What Hurts the Most

1. I Don’t Want a Funeral

Chapter 1

I Don’t Want a Funeral

W hen I die, I don’t want a funeral. I don’t want a service with less than ten occupied chairs and music no one likes. I don’t want a hired preacher reciting the lies from my eulogy that my siblings pulled out of their asses. I don’t want anyone standing over my body with dry eyes, struggling to find the words to describe the full life I lived, when all there is to say is, “She was quiet.”

This epiphany comes to me from the second pew of the funeral home that overflows with people saying goodbye to my grandma while the preacher talks about the amazing woman she was.

The life Grandma lived on the farm with Grandpa was anything but simple. She traveled, taught dance lessons, cussed out people who did her wrong, and gave as much as she could. And when she took over her father’s diner, everyone in town came to Lorraine’s, looking for more than just food and hot beverages—her infectious smiles and healing hugs could lift the world off your shoulders.

The love she extended to even the strangest of strangers made her everyone’s grandma. But she was more than just a grandma, she was my role model and tried so hard to be my anchor in this vortex of a family. Among all the criticisms and comparisons to which I never measured up, she encouraged me never to bow, never to let the words pierce my armor. But I let her down.

What hurts the most about her passing is that her last words to me were, “I’m so proud of you, Cori.” Because what is there to be proud of?

So, no. I don’t think I’d like a funeral.

It’s too much to ask of my siblings to waste an hour shedding a few tears summoned forth from obligation. It’s too much to ask of them to spend money no one has on a burial site no one will visit. It’s too much to ask of a preacher to passionately deliver the eulogy of someone when there’s not much to say.

Instead, I want one of my family members, whoever draws the short straw, to take my ashes somewhere, anywhere, and throw me up into the air or dump me off a cliff, allowing the wind to do the rest. Maybe it will scatter each piece of ash somewhere beautiful. Maybe it will rain, dissolving me into nothing. Whatever nature chooses, after it’s all over, it will be as if I was never here at all.

* * *

I spend most of the funeral praying for the end, but when the end finally arrives, I can’t leave. I can’t abandon her here, out in the open.

“Cori, let’s go. They won’t begin until we leave.” Mom smiles and waves at the gravediggers standing underneath a tree. But if we don’t supervise the burial, how can we be sure she’s truly beneath her headstone when we come to visit? How can we be sure they don’t take her body back inside, steal her gold wedding band, and sell her body parts?

“Can we at least watch from the car?”

“Fine.”

Giving Grandma’s dark wood casket one final touch goodbye, we turn toward Mom’s SUV. But as my gaze locks with that of two ice-blue eyes, my feet halt in place.

He stands with his hands in his pockets about fifty feet away, leaning against a shiny, black car. Sunlight glints off a silver watch on his wrist.

Somehow oblivious to his demanding presence, Mom sighs when I stop walking. “What now?” But I can’t mutter a single word in response because his feet begin moving in our direction.

As he nears, Mom’s head snaps to the approaching danger, studying his face until recognition hits. “Samuel!” She embraces him tightly. “Look at you all grown up.” Holding him at arm’s length, she takes in his broad shoulders, gray suit jacket that strains to hold in his biceps, and the light stubble that grows along his jaw.

“I’m sorry about your mother-in-law, Mrs. Anderson,” he says, sympathy painting his face.

“Oh, call me Sarah, like you used to, please. I’m so glad you came.” She rubs his arms up and down. “It’s so good to see you after all these years. How are you?”

Sam was my best friend growing up. We were attached at the hip from first through eighth grade, only ever at our own homes when the other was right beside us. He was also my first crush, the boy who ruined all other boys that came after.

And the only person in the world Grandma didn’t like.

“That boy is too big for his britches,” she said . “Nothing ever satisfies him.” I never knew what she meant by that.

I’m brought back to myself when Sam opens his arms to me for an awkward, stiff hug, probably my millionth of the day.

“I’m sorry about your grandma. I know how close you were.”

“Thanks.” Words are hard for me, especially during