleasure in it. She has seduced him; she has caught him up in her false promises, just like she caught John. But Father Blackwell has no family, no human ties to the world, no one to pull him out of her grasp. I pity him, I do. But I am ashamed to admit that in this moment, trapped between this world and the next, gripped still by the agony I felt at the moment of death, I pity myself more. How I live in that endless second of the last beat of my heart, the last strangled exhalation, when my body is even now being lowered into the ground, is something I cannot understand. Some hellish magic of the fiend, no doubt.

God, please let her find me. Please, show her how to let me go.

At the funeral, 14

more than twenty years it could have been yesterday when i saw you last i have changed underground you would hardly know me it was my fault my fault you should have known about john before you married him i swear i thought it was over he was done he did too he would not have dragged you into it nor paxton never her it’s time i can’t bring myself to do it catherine she’s innocent of our world she knows nothing no matter how experienced jaded she thinks she is experienced in the ways of magic we know better better and worse i’m so sorry so sorry so wish you were still here you could have told her yourself sent her to me you drag me into the light who will guard while i am gone you know what happened last time i must have her blood now that you are gone there’s no one else it must be hers to mend the lock and now now i must speak to her not the right time not any right time was months ago when you knew you were dying catherine why didn’t you tell her say something do you expect her to believe it coming from a madman she won’t remember me you would hardly know me i am so changed my reflection i reach out to touch the man is broken and starved of life love it was my fault my fault catherine why have you gone why didn’t you why is that you shining from my mind’s shadow are you here can i go back to the darkness should i should i can’t breathe are you speaking are you screaming can you hear me catherine you should have passed on you should be beyond there is your daughter she would listen if you spoke there is a ghost woman who will hear you what’s wrong with catherine please stop it hurts please ah no does he have you catherine does he know his mistress has she seduced tricked offered him the world like the devil she would make the devil weep don’t leave me here catherine please don’t go please don’t please


Weeping solves nothing. The girl is leaving and there’s no better time than now. She’ll feel safe with her friends and that big son of a bitch she was with is gone. If she gets in that car and drives away I’m fucked. The only thing I’m good for anyway is making sure no one else gets to the end of the tunnel because if they do, I can’t do a goddamned thing to keep them out of her hands. The bitch. The whore. The foul stinking hell-cunt. If I ever meet John Hollister in another life, he’ll die by inches for this living nightmare, bosom friend or not.

One step after another after another. Not that hard after all, and each step brings me closer to some small measure of relief. I can’t be the only one to keep her locked up. I’m not enough. Catherine's daughter has to help.

A large hand grabs my arm to stop me and I shake it off, no more hesitation, absit reverentia vero, by God, but the hand clamps down again and squeezes. I turn and raise my eyes to another big son of a bitch and wish not for the first time that my father had been as tall as John Hollister.

“Do I know you?” he says, and I recognize the voice of Authority. He's a cop.

“I doubt it,” I say, not meeting his eyes.

“Did you know Mrs. Hollister?”

“Yes,” I say, then “No. Not really.”

“Then what are you doing here, if I can ask?”

“You can't,” I say. The girl is leaving the tent now, surrounded by her friends and going to the long silver limousine that waits to take her wherever she's going from here. I wish to hell I knew where that was.

“Hey, look. I just need to ask you a couple of questions. You're not in trouble.”

“I have to go,” I say, and start away towards the group. The girl disappears into the car, followed by two more, but the older ones head towards the parking lot. If I run I can catch them, but I doubt they'll stop the car to talk to a dirty bum, no matter how calm I am, and I'm not feeling calm at the moment. I'm feeling that if I could, I'd knock this big fuck's block off.

Still, I try. I break into a lope that triggers piercing pain in my knees but I don't stop. The man is behind me, keeping up, but not stopping me. When I was young, I ran cross-country, but that body has disappeared into the tunnels and there's only this poor specimen left. I am fighting for breath in a matter of seconds. I am not surprised that I fall on my face, but I am surprised that the cop helps me up.

“Hey,” he says in a tone that doesn't sound like it comes from a cop's mouth, “No need for that. Here,” he says, and hands me a soft old-fashioned handkerchief. I clean the snot and tears off my face, and he says, “Keep it.”

“Thank you,” I say, watching the limousine drive slowly towards the cemetery gates.

“How do you know Paxton?” the cop says, suspicion creeping in the back door of his voice.

“I don't,” I say, with perfect honesty.

“Then what -”

“Thanks for the handkerchief,” I say, and walk away, to the footpath that leads to the pedestrian gate on Booth Avenue. There's a subway stop there, and just now I am longing to sit on a train, close my eyes, and, more than anything, pretend that I don't exist.

He doesn't follow. I don't care why.

At the funeral, 13

Jillian’s on her way up to the tent already. Sara is lagging behind with me, and Shen is – oh, there he is, with that attractive young lady with the notebook. I’m not in a hurry. We’ll get to Paxton eventually and I’d rather wait for all the other well-wishers to go so we can get a real moment with her. We may not see her again until Beltane in May. The business of death, tidying up the loose ends of a live well-lived; it can be all-consuming.

Jillian’s talking with her now. Their heads are together and their hands are on each other’s shoulders. I can see Paxton’s shoulders shaking, but she could be crying or laughing. When Jillian’s around, there’s no telling. As I get closer, I see that it’s a bit of both. Sara squeezes my arm and glances over to the side of the tent. Apparently she wants me to wait. I think we’ll be walking Paxton out to her car. In another moment, Shen catches up to us.

I see now why we’re waiting. Paxton is standing by the casket, her stillness unnerving, and so pale that she could be a cemetery statue herself. It doesn’t look like she’s planning to leave anytime soon. Jillian glances at the man standing a few feet away from Paxton but says nothing, for once. I share a look with Sara, who blinks in affirmation. That’s the one she met, then. The angel.

I am more than a little curious. Anecdotal evidence tells of angels appearing to one human being at a time, and otherwise invisible, unless, of course, said angels are about to smite a large number of sinners, in which case they like to make a dramatic entrance. To have an angel here among us looking, acting like a human – it’s hardly what I would have expected. For once, I wish I could see auras like Jillian. On a purely energetic level, I'm sure he's fascinating. And I can’t help but wonder how Paxton met him. What he’s doing here, on the other hand, is fairly obvious.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time a man gave up a holy calling for a woman. I should know.

