Chapter 24
Penelope
The sun hangs high, slicing through the stained glass windows in sharp beams, spilling colors across the stone floor. Inside, the stillness is heavy, pressing against my ribs like a physical weight. I pass my hands over the waist of my jacket as if I can smooth the unease beneath it, then return to my place at the entrance.
I’m here to greet the mourners…what few of them there are. To explain: “There’s no large family contingent…”, “…no formal seating arrangement”, to “…p lease take the front pews” .
And a silent request I try to press into every consoling hug, every gentle handshake: Help me make it look like a decent small-town funeral, even if she mostly kept to herself. Even if her life barely left a ripple.
Everything is ready. Mom is in there. Inside the church. Inside the antique-white coffin with the padded lavender interior, she requested. Inside the blue dress, the one she splurged on to look elegant at a wedding. A design she apparently perceived as so perfectly timeless it could hold up through all eternity.
When I viewed her body, so carefully made up and embalmed to conceal the inconceivable impact of metal, asphalt, and the solid, immovable tree that ended her life, it was like slipping through the seams of reality. Like someone had peeled back the edges of the world to reveal the stage props beneath.
Because it wasn’t my mother anymore. The longer I stared, the more she looked like an empty shell. A stand-in. A trick of lighting and makeup meant to mimic someone I once knew.
But I couldn’t mistake the tiny mole by her eye. The distinctive cleft in her chin. The faint creases and lines she never got to age into fully. And her hair, though streaked with gray, in the same soft waves. Except the part was wrong. I had to fix it, threading my fingers through the strands and finally requesting a brush from the funeral attendant to get it just right.
Maybe she was just a shell, her spirit long gone. But still, I had to make sure she looked like herself. Even though the coffin would be closed, it was the last small dignity I could give her.
I kissed her cool, stiff cheek. Held her hands, heavy with death. The hands that raised me. That fed and clothed me. Hands that were always moving, always busy with some quiet, unseen task. A mother’s hands. Now, at rest. Nothing more left to do.
And now I wait…wait for this day to be over.
I unbutton my jacket against the fragrant summer air. Tug at my bracelet for the hundredth time since my father showed up on the doorstep spouting all his lame excuses. Huh. Just when I thought I might skip my next therapy session, he opened up a fast track to my pit of rage.
But stop. What have I learned? Don’t let outside forces determine your emotions.
Yeah right.
But I try. Try to relax into my surroundings. To be present. To control my breath.
A bee drifts past, and I track its looping path, wondering at the world it sees—prisms of color shimmering in the churchyard garden, a spectrum invisible to me. And I think of how we reject color in the face of death. How black represents the absence of color, like the absence of the person taken away from us.
Then, Misha and Steven arrive. And strangely, that’s what prompts my tears. Just the pure and generous kindness of it. They never even met my mom, but they came anyway. For me .
Did they somehow sense how desperately I need these seats filled? That if enough warm bodies gather, if enough voices murmur her name, it might stitch together a meaning, a legacy, something lasting in the wake of Mom’s absence?
They join the core group I knew I could count on: Susan and Keith, Nora and Harvey, Brady, Vivian. And, of course, Tuck. Keeping his distance, giving me space, but somehow managing to press a tissue into my hand before I even register the tears brimming.
Then, Violet arrives. And I begin to feel so grateful for…these small mercies. That people I’ve only just met would take the time to show up. To offer such kindness. Such decency.
The carload of Safe Haven staff I was expecting— but still crossing my fingers would actually come— pulls in next. Then John and his wife, Sheila. I allow a sigh of relief to escape. This I can handle. This will at least fill the front pews.
But then more cars roll in, one after another, and I start to wonder if we’ve been double-booked. A wedding, maybe? Some other service on the church grounds?
But no.
The women stepping out of a sleek silver SUV turn out to be Beatrice Kennedy, and the other contributors to the stack of frozen meals still filling Mom’s freezer. As I thank them and the other arrivals, I start to recognize school friends. Well, classmates—I never knew half these people as actual friends. And yet—they’re here.
