The Performance
*
Black dress, shoes, and hat.
Robert asked me what would make me feel better about the funeral. I suggested not going, but that was rejected.
The follow-up was to let me be dramatic.
He gave me a soft tap on the jaw and said, “Have fun, kid.”
I took that as permission to be weird.
The joy of self-discovery is the quiet elation of being yourself, especially when no one asks. I wasn’t going to this funeral to impress my family or avoid embarrassing my mother. I was going because you’re required to be seen.
My dad also allowed me to create the playlist, design the slideshow, and write the eulogy. I am a simple woman who thrives on production value.
Even so, I blinked at my reflection, stunned.
In the mirror stood a woman in a 1940s-style black dress, sheer stockings, and kitten heels. A cap with a feathered black veil completed the look.
I looked awesome.
Completely overdressed, definitely theatrical, and sure to earn at least three audible sighs—but it was my mental health on the line. Also, I’d always wanted an excuse to wear this hat.
More importantly, though, this was a performance for just me. I wasn’t the Perfect Brianna, Suburban Brianna, Manic-Pixie Bree—this was core me, and I felt honored that I finally had the strength to be that.
Robert looked me up and down as I exited the bedroom, placing an earring in my ear.
“I know this is a rough day, but…”
I snorted. “Yes, we will have sex in this outfit.”
He shook his head and laughed. “I’m not trying to push.”
I started to put the other earring in. “You’re not. Plus, you are in a tailored suit. You know what that does to me.”
He did look fantastic. Nearly two months in Wyoming had made him leaner, his muscles more defined, and his body returned to the way it was when I met him. This allowed me to enjoy the experience rather than focus on the emotions gnawing in my mind.
Nothing that could happen today would be worse than the scenarios running through my mind.
When we arrived at the church, I saw my miscellaneous relatives flooding out of their cars. It looked like a collection of ghouls, dressed head to toe in black, walking in a procession inside. It made the blue skies and summer breeze comical. I sat like a statue in the passenger seat, waiting.
“We can stay here for a while.”
I jumped and turned to Robert. I sighed and patted his hand. “I appreciate it.”
He reached for my hand, then said softly, “Of course.”
I smiled but then noticed him motioning with his head behind us. I frowned, turned, and then saw a car with the plate OFC 841.
“Today?”
Robert laughed. “You called one on our way to my grandpa’s funeral. I can get one today.”
I snorted and sank into the front seat. “Fair.”
We stayed silent for a moment before he said softly, “What time are the movers arriving tomorrow?”
“Nine a.m., then I have my final appointment with Paige that afternoon.”
He nodded. “Then dinner with William.”
“Ugh. Seriously?”
He shrugged. “He said he wanted to send me off and offered to drive us to the airport. That meant dinner.”
I crossed my arms. “Does your dad expect us to stay at their house tomorrow night?”
His brows rose to his hairline. “I hope not. My allergies can’t handle the dogs.”
I sighed, locking eyes with my aunt Shirley, seeing her cover her mouth as if I’d come to my mother’s funeral nude. I rolled my eyes. “She’s ancient. How can she be surprised by a woman in a hat?”
“Maybe because you’re wearing it inside the car?”
I shrugged. “I thought women could but men couldn’t?”
Robert snorted. “Are there actual rules for this?”
I opened the car door. “We can ask one of them. I’m certain they carry a niceties book with them everywhere.”
I started to press down my skirt as Robert exited the car. A moment later, he was in front of me, and I nearly started to cry again.
Grief is a strange thing.
Someone could die in front of you, and the experience would be radically different than simply receiving a phone call that someone died. It’s the levels of shock, emotional depth, and connection.
Then, individuals you would never cry for lead to violent waterworks the moment someone offers you a shoulder to cry on.
At this moment, my face was red, and I was restraining myself to avoid ruining my makeup; I was just thankful my mother was in an urn and not in a coffin.
Ashes allow me to detach, or at least I thought they would.
As we entered the church, my father had filled the place with photos of my mother. A projector was pulled down for the photo slideshow he had put together for me, and thousands of daisies were positioned around the aisles in vases.
My father never seemed romantic with my mother. He’d once referred to her as “Not very smart, but pretty.” However, seeing what he had done as a testament to her life came from love, not simply respect.
This didn’t feel normal.
Then, as my stomach churned, my immediate family surrounded me, and the uncomfortability only increased.
The nieces and nephews meandered toward me, and Marisela rushed over, playing with a necklace. I felt relieved to talk to the kids instead of the adults. Children would have fun conversations, while adults would have sadness and death on a loop.
I raised a brow and smiled, motioning to the necklace. “That’s new!”
She held it up, grinning from ear to ear. “It is. It has Grandma’s ashes in it.”
What the holy hell.
I turned my head and took in the scene. I studied my family and saw that most women had necklaces similar to this one—either a sealed locket with ashes inside or images of my mother’s thumbprint.
A thumbprint that someone at the morgue took to make money. Because taking a corpse’s hand and pressing it into clay to make a jewelry mold was apparently normal these days. Even death needed a dose of capitalism.
My uncomfortability was not Marisela’s fault. It wasn’t any of their fault.
I just gave a strained smile and excused myself, mumbling about setting up the slideshow.
I retreated into the church’s media room to set up the ambiance and collect myself.
Robert followed close behind me.
“Did they forget to offer you one?”
I scoffed. “No, I saw the catalog with my dad and said no.”
“I get that.”
I shook my head, placing the flash drive into the computer. “It’s just ghoulish. I can’t imagine carrying her ashes around. It’s like ‘Tell-Tale Heart,’ with the pounding instead in my chest.”
Robert chuckled. “Humans have been making art from our dead family memories forever. The Romans made death masks.”
I rolled my eyes. “Cool.”
He walked closer and hugged my waist from behind, adding, “I thought you said no to it because you couldn’t verify it’s her ashes in there.”
I snorted. “You think it’s a scam?”
He laughed. “I 100 percent think it is. Charge $150 for a silver locket, put concrete dust in there, or nothing. Then seal it for its ‘Protection.’ Bam, dead mom jewelry.”
I burst out laughing, hit play on the slideshow, and turned to face him. I looked up at his deep brown eyes, with flecks of green in them, admiring the safety behind them.
Robert was my family, my home, the single stable factor in my life. As I laid my head on his shoulder, I knew we were making the right choice to leave. He rested his head on mine, and we silently stood there momentarily. “Für Elise” played softly from the other room.
“I couldn’t imagine doing this with anyone else,” I murmured.
He kissed the top of my head, then mumbled into my hair, “I mean, you could have brought a different date to your mother’s funeral.”
I snorted again and shook my head.
We left the media room, hand in hand.
I was able to make it through the service, my dad’s crass jokes, my siblings’ arguments, the bad church meal, and the honorary post-funeral drink session.When we finally went home and slept in our bed for the last time in the United States, I knew my life had changed entirely.
I knew who I was and who I wanted to be. I was Brianna, who sometimes went by Bree. I was an artist, a daughter, a friend, a wife, and an enthusiastic person.
I had control of my life, even if that meant walking into chaos.
I turned to hear Robert snore quietly as I smiled. I was grateful to have someone so steady by my side.