Shen, Sara and I come closer to the casket. Paxton raises her eyes to us and gives us a wry half-smile – she's somber, but surviving.

"Thank you," she says, embracing each of us in turn. "Thank you for being here."

"We would have kept you company during the church service --"

"Shen, hush," Sara says.

"But I was late," he finishes, grinning at Sara.

Paxton's eyebrows shoot up and her smile grows. "You didn't go to church! Did you really?"

"For you, baby, I'd do about anything," Shen says. Paxton hugs him again, this time with fierce affection. The man behind her looks on with respectful amusement. I cough quietly and he looks to me, his face suddenly guarded. He could be hiding thousands of years of secrets behind those clear blue eyes and no one would know it – no one but me, that is.

I could try it – I've Found things on the spur of the moment more times than I can remember right now – but I doubt Paxton would appreciate it, it's almost impossible to Find a thing without knowing what I'm looking for, and it would be rude, besides. I'd prefer to start off an acquaintance with a celestial being on a good note.

Paxton sees who I'm looking at and she flushes pink. "I'm sorry," she says. "I should introduce you. Robert, this is -"

"Gabriel," the man says, and nods to me, but doesn't extend his hand.

She introduces the rest of us, and Shen is more or less well-behaved. I wonder if he notices anything unusual about Paxton's companion; I'll have to ask him later. Jillian can't take her eyes off the man, and Sara digs her elbow into Jillian's side to break the trance.

Paxton's attention has returned to the casket. During our brief exchange, the funeral director has discreetly removed the casket spray. Paxton touches the gleaming white of the coffin lid and for a moment it looks like she wants to lean down and kiss it. She doesn't, but she doesn't move, either. Sara looks at me, her meaning clear. Do something, Robert.

"Paxton," I say, and put my arm around her. "It's time to go, darling." Jillian has started to sniffle but is making an admirable effort to contain herself.

"I just want a few more minutes," she says, and I can hear the voice of a young girl in her words, maybe ten or eleven.

"No whining," Shen says sternly, and gives her a rude little shake. "C'mon, Pax. Let's get out of here." She jerks her shoulder away, but he doesn't let her go. Gabriel's posture changes slightly but it's enough to make me realize just how big he is. Shen notices, too, and he has the nerve to actually glare at Gabriel. There's a lot of history in that look, and I think Gabriel knows it, even if he doesn't know exactly what the history is.

"Sister," Shen says, more gently now. "Your mother is not attached to this place, to this body. She's attached to you. Wherever you go, she'll be there. There's no point hanging out here. And I'm hungry, so let's go get some Indian food and get drunk already."

Paxton slaps him, laughing. "Asshole," she says. Sara has kept her distance up to now, but she comes up to join us, as does Jillian. We stand together around Paxton, sharing the choice she has to make now. She knows it's time. The question is, how stubborn is she going to be about it?

Finally she nods, sniffs, and takes her hand off the casket. She wriggles out of our tight group with impressive diplomacy and goes to Gabriel. She slips off the coat she's wearing and hands it to him, but he just wraps it around her again, saying something that makes her laugh. She murmers something to him in response, and while I can't hear what she's saying, his reaction is very interesting. Except for a subtle line between his brows, his expression doesn't change, but his eyes do – while I watch, their color changes. They fade from limpid ocean blue to the turquoise of a Caribbean lagoon, and I glance over at Sara to see if she's noticed. When I look back at the angel, he is gazing at Paxton with eyes the color of opals, white and shimmering. There is a dangerous power behind them, and I can tell it's pulling at the reins of Gabriel's will. I don't think I'd want to be around if that power ever broke free.

"Jesus," Shen whispers, and while he doesn't look over, the line between Gabriel's eyes deepens. "Sorry," Shen says immediately. "No offense intended, man."

Still focused on Paxton, Gabriel shakes his head in response to a question she asks, then looks at us, his eyes still glowing with that disconcerting iridescence.

"It was good to meet you," he says to us. "Take care of her." It's not a request; it's an order, and we all know it. He turns and ducks under the tent, disappearing to whatever destination is calling him away. We may be the only people who notice him leave.

"Hey," Shen says, once Gabriel is gone. "Will we all fit in that limo, do you think?"

the home stretch

holy shit, i think i might actually finish this assignment (she says, knocking frantically on her wooden kitchen table).

general apologies to anyone who's reading this and expecting it to make sense. i'm using characters and a situation that have been knocking around in my head for over ten years, and to get these assignments done i'm having to cut out all the backstory. but this has been incredibly helpful - for me, if for no one else. in between the brainstorming for these monologues and an eye-opening conversation i had with buffy (which grew out of one of lori's notes from the first chapter), i've somehow managed to come up with what i hope is a more coherent structure. it doesn't show here, but shit, i wrote a synopsis this week! which was something i had been dreading for six months or so.

it's been interesting to see whose voices are turning out to be similar and whose are different; who's easy to write, and fun, and who's just completely freaking boring. and i'll be kinda sad to have to go back to 3rd person limited after having spent some time in different heads than my main characters. it's been unexpectedly enlightening. in a good way.

so, progress. and committment. good stuff.

three more posts to go.

~andi

At the funeral, 12

I didn’t expect so many people to come to the committal. At least it’s not as crowded as it was in that church; it’s no wonder Mom got overheated. She’s looking better. She was white as a sheet when they were carrying the coffin out, and I’ve never known her to be squeamish about death. I don’t think it was the funeral. For a moment I thought she might have been having a heart attack, but she recovered so quickly… seeing ghosts, she called it. Trying to laugh it off.

It’s such a damned shame Paxton is up there all alone, though. Except for that guy with her, there’s no one else in the rest of the chairs. No family. Jesus God, at least I’ve got that going for me, even if the rest of my life is fucked up.

Mom was right, this was a quick service. Small miracle. Although with Mom insisting on wearing those crazy heels, it’s going to take forever to get back to the car. Might as well just pick her up and carry her.

Cookie Monster's back. That shaggy blue fucker is just never going to leave me alone, not even at a funeral. He's still there, in the back of my head, singing about sugar cookies. One of these things is not like the other things, one of these things just doesn't belong... like that guy over there hiding next to the Queen's Shrine. That was a nice coat thirty years ago, and I guess you could say the same thing about the guy, although there's no telling with bums. Sometimes they get to be better people the longer they spend outside the system, depending on the system that screwed them in the first place. And sometimes they don't.