Blue Mountain High girls, now grown women, some with more generous figures, some with questionable taste in sequinned black lace and heavy statement jewelry. One with so much smoky eye and coiffed hair that I get serious Soprano vibes.
But no matter— they came . Some with wedding bands on their fingers. Some with babies and toddlers in tow. Some who barely spoke to me back then. Some who did.
I’m so stunned, so blindsided by their presence, I’m almost grateful it’s a funeral and I don’t have to find the words.
Because what could I even say?
Even the speech I’ve tried to draft over and over is patchy and threadbare. I thought maybe I could wing it—find some nugget of inspiration to cover up the fact that my knowledge of my mother is so horribly sparse.
Her quiet life was only broken up by her one passion project, Safe Haven. A place where she did connect with people. And with people who needed support that she was in a position to give. Because she knew all the challenges of an unexpected pregnancy…of a dysfunctional relationship that requires an escape plan.
As the service gets underway, I mentally say a private prayer of thanks that the church is filled. Not to capacity, sure. But amazingly, with enough people to be considered a crowd.
And then I see him…arriving late, a tip of his head as he takes an aisle seat next to a blonde woman in a big hat and chunky glasses. My father came after all. Unbelievable. Nothing in more than a decade, then twice in one day.
I turn back to the coffin. My mother. Center stage in her death, holding the room’s attention like she rarely did in life.
We play the video tribute centered on Safe Haven, cut with snippets of my mother and the contributions she made. Writing grant proposals, fundraising, running workshops for young mothers.
Then I get up to speak…and my throat constricts.
I look to Tuck, needing something. Reassurance. Inspiration. Grounding.
He winks.
Winks ! At a funeral, he winks at me like that.
But it helps. Something lightens inside me.
Then I begin.
I open with the confession: “I didn’t really know my mother. Not beyond the facts. She did everything she was supposed to. She cooked, cleaned, worked, raised me. Made sure I studied. Made sure I had ambitions. That I could support myself.”
My gaze drifts upward, past the casket, to the rafters of the old church.
“She fulfilled her role. But it cost her. She gave up her own ambitions—college, travel—because every resource she had, she poured into me. And then she died. At fifty-five years old. Gone before we ever had the conversations I thought we’d get around to someday.
“The ones about what she learned in the hard times. About being young, scared, pregnant, with no stable job or home. What it cost her to come back to Blue Mountain Lake. To ask for acceptance from her mother, from God, from the people who whispered about the Homecoming Queen turned unmarried teen mom.”
I glance at her coffin and take a breath.
“I thought I lost my chance to really know her. To understand what mattered to her beyond gardening and travel shows.”
I smile at the group representing Safe Haven, many dabbing their eyes.
“But then I met a group of women who could answer those questions. Women my mother quietly helped. Young mothers in need, scared and overwhelmed, just like she once was. Women who have been generous enough to come here today, to honor her life.
“And through them, I’ve come to know the version of my mother I never got to see. The one who sat in cramped apartments, holding someone’s baby so they could rest. Who dropped off bags of groceries without waiting for a thank you . Who shared advice, encouragement, and wisdom. Pieces of herself she never shared with me. They’ve filled in the blanks. Given me the gift of seeing her in full. Not just as my mother, but as an inspirational, dedicated, caring woman. And for that, I’m grateful.”
I step down. Take my seat. Tell myself it was fine for a speech mostly constructed on the fly.
I did my best, Mom.
Soon, ‘Amazing Grace’ is piped through the speakers, and the pallbearers step forward. The ones I went off script to Mom’s notes to arrange. Instead of the funeral home staff, John, Keith, Harvey, Brady, Steven, and Tuck step forward.
On the way out, as I trail the coffin, I meet my father’s eyes. We share a brief acknowledgement before I quickly move on.
