In the Wake

Somewhere along the way, I stopped worrying about who did what wrong. Somebody must have, or at least, that’s what I thought at the time. Eventually, I was able to convince myself it had been her, or at least both of us together. That came maybe nine months after she kicked me out. Three months before that, her grandmother died.

By that time, everything of mine was out of the apartment. She’d unfriended me, unfollowed me, blocked me, and told me more than twice that there was nothing I could do. I suspected she’d started something new. Something exciting. Something I was still a long way away from. Even if I had a date here or there, it was just that. A one-off thing, here or there. I just wasn’t in it.

I’d heard about her grandma from an Instagram story her sister had put up. Checked the obituaries and there she was again. Cancer got her. It had to be something, but at her age, it sometimes seemed like the body just shuts down eventually. Still, she’d always been damned good to me.

So, it seemed wrong to miss her wake.

The funeral would probably be too much. Showy in a way. I wasn’t trying to make a scene. Just pay my respects. Do the right thing. Still, I felt the lead in my legs as I took my time walking in.

Her grandmother had been as good as anyone could be to the guy their granddaughter brought home one day. Better than mine had been to her. That’s for sure. There was the time that she’d made me a batch of pierogi, hundreds of the things, because I’d mentioned liking them in passing. Another time, we danced at her brother’s wedding, a move done solely to earn some points.

So much back then was to earn points. Little hints of proof that I was the right one. That same wedding, I lost points too. One gin and tonic too many, and the next day she told me why I was an embarrassment. Of course, by that point, I’d gotten used to it. It was the price of being with her.

There wasn’t anywhere to hide once I was inside. Not by a long shot. The way the parlor was set up, the grieving family could see anyone as they walked in. No chance to back out. No line to run through everything I’d say in my head again. There had been a few different ways I figured it could’ve gone. The first, which was admittedly far-fetched, was that she’d be so touched I’d come to her grandmother’s funeral that after giving it some thought, she’d chase me down, give us a kiss, and all would be as it was. I didn’t figure it would go like that.

Then, there was the chance her brother made a scene. He was prone to that by his very nature. I would be a perfect gentleman, and he’d say something crass and cross. My temper might go, seeing as it’s not like she’d be taking me back anyway. Start a fight at the wake. Make my mark on her life with some certainty. Maybe just say the wrong thing and get tossed, almost literally. Become the big ass of their family stories.

More likely than that still was the third option. An awkward, hi. A stiff, how are you doing? And then, I’m so sorry for your loss. Maybe a dirty look or two. Hopefully, a sympathetic one thrown in the mix. Then, I’d leave and be able to go down to Donovan’s Pub feeling good about myself.

No line meant I had to walk right up to the open casket. She looked decent, considering. Too much makeup, but that’s always how it goes. Understandable, really.

I tried to remember all the words to the Hail Mary. Say it twice. That’s always a good amount of time. Not too much, where it’d seem I was emotional about the whole thing. Not so little that it was all just for show. That led me to her grandfather. He was looking worse than Grandma. Can’t blame him. It was better than fifty years since they’d met. He gave me a Thanks for coming, and I hit him with a Sorry for your loss.

Down the line. Her dad and brother coming up fast. An uncle I only sort of knew. Every set of eyes on me. Couldn’t get a favor and have a secret lover for the old lady walking through that door or anything.

Sorry for your loss, to her dad.

Thanks for coming.  

She was a good person, to her brother.

She really was.

Wish it was better circumstances, for the uncle.

I’m sure you do.

The moment. Me and her eye to eye again. I had pictured it a few different ways. This wasn’t one of them. Most of them were along the lines of running into her at a bar or coffee shop. Then it’s, Hey, you wanna catch up? Somehow, she would in that little fantasy. More practically, I just wanted her to call me back, though.

I went for a hug — bold. Overly so. I felt her tense up like she never had before. Not the night we met at a Christmas party that a friend of a friend was throwing. Not when we hugged goodbye the day when I took the last of my things from home.

Sorry.

I know.

I mean, I’m sorry for your loss. Really terrible.

Thanks.

Eyes burning on me now. Burning a hole in my cheeks best I could figure. A chill down my spine and my tongue turned into a knot. Just keep spitting something out. Say something, I told myself.

So, I said, It’s hard to lose someone you’ve loved so long, which wasn’t a bad sentiment but the wrong thing to say. She didn’t bother saying anything. Let me sit in it. That was all it took. Time to go. We were done here.

Well, it was good seeing you. Sorry about your grandma again.

Yeah.

I didn’t go for a second hug. I didn’t stop for the rest of the line either. That was enough of the whole thing, and I made my way toward the exit.

Outside, it was nearly dark. Just a few minutes left where you could see much of anything at all. I’d go to Donovan’s and get that beer. Now more than ever. But, first, a cigarette. Maybe two. I’d lean against my car and wait, just for a minute. Just in case.

Dan Morrison is a graduate of the University of Massachusetts, where he earned a B.A. in English and a Letter of Specialization in Creative Writing. He currently lives in Central Florida and works as a college football writer for On3. In the past, his work has been published in journals like Space City Underground, Flash Fiction Magazine, and The Wild Word. 

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