Wonder if he knew Mrs. Hollister personally, or if he was just a regular at the Samaritan. Maybe the Lower East Side crowd sent him to pay their collective respects. Day like today, no one would want to be out. Wet and cold can kill you if you live outside, and once you're wet, there's no getting dry. Which explains the boots. Salvation Army special; they look like they could have done time in 'Nam. I'm surprised they couldn't have managed to give the old guy an umbrella, though. Friend of mine had a dog like that, would stand out in the rain getting wet instead of coming inside like a sensible animal, but then that dog had a fur coat, and this guy has a trench.

Yeah, he's hiding, but he hasn't taken his eyes off the tent over the grave. And he's motionless, but there's a tension in the line of his back, like he's about to move forward. Is he hiding a flower to put on Mrs. Hollister's grave? That would be like a lot of the Lower East Siders I've known – can't find a buck for a used umbrella, but they'll all pitch in for something sentimental.

If he's from the shelter or thereabouts, he might know the guy who went after Paxton. It's worth a shot, anyway, because I can't find any other reason for it – guy jumps the woman in broad daylight and doesn't go after her purse, doesn't run when the cops come, it's nuts. But he was waiting for her. And if my guy here has two marbles rolling around in his head, he might know something about why. Hell, I'm a detective. Duty calls.

At the funeral, 11

It’s hard to see who’s who with all these damned umbrellas. I could probably just make a list of important philanthropists in New York City and say they were here – it would be close enough. It's so tempting to get out of this weather. But Bailey sent me here for the research, and maybe some of these people will talk to me after the service. Swear to God, someday I’ll be sending my own little peon out in the rain to interview old do-gooders so I can sit in my corner office drinking stylish blends of organic, free-trade coffee all day. She’ll probably make me write the article, too, although for sure it’ll be her name on the byline.

The rain’s stopping! I’d be doing a happy dance, if it wouldn’t attract attention. The umbrellas are coming down and I can finally get a good look at everyone, even if it’s just from the side. Too bad the casket’s already closed; I’d love to see what Mrs. H looks like after the postmortem work. That’s odd. There are only two people under the tent with the priest. Small family, I guess, although you’d think they would have enough close friends that the tent would be full. There’s the daughter. Don’t know the guy with her. And the typical pimped-out Catholic priest, although he’s not looking so good in this weather either.

There’s quite a mix of people here. She was – what, 65 when she died? She’s been a part of at least two generations of New Yorkers – so it’s not a crowd of geriatrics, at least, although Bailey’s going to want to get those names first for the Sunday paper. I should go back to the church and check the guest book, that’s easy enough to do. Oh, but look at that little clump of people over there – I wonder who they are. They don’t quite fit in, do they? No, they don’t look like a family exactly, although they stand like one. Intimate body language, the blonde girl’s holding hands with the older man, who has his arm around a smaller lady with short, silver curls. She’s so tiny. I think a strong wind could probably blow her away. The boy with them is just adorable, what is he, Korean? Japanese? I can’t tell from here, but it’s too bad he’s not just a little older.

There’s an old man a few feet away from me who looks awfully familiar. Maybe if I heard his voice I could place him And this, ladies and gentlemen, is reason number one why I’m always going to be a shitty reporter. If I could just remember things, real things, not the things that like to dance around in my head – those I remember just fine, it’s the facts that escape me. Poor thing. He looks so sad. His eyes are swollen and red, but I don’t see any tears. Maybe he’s cried himself out in private. No, I don’t think he’s a business acquaintance, he’s taking this hard. There’s something else going on with him. An old lover, maybe? Or unrequited love – he would make such a good story, I have got to write that down, what did I do with that notebook?

No. No, I don’t. I’m not here for short story material, I’m here to get the facts, damn it. Like that brown-haired giant over there. I’d love an excuse to talk to him. Holy shit, is he carrying? I hope he’s a cop; I can’t see any other reason to go to a funeral with a gun. He’s twitchy. He knows he’s supposed to be watching the service but he keeps looking around; what’s he looking for? That must be his mother next to him. She’s tall, like him, although she’s starting to stoop. I’m guessing seventy, maybe seventy-five. Nice hat.

Oh, that’s who he’s keeping an eye on, that ratty-looking guy in the back. Yeah, he’s an odd one, too. That overcoat’s thirty years old if it’s a day, and what the hell is he wearing, galoshes? He couldn’t have brought an umbrella, the guy is totally soaked. And so still. He’s not even shivering. I wouldn’t have even noticed him if I hadn’t been paying attention to the cop.

If only I knew their stories, I could write forever. Then again, who needs the truth when you’ve got a head full of daydreams?

That’s a weird feeling. All the hair on the back of my neck is standing up, and my arms just broke out in goosebumps. What the hell is that about?

The service is over. Time to go to work. There’s reason number two why I’m a lousy reporter; I hate talking to strangers. Especially now, at a funeral, for God’s sake. It’s just rude.

That interesting clump of misfits over there has shifted just a bit. I think they’re about to go up to the gravesite. Maybe they’re friends of the daughter. But that cute Korean kid isn’t moving, he’s turning to – he’s turning to look at me. The goosebumps are all over my body now, and I mean all over, I never thought I could get goosebumps down there, but – no, he’s older than I thought. He’s coming over here. I should walk away. I have other people to talk to, who are probably more important, but look at his eyes sparkle, he’s just fascinating. Yes, walk away, that’s exactly what I’ll do, and quickly, before he makes it all the way over here.

“Hi,” he says, and his voice is deeper than I expected. “I’m Shen. And you are?”

“Jessica,” I tell him.

“Friend of the family?” he asks. He’s smiling, and I can’t see any reason to lie to him.

“Actually, no,” I admit. “I’m with the Times. We’re doing a story about Mrs. Hollister for tomorrow’s paper, and I thought I might get some interviews this afternoon.”

“I see,” he says. “What are you doing after that?”

Pretty much anything you want me to, I think. And that’s a fact.

At the funeral, 10

This chill, this damp, it’s killing my hands today, but then it’s been like that for months now. The only respite comes in her presence, and I dearly wish she would bless me by coming now. But Sophia has been silent today. She knows that I cannot give her the attention she deserves and perform this sacrament at the same time. She knows we owe the dead respect. Surely, she is as clement and merciful as God Himself. She demands nothing of me than I am not willing to give. If I could, I would be there with her now, kneeling on hard stone in the darkness and cold, only the sounds of dripping water and the leather of the scourge on naked skin to interrupt our communion. Blood is relevant, but trivial in comparison; I would surrender my miserable, unworthy life, if only she would take it. I envy Catherine her sacrifice, even knowing that her captured soul lingers in agony, waiting to rejoin God in Heaven. I promised her she would go to God, and Sophia will fulfill that promise, once the daughter is delivered from sin.

She looks like her mother. She’s taller, of course, but that comes from the father. What I have heard – from Catherine herself and from others – is that she inherited some dangerous habits from her father as well. I would never have thought her capable of witchcraft until I saw the fear in her eyes that afternoon at the hospice. Then the painting of the shadowed Magdalene, crashing to the floor, glass shattering, shards flying everywhere. The hospice staff apologized repeatedly for the disturbance, blaming it on a poor hanging job, but I don’t believe it was an accident, and from the look on her face, she didn’t either. Of course she didn’t take communion today, just sat there in the first pew looking down at her hands. I’m surprised she came to the church at all, but the pretenders are so often the most dangerous.

The man with her doesn’t touch her, but he stands just behind her chair, his hand on the back of it, the subtle intimacy of a lover obvious to anyone who cares to look. He doesn’t seem to know what she is, or if he does, he doesn’t care, which is worse. When she comes to God at last, I pray that she will bring him with her.

The mourners have finally gathered, huddled together under their black umbrellas. It’s time to start.

At the funeral, 9

The sound of the rain on my umbrella is so soothing; I could close my eyes and imagine it's springtime, finally, after this wretched winter. If only it weren't so cold.

Here comes the cavalcade from the church. Showtime. I breathe deeply, sucking the freezing, damp air all the way into the bottom of my lungs. It's not a pleasant sensation, but I'm starving for oxygen. I remind myself that I can't breathe in auras, and that shallow breaths don't do any good unless I'm on a subway next to a large man with sweaty armpits, in which case they're the best option.

I look for the limousine that follows the hearse; that's the one Paxton will be in. It will take a while for the others to catch up, but it's worth some minutes of solitary discomfort to be the first person here, to get my eyes ready for the show. The hearse stops as close to the gravesite as it can. Well-dressed men get out and begin unloading flowers from the back of the hearse. It takes some time, and while they're unloading I move closer to the covered gravesite, hoping that Paxton will see me when she gets out and know I'm here. It looks like a hundred arrangements have been sent: the requisite chrysanthemums and lilies, white tulips, lushly petaled camellias, gardenias and freesia so fragrant I can smell them from twenty feet away, and as I approach, I can see a tiny bouquet of sweet peas. Where someone managed to find sweet peas this time of the year is anyone's guess. There's a spray of roses that are such a dark shade of red they almost look black in the washed-out light of this rainy afternoon. I can't help but wonder who sent them. Were they sent because Catherine loved red roses, or because someone is still madly in love with her? Both, maybe.

Once they've set up the flowers, they carry the white casket to the sheltered gravesite and set it down on the frame, where it will stay through the interment. Finally, they bring out the spray for the casket, an extravagant arrangement of white roses and stargazer lilies, their dark pink centers romantic and sensual. I think that was probably Paxton's choice.

So far the auras have been manageable, although I may have to move back again after Paxton comes out. I know she'll understand. The last thing anyone needs is a bout of hysterics, for whatever reason. The colors are nowhere near as concentrated as they would have been indoors, and I'm sure there will be fewer people here than there were at the church. I'll be all right. It'll be fine.

Paxton hasn't come out yet, but the priest emerges from his car and heads towards the site. When I get a good look at his colors, I begin to doubt my confidence. I feel a familiar, uncomfortable burn in my stomach and I wish to hell I'd brought some Tums. A dark, dingy gray cloud surrounds him, but it's the other colors that scare me. The gray is shot through with shocking streaks of red and a dark, sickly orange that makes me think of gangrene. He gives the overwhelming impression of deep illness, a sickness of the soul, and it seems obscene that he's about to bless Catherine's body before burial, it's so wrong, and I step forward to protest, but there's a firm grip on my arm and a hard jerk, as I am pulled away from the green tent.

"Jillian. Don't," Robert says, and his tranquil emerald light surrounds me, helping slow the triphammer beating of my heart, letting me breathe again. "Let it go." A whiff of jasmine floats by, and I know that Sara is here, which means that Shen will show up any minute. Thank God. Thank God. I can't do this without my family.

"Can you see it?" I ask him. "Can you see the priest?"

He stands beside me and shakes his head. "I can't see what you see, but he's not striking me as the most appropriate person to be wearing a stole. Not that I would know," he adds, and I finally smile. He doesn't like to talk about it much, but Robert was days away from ordination when he met Sara. The ordination never happened. I wish they would just tell us the damned story, but maybe they're saving it for the next blackout.

The door to the silver limousine opens and a man I don't know steps out. His aura - I've never seen anything like it. Bathed in white iridescence so bright it makes me squint for a moment, the man bends to help Paxton out of the car. His aura shifts when he takes Paxton's hand, pulsing dark rose, divine violet, luscious indigo, and back to white, where it rests for a moment before all those glorious colors burst through again in a rainbow of what looks to me like a deep, sacred love. I turn away for a moment, feeling like a voyeur.

When I look back, Paxton is coming out of the car, carefully not looking at the man beside her. He doesn't offer her his arm, but walks just behind her as she goes to the gravesite. She's not liking the heels, I can tell, and I can't blame her; they're not very practical on wet grass, but it's not like you can wear rain boots to your mother's funeral – not when your mother was Catherine Hollister. Her usually vibrant shades of cobalt, viridian, and shimmering gold are muted today, compared to the man she's with, but I'm not worried. I see occasional pulses of dark red when she has to steady herself, but I see no black, and the aura is more stable than I expected. I send a prayer of thanksgiving to whoever's listening.

"How's she looking?" Shen's voice comes from behind my shoulder, so smooth and soft it's like he's still in church.

"She's OK," I say, my own voice shaky.

"Good," Sara says. "I think you can turn your eyes down now, Jillian. This can't be easy for you." She's right, and I do, the bright colors leeching out of the day, leaving only the brown grass, the harsh, artificial green of the tent, and the silver of the rain and the sky.

"Sara, do you know who that is standing next to her?" I ask. "The man in the dark grey suit?"

She doesn't answer at first, and I am immediately suspicious. I turn to her, my eyebrows raised. She smiles mysteriously, which she knows infuriates me.

"I don't know his name," she says. "But I think he's a new acquaintance. Maybe we'll get to know him sometime."

"I hope so," says Shen. "It looks like he's got some serious intentions about our girl."

At the funeral, 8

Is it cold? Will I need my coat? Strange not to know what season it is. Last I remember it was winter, and snow was still piled up on the streetcorners where the cleaners couldn't get to it. Now, though, there's no telling. Surely it's not full spring yet. I can't tell from what the priest is wearing. The men carrying the coffin are wearing long, heavy coats. I'm glad I brought the wool, then. I can't remember whose coffin it is. A lady in competent black approaches me. "Ms. Hollister? The procession is ready to leave when you are. If you would follow me please?" It's not exactly a question, and I follow her, obedient, although I'd like to know what the procession is for and what I'm doing here to begin with. It's something about... but I can't quite remember. I hope someone will tell me, sooner or later. It's possible I'm dreaming. It certainly feels like a dream. Surely I wouldn't be at a funeral and not know who died – like being on a stage and not knowing what character you're playing. A dream, then; it's the only explanation. The doors to the church open and I follow the lady out. A vicious gust of wind blows up. I forgot the coat after all, and God, it's so cold all of a sudden; that wind cuts right down to my bones. My eyes are watering and the muscles in my back have seized up. There's a sleek, pearl-gray limousine parked at the curb. The man standing by the door opens it and holds out his hand to help me in. I've got these ridiculous heels on, so I accept the offer before I make a complete fool of myself. The man's hand wraps around mine and the touch sends a painful shock of electricity through me. I stumble and crack my head on the car door. Before I can fall on my ass, the man catches me and pulls me up to my feet, steadying me as I regain my balance. "I'm sorry," I say. "Thank - " I stop short, staring into crystalline blue eyes that belong to no man I know. I can't take my eyes off him, and he's not looking away. We might stay here forever. "Are you ready to go?" he asks, and I don't answer, I can't, because with every moment that passes, I am experiencing the strangest sensation of moving backwards in time, past the service, the lady with the lace, the ride to the church from Queens, where I was waiting with Grendel, looking through a stack of pictures, making coffee, answering the phone, a hundred little things that anyone could be doing any day, until I see a building in my head, on the Upper East Side, and the small plaque on the door with the names of the businesses inside and there's one I recognize, Hummel and Greene, and I'm whooshing upstairs on the elevator then coming to a room where a dead woman lies on a bed and a younger dark-haired woman sits motionless in a chair beside her. The sight of this man is tearing down veils of oblivion and I can almost identify him, he looks so familiar, and...

"Gabriel." It comes back to me now, how I shouted at him the last time I saw him, how I ran from him and from my mother, too. From my mother, who is dead. A wave of dizziness passes over me and I hope I pass out, I'd prefer it, really, but I don't. I fall against him and he guides me into the back seat of the limousine, I smell sandalwood and leather, the heat in the car is delicious and I melt against the far edge, staying away, but he doesn't let me escape, he moves closer to me and reaches for my hair. I try to move away but he tells me to be still. He pulls something from my hair and hands it to me, it's a handkerchief-sized bit of black lace with a brown bobby pin stuck through it. He strokes my head in a businesslike manner, as if trying to smooth my hair down where he pulled the bobby pin out. "Sorry," he says. "I've wrecked your hair."

I can't help it; I laugh inappropriately. "It's fine. You don't have my coat anywhere, do you?" I ask, thinking that if anyone could keep track of someone's coat, it would be Gabriel.

"No," he says. "But you can have mine." He strips off his navy blue pea coat and wraps it around me. It feels as real as anything else does on this strange day.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, pulling the coat tight around me. "Gabriel, anyone could have seen you."

"It's not a problem," he says. "Let's just get you through today." I nod, for once unable to argue with him. "You haven't slept in a while, have you?" he says. Not waiting for an answer, he holds his arm up, inviting me over. "Come on. It's a half an hour to the cemetery. Rest your head, Paxton. I'll wake you when we get there."

He doesn't have to ask twice.

At the funeral, 7

Michael is beside me, as he has been for so many countless millenia. He is not pleased.

“Are you going? Tell me you're not going.” he asks. I sense his irritation, like a distant lightning strike, and I am grateful we’re alone, up in the now empty choir loft, looking down on the congregation as they shuffle out. Paxton is in front, behind the pallbearers who are beginning to carry her mother’s white coffin out of the church to the hearse that waits outside. She’ll be leaving for the cemetery in a few moments. I think she’ll be going alone; her friends have gotten caught up in the crowd and can’t reach her.

“Why should it matter to you?” I ask, although it’s a stupid question and we both know it.

“Gabriel, you’re a jackass,” Michael says, and I am shocked by his language, here in the house of God. I tear my eyes away from the solemn procession and glance over, seeing that he has surprised himself as well. “You remember as well as I do what happened last time.”

“It’s not like that,” I protest. “There’s no chance of that. It’s not like the Fallen. This is different.”

“How?” he demands. “Exactly how is it different, Gabriel? It always starts the same way -"

“No, it doesn’t. A friendship does not have to deteriorate into an affair, no matter what the others have done before us. We’re here to help, Michael. How can I let her suffer alone?”

“Then go, fool,” he says. “Hold her hand, do what you think she needs you to do. But for the love of God, don’t expose yourself, Gabriel. And don’t pretend to be human; it never ends well. For any of us.”

I glare at him. “I won’t pretend to be anything I’m not,” I say. “And I’m –“

“Smitten, is what you are,” Michael says, almost spitting with disgust. “With a human, and a witch, of all people.”

“There is no reason for this conversation to continue,” I say, with less heat than I expect. I'm no longer angry. I am adrift, hopeless. “Whatever I feel for this woman cannot manifest in anything other than friendship – you and I both know that.”

Michael seems to have decided that bombast is getting him nowhere. “Does she know that?” he asks, his voice low. "How can she help but want you, Gabriel? And what happens to her, when you regain your sanity, when you see that your mission calls you to other souls than hers?”

"She is stronger than that," I say.

"I doubt it. Or maybe she sees through you, maybe she knows that you want her; have you considered that? You may not know her as well as you think you do."