Because today is not about him. It is something that he came. But not enough to erase all the years of neglect and absence.
Then to the graveyard. And with the sun casting our shadows long—“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust”—she’s lowered into the earth. Buried beside her parents. My grandparents. The three of them together again.
Did they come and welcome her when she passed? Did they soften the shock of her transition into the afterlife? Are they all humming around as free spirits in the atmosphere?
Is she still with me at all ?
Maybe the answer is at the bottom of the whiskey bottle Keith cracks open at the wake. Maybe it’s in the seams of the house—the stagnant air finally disrupted by bodies filling the space, people crossing a threshold that, for decades, welcomed no one new.
Or maybe it’s in the endless kindness milling around me on this awful day.
Like Vivian’s thoughtfulness—sending Brady back from their restaurant, laden with dips and mini-sliders for the unexpected excess of mourners. While Vivian stayed behind, covering service without hesitation, insisting Brady should be here.
This is what love looks like. Not words, not promises. Just showing up .
In the kitchen, people are filling cups, passing plates, tending to the tasks that soften the edges of grief with routine. Someone slices tarts into neat triangles, arranging them on a serving platter. Another hands out deviled egg sandwiches to restless children. The coffee pot gurgles, never quite keeping up with the demand, as hands reach for sugar, for cream…or, like me, something harder.
And the surreal sight of my father scouting the periphery, empty coffee cup still in hand. Uncomfortable, but here. An effort, however small.
There’s always someone with me. Keith splashing whiskey into my glass, or Nora, insisting I eat something. Tuck mingling politely, thanking people I’ve missed…covering my gaps.
Conversations rise and fall, punctuated by the occasional, muffled laugh—soft, almost guilty, but human. The sounds of mourning and memory, of people stepping in where they can.
It’s a day where I’m lost in a life I thought I’d left behind. Voices from my past surround me. The community of Blue Mountain Lake stepping up in a way I never expected for an eternal outsider like me. Someone who grew up here but somehow inherited my mother’s wariness. Her quiet shame.
As the crowd thins, I say another round of goodbyes. My father squeezes my arm as he, too, makes his leave. And I’m grateful he chooses silence over useless excuses and platitudes.
I head back down the hallway and bump into the woman I never placed before. The woman in the hat and oversized glasses, lingering at the edges of the funeral crowd. But with everything else, the burial, the wake, the sheer weight of today, I hadn’t given her much thought.
Until now.
She moves toward me with purpose, grabbing my hand and steering me down the hall. Before I can protest, she pushes open a bedroom door and pulls me inside, shutting it firmly behind us.
“Sorry.” She exhales, voice low. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to talk, but I can’t keep up the act any longer.”
Before I can respond, she yanks off the hat and glasses…followed by the short blonde wig.
I stare.
“Holy shit. Mia !” My eyes flick over her, the unmistakable movie star angles of her face, the famous, striking eyes.
A sharp twist of guilt knots my stomach. The dress. The deadlines. The work I abandoned.
I sink onto the bed. “Is this about the wedding dress?”
She blinks in surprise. “What? No. Of course not. I came for the funeral, Penelope. Unfortunately, Mason’s stuck overseas—his jet couldn’t take off because of some dust storm. I told him I’d come instead.”
She squeezes my hand. “I’m so sorry about your mom. I wanted to be here.”
“You came all the way from LA just for the funeral?”
Mia nods, like it’s obvious. “It’s what friends do, Penelope.”
I give a weak smile back, but something shifts. A sharp reminder. A wake-up call.
The bubble I’ve been living in here, this strange limbo of grief and nostalgia, fractures. Whatever ties I’ve felt pulling me back to Blue Mountain Lake suddenly feel less solid. More like smoke, already drifting away. I can’t keep real life on hold much longer.
And when we return to the living room, I seek out Tuck.
Immediately, his eyes find mine, checking in, searching, waiting.
And just like that, the question I’ve been avoiding crashes in.
What happens to us when we leave?