The Terrible Awful, Part 3

RACHEL

Some of my first memories are of a funeral.

Not that you would know it was a funeral if I'd described them to you cold. I was, what, three? And that was my mother's family. They didn't take their children to the actual fanfare. They didn't want to scar us, or they didn't want us to disturb their grief. All I actually remember is visiting St. Louis, looking down a big window (the arch I'm told), and playing at some weird playground with some strange kids who I didn't see again until we were all involved in my uncle's wedding a few years later and never saw again after that. 

Whatever. Funerals are weird. Of all of the things that I was taught to do, funerals are definitely not my favorite. 

I'm told that I went to four or five funerals before I was six. I lose track, especially since none of them were for people who I remember meeting. 

The first funeral I remember going to, and really remember going to, didn't happen until I was eight or nine. 

She was a great grandmother I think. To be honest, I don't remember her much either, but I do remember the day. My grandmother was sad. The family was tense. We planted a tree by the grave site, and someone read some biblical passage. It was cold, and my father was angry. 

I hadn't understood his anger then, even when I saw that we had to wait until after everyone else had left for him to be able to take up the mantle of his power and do what he needed to do for his grandmother, who had loved him best of all people. I hadn't realized that the evil faces that his sister and her husband turned to him were related to this simple act of mercy and kindness, the kindest thing that he could do for someone who had passed. I hadn't thought about how odd it was that he, and we, had to hide the true face of our grief until no one else could see it. 

But now Sara is dead, and her funeral is coming. 

It's not like her family would shame me for doing whatever I needed to do, if I had the fortitude to ask for permission to do it, although I don't know that Ben or Chris would ever forgive me for bringing "all that" up again. Honestly, her kin would probably be grateful that someone who knows the things that I know would step up to do what needs to be done for her and see her into the next part of her life. 

I can't go though. 

I just can't. 

I know that I can't go like I know that I have to light certain candles on certain days. Sometimes, with this sort of thing, it just tickles you in the right place tells you what you've got to do, and what I've got to do is stay far away from that funeral. I should've stayed far away from all of them, but I didn't, and maybe I couldn't, and this is part of the price I have to pay for doing it in the first place. 

I haven't talked to any of them but Erika in years. Cassie was a wreck the last time that I tried to say anything to her, and Ben would probably just block any calls I made. Chris and Sara were harder though, Sara in particular. She was the only other one of us who had any hope of understanding. Even though she wasn't trained for the priesthood, she at least had enough exposure to have some idea of what I was getting us into. She was the only one who had any idea just how badly I messed things up by opening my big mouth, and she was also the only one to try to forgive me. 

And I can't even go to her fucking funeral. 

Everything has a price, and maybe I can find her grave after everyone else is gone, or do my own workings here, in private, but I can't go to the funeral where the people who used to be closer to me even than my own blood will be crying and hurting and doing their best to graze over injuries that we did to ourselves when we were too young and they were too ignorant to know any better. But I can't be there to help them this time. I just can't. 

And I am fucking furious.