"That's enough, Michael," I say. In the space of a thought, I move to the church foyer, where the altar boy is opening the doors to allow the funeral party to leave the sanctuary. Michael follows, and I'm not surprised. He knows he's getting to me.

"Greater beings than you have attempted many kinds of unions with humans and failed. Jesus and the Magdalene were doomed from the start, He knew it, and still he tried."

"Michael," I hiss. "She is alone. She is in pain. Deserting her would be a sin against the nature that God gave me. There is nothing else you can do here. Go."

Michael stares at me with furious exasperation. "What will you do?"

I look away from him, at the pallbearers carrying the white coffin through the double doors. Paxton is a few steps behind them. The woman who sat with her during the mass is gone; perhaps she was caught up in the crowd as well. Paxton's eyes are blank and empty; I have seen dolls with more expressive faces. I wonder if the woman I know is even in there anymore. She passes by me without even glancing up, though a week ago she would have known I was there before the doors even opened. The bit of lace she wears in her hair has come halfway out, and it seems shameful to me that there is no one there to fix it for her.

"I don't know," I admit.

Michael sighs. "Good luck, Gabriel," he says, resigned. "And try not to be more of an idiot than you already are."

At the funeral, 6

“As awful as the weather is outside, I can’t wait to get back out in it,” my son whispers. He sits next to me on the pew, doing a better job than he used to at sitting still, but for a thirty-five-year-old man, he’s very fidgety. I tell him so, and he glares at me out of the corner of his eyes. I try not to smile; it’s a solemn occasion, after all, but I enjoy teasing him, and I hope I always will.

There might be two hundred souls in this church, not including the ghosts. I don’t think I’m the only one who can see them, but if a ghost-watcher were anything like me, she certainly wouldn’t be mentioning it to strangers anyway. Although it’s tempting – I can see it now, leaning over to share the peace of Christ with the older gentleman behind us and saying, “That’s a lovely boy sitting next to you; do you know him?” Once again, I try not to smile.

The ghosts make the church seem almost oppressive – but watching the people around me is so entertaining that I can hardly mind them. They’re not bothering anyone – not today, anyway – which I appreciate, given the circumstances. So many of the younger ones these days refuse to show any respect for the newly dead, especially if the person has already passed on.

I should have called. I should have visited. She wouldn’t have agreed to see me, but I’m sure I’m stubborn enough to have gotten through the doorman and up to her apartment. I’m old, but I’m not that old yet. At the very least, I might have met her daughter, which would have been such a comfort. It’s selfish, I know, and at the moment I don’t care in the slightest.

Alex nudges me and hands me a slightly wrinkled tissue. He really is the sweetest thing sometimes. I wipe my nose and let the tears run. There’s no point in stopping them; they’re going to flow whether I want them to or not. At least I’m not the only one crying. Even some of the ghosts are looking terribly sad, and of course they would – some of them would have known her like they knew their own family. After all, Catherine went to confession regularly and I’ve never known a ghost who wouldn’t eavesdrop given half a chance.

It’s very strange how they’re all looking at the priest today. In a church, they’re usually more interested in the congregation, especially if they’re strangers. I’m sure it must be like watching a new TV show or opening a new book – a good way to pass the time. But now they’re all watching him. He has sprinkled the coffin with holy water, blessed it with incense, and is finishing up the last prayer, I think. The ghosts begin to surge forward en masse. Even the ones in the choir loft are floating down; it’s very lovely, but I wouldn’t want to be in that priest’s position right now. Some of them look very resentful, and there are one or two who seem to be actively enraged. Can he walk through that crowd of souls and not feel it?

Apparently he can.

Oh. Goodness. That hurts very badly indeed. I clutch my son’s arm hard enough to make him grunt.

“Headache?” he whispers.

I nod, because it’s the only thing he’ll understand, but this is more than a headache; it’s a pressure on the inside of my brain, and it goes all the way down into my belly. Like a stake through the heart, but I think if it were just through the heart it wouldn’t be quite as bad. I gasp. Curling up only makes it hurt worse.

Alex puts his arm around me and says he’ll get us out soon, and I lay my head on the soft wool of his suit jacket and breathe it in, finding some comfort in the smells of dry-cleaning, coffee, and my son’s light sweat.

A blessedly cool puff of air passes over the back of my bare neck and the pain begins to let up a bit. I think it’s Alex, but when I look up, I realize my mistake. The ghosts have come to me. They stand close around me, their translucent colors superimposed over the faces of the people around me; it’s very unnerving. I’ve never been this close to so many of them and I try, very hard, not to let my fright show on my face. I doubt I’m successful.

The smallest one, the boy I saw sitting next to the older man, looks at me intently, as if to make sure he has my full attention, which of course he does.

He raises his arm and points to the priest, who is walking in front of the pallbearers who are carrying Catherine’s coffin. Every ghost around me does the same thing, until I am surrounded by a crowd of undead beings who are pointing their fingers straight at the priest, their arms tracking him as he walks slowly out the door.

I don’t know exactly what they’re trying to tell me, except that there’s something they need me to do, and it obviously has to do with that priest. But I nod briefly to the boy, who blinks in response, and moves away. The crowd of spirits separates into individual souls, and they return to what are probably their accustomed places in the church.*

I consider it for a moment, but the pain has receded and I can finally get a full breath again. “No,” I say, and I smile, because he’s so genuinely concerned, and so handsome I can still barely believe he’s my son, even after all these years. “I’m fine. Let’s go on to Mount Saint Mary’s. I’m sure the interment will be short, and then we can go get some ice cream.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Ice cream. I’m not ten anymore, Mom. Can we compromise and go to Mona Lisa? You can get your sugar fix and I can get a decent plate of ravioli.”

“Perfect.”

*I revised the end of this scene today (3/30/10) to keep this lady around - she and her son need to be at the graveside ceremony.

At the funeral, 5

Why why why didn’t I just meet Jillian in Queens? We could have had coffee, gone to the cemetery together, skipped all this Catholic craziness. I could have slept in. Could have gone to temple and lit some joss sticks instead faking it for these lunatics and their death cult.

Doors are closed. It’s a sign, right? Wouldn’t want to interrupt the service; there’s no telling what they’re doing. I’d probably walk in right in the middle of a moment of silence. I should just call Jill and go to Queens now; we still have time to hit that coffeehouse on 33rd, and there’s that incredibly hot barrista, she might be working today. Man, the ass on that woman, a guy could go nuts just thinking about it.

But it’s Paxton. She’s in there somewhere, up at the front, and maybe her mom’s in a coffin a few feet away. Does she have any family coming? I never thought to ask Sara. I hate to think of her up there by herself. No, surely she’s got someone with her. Maybe even Sara and Robert; she’ll be fine, she’s a rock.

I could just sit here on this hard bench and wear holes in my butt cheeks for the next hour. Then I can catch her on the way out, at least so she knows I’m here, that I showed up. Or I could go in. What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like I’m going to be struck by lighting. They’re not going to come after me with pitchforks. They’re not all going to turn around and stare at me – maybe a couple of people will, but not all of them.

No. This is bullshit. What it comes down to is that Paxton may or may not know I’m here, but the least I can do is go in and be there. Not because she might need me – I know she won’t – but because she’s practically a sister to me, and that’s what you do for your sister. I’d walk through fire for her. I can walk through those doors. And if I do nothing else, I can at least bear witness.

At the funeral, 4

There are veils upon veils of illusion in this place. With this many people, they're changing all the time, overlapping each other. It's getting hard for me to see through them. We're right in the middle of the congregation; there's no getting out until the mass is over. Robert said when his grandfather died, the mass went on for what felt like half the day, but then he was eleven at the time. He guessed it was more like an hour. I can manage for that long. If I close my eyes and bow my head, it will look like I'm praying. And maybe I should pray – although it makes me uncomfortable to pray to Lady Brigid when I'm in a Catholic church. I don't know why – in the side chapel is a lovely statue of the Virgin Mary and I don't think she would mind. Still, it seems disrespectful to pray to a Goddess in a house where only one God is acknowledged. Not that it matters what you call it --

That's odd. There's a dark, shadowy corner of the church towards the back chapel, but something's glowing there. It's a familiar sort of light – I can't be entirely sure, but it might well be the same one I saw in Paxton's apartment during the ritual, the one she didn't want to tell the others about.

"Robert," I whisper. And Lady bless him, he's so tuned into me that he hears, even though I've barely made a sound. He doesn't say anything; unlike me, he has manners, and he wouldn't interrupt the service. But he looks at me and raises an eyebrow. "Look," I say, nodding toward the light.

"What is it?" he says. "I don't see anything."

"Oh. I wondered if you would," I say. "I think I have to go find out what that is."

"What what is? Sara, look, there's Paxton coming in. They'll be starting soon. Can it wait?"

"Probably not," I say. "I'll be back in a bit."

Robert sighs with no little exasperation, but there's love in it, too, and he lets me go. He knows I'll tell him all about it later. I push my way out of the pew as politely as I can, although it's hard to do this when the larger people don't notice I'm here. I don't mind my height, or lack thereof, except in situations like this. I do so hate crowds.

I circle around the back of the church and approach the light from behind. I don't want to scare it off, whatever it is. There are, of course, many possibilities I can eliminate – no fairy would be found dead in a church, and elementals don't usually like company.

The light is brighter the closer I get, shifting, folding in on itself, and it's definitely the same one I saw before. The colors are the same – transclucent blue, aquamarine, silver, like watching a frozen waterfall in impossible motion. I'm feeling slightly giddy.

"Hello," I say, and in less than a moment, the light is gone. In its place stands a tall, well-made young man, his eyes narrowing at me with suspicion. Even though I know the eyes are an illusion, the sentiment is real.

"You're Sara," he says, and his voice is like a low bell.

"Yes. And you are...?"

"It doesn't matter," he says, and turns towards the front of the church, where Paxton is finally sitting down in the first pew. The lady with her is very kindly pinning a bit of black lace into her hair – of course Paxton would have forgotten a veil. I would give a lot to be there with her right now, holding her hand.

I look back at the young man – or whatever he is – and I see that he's feeling exactly the same thing.

"Why don't you go to her?" I ask. "I'm sure she would welcome your company."

"I don't think so," he says, and although I can't tell what color his eyes are, the desperate sorrow in them unbalances me, and my own eyes begin to well with tears. But I don't know why. "She doesn't want me there."

"May I ask why?" I say. "No, I'm sorry, of course I don't mean to pry."

"She doesn't want me there because I'm not real. Not in the sense that she's real, and that you are real. I'm not exactly -"

"Human, yes, that much is evident. But – real? I'm afraid I don't understand."

"The last time I saw her, the day before her mother died, she told me that I was just pretending. That I didn't know what the stakes are, that I didn't know what it means to feel something so deeply it consumes you, what it means to be human," he says, his eyes never leaving the front of the church. "She told me to go away."

I bite my tongue to keep from laughing – it's not the first time I've fought the urge to laugh at an inappropriate time. Robert says it's nerves, and I'm sure he's right.

"And you thought she meant it," I say, once I can be sure of my composure.

"Of course she did," he says. "She's not the kind of person to say things she doesn't mean."

"Not on purpose, I'm sure," I say. "But we all – even you, I suspect – say things that don't show what we really feel. And things have changed for her since she last saw you."

"Yes," he says. "But I don't want to take advantage of that."

"Of course not," I agree. "But I think you're not being as brave as you could be."

He straightens, and his eyes meet mine. They aren't as dark as they were before, as if the light of his being is beginning to radiate through his body, dissolving the illusion. In moments, the human figure is gone, and the glorious light of his being is back beside me. It pulses once, then disappears. I wonder if he was saying good-bye.

I breathe deeply, but the incense in the church is almost more than I can bear. I want to leave, to consider this alone, to get out of the press of people and their layers upon layers of masks. But I need Robert more.

I wait for a moment when the congregation is standing, then I make my way back to Robert. I hold his hand tightly. My heart begins to pound in my chest, and I think he must hear it, because he looks down at me, concerned.

I pull him down to me and whisper directly into his ear.

"I think I've just met an angel."

Saturday Night at Smitty's, part 3

My man Brody here and me were just cruisin’ up the coast after hittin’ some sweet waves, headed toward Humbolt, man, when we saw this old honky tonk and thought we’d step in for a cold one and a little “cultural experience.” (laughs) Yeah man, yeah, like we totally got more than we bargained for. I can’t wait to tell the guys this one.


Oh right, what happened. There was this chick playin’ pool with this skinny old dude, cigarette hangin’ out of his mouth, lookin’ like he’s about to keel over from emphysema.

Dude, she WAS hot. In like, a 80s video kinda way. You could see her whale tail sticking out over the top of her skirt, right below her tramp stamp so you KNOW there wasn’t much underneath there. Man, I wasn’t the only one ready to ride that wave, you know what I mean man? (high-fives his buddy)

Bra here goes up to the bar for a coupla brewskis while I’m enjoying the show. He starts yelling to me but I can’t hear him over the jukebox playin’ country music and all the people talking – man it was a riot in there already, even before the whole brewhaha went down. So I finally figure out he wants to know if I want Bud or Coors and when I turn back around, the skinny old dude’s hittin some freakin’ burly-ass logger over the head with his pool cue. Chaos ensues (laughs, high-fives Brody). Dude! Un-freakin-believable.

Me and Brody, we got this communication thing man, we don’t even need to use words when things get gnarly, like out on the big waves dude, we just signal each other and down we go, movin’ toward the back of the bar to, like, relative safety, man. Then the bartender pulls out a shotgun from under the bar and one shot cleared the whole place out. Cultural fucking experience, man.

At the funeral, 3

This robe itches. And it's hot. It's not fair Mom signed me up for this without asking. There's a game on at three and I know I'm gonna miss the first quarter, plus I lost all my practice time getting here so early. I didn't do anything, and she knows it. Matthew ought to be the one stuck swinging this stupid ball. The smoke is killing me. Father Blackwell calls it incense and there's some stupid special recipe he uses but it smells like horse crap to me, especially when it's getting all up in my nose. I'm gonna smell like this all day and if I take a shower Dee'll just make fun of me and tell everyone I'm jacking off in the bathroom. She's such a bitch.

What's the big deal about the body, anyway? He said they did the vigil last night, it's not like they haven't all seen her laid out already. It's creepy having the coffin open anyway. Not as bad as Grandma, but still weird. At least it doesn't smell like anything. Maybe that's what the incense was for to begin with, before they started with the chemicals and stuff – maybe it smelled so bad no one noticed how nasty the rotten body was.

The altar, finally, I swear it's like walking down the aisle took a freaking hour. Crap. How many times am I supposed to swing this thing? Is he really paying attention? Hell yes, of course he is. At least I didn't have to dress him this time. Nate says he smells like old sweaty onions. Barf. OK, it's never more than four passes in front of the altar, so I'll stop at three and just hope it's not too far off.

Wow. This place is packed. I've never seen this many people here, except at Christmas. Aw, man, he's doing the mass in Latin, I hate it when they do that. I can't even keep track of what he's saying when it's in English. Please God let this be over soon. Matthew was right, I should have worn kneepads if I'm gonna be kneeling for this long. He said they only give deacons and old people the padded kneelers. So of course Father Blackwell gets one.

I can still feel it in my knuckes when he grabbed my hands. Swear to God I thought he was going to break my fingers. And I didn't do anything, all I wanted was to use the piano in the music room, Father McKinney said I could.

What's he saying now? Damn, I lost track. And he's looking at me like I'm supposed to know what I'm doing. I am so screwed.

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.

At the funeral, 1

This isn't just another funeral. It's got an odd ambivalence to it – some people are greeting each other with smiles and hugs, others are giving somber pats on the back, still others are sitting by themselves in the pews, staring at the backs of the people in front of them. I hear a peal of laughter echo through the church, which shocks me and the people around me, but it's like a glass of cool water first thing in the morning and I want to hear more.

I'm still waiting to find a seat. There's a crowd of people who haven't been seated yet, myself among them, and we're moving slowly. It's early yet, so there's no rush, but I'd like to claim a spot at the end of a pew and be one of those quiet ones before I have to stand up and speak. I need a few more minutes to collect myself, to convince myself that I can do this and maintain some shred of dignity – not for myself, but for Catherine.

Her name in my thoughts makes my hands tingle and burn, even after all this time. I gave up on her more than ten years ago, but not one day has gone by that I haven't thought of her and what we could have had, if her life hadn't been so cursed with grief and loss. She never stopped mourning John Hollister, but that wasn't all of it – she was haunted by something other than his death, as tragic and senseless as it was. There was something else.

I used to wonder if it was worry for her daughter. But several years ago I met Paxton Hollister and I don't think Catherine would eat herself up with anxiety over Paxton's future. She's a bright girl, went to Barnard, I think it was, graduated early. Not a surprise given her mother's intelligence. And she has that spark, that essential light that most children seem to have, the one that gets buried under experience and disillusionment the older they grow. By the time they're teenagers, the light is so dim you almost can't tell it was ever there at all. It may have been so with Paxton as well during her adolescence, but when I met her she was twenty-seven, and as graceful and brilliant as a sunbeam. Somehow she found joy in her life, even after her father died. And I know it had to have been Catherine's doing.

I've found a place I like now – as much as I can like anything, having to be here at all. It won't take me long to hobble my old bones up to the podium and deliver the elegy. And when I do, I will keep her face in my mind, the way she looked the day I met her at the Shelter board meeting. Fierce, sharp-eyed, glowing with determination. I don't remember what she wore, or how she smelled. I just remember the look in her eyes, and I remember thinking that I would never know a moment's peace until Catherine Hollister was mine. She got the money she asked for that day – the Board couldn't say no to her. We knew she gave as much of her own money as she asked of us, and her generosity and passion shamed us all.

"Jack," says a voice, accompanied by a gentle pressure on my arm. Lettie Gardener reeks of violets and whiskey, as she always does, and it's all I can do not to slap the old spiteful thing with all the force left in my good arm. "It's good to see you," she says, simpering. Of course she's here. She wouldn't miss this chance to show up Catherine, not when there's finally no competition for the spotlight. I wonder what it will be. She might just blow her nose in the middle of my elegy, or she might go for the big show and burst into those awful howling sobs she likes to affect at public gatherings. Weddings, funerals, Sunday mass, it's all the same to her, as long as someone's looking at her, even with disgust.

I am so sad, and so tired. Catherine used to laugh at Lettie's behavior, but with such compassion that it made me ashamed of my own hostility to the woman. The fact that Lettie is still alive, and in obviously robust health, when Catherine died in pain that morphine couldn't touch at the end, bewilders and infuriates me. God makes no sense to me, nor does karma, nor any other system people like to use to explain things like this, things that should not be in a world that has any justice at all.

I wish it was me dead instead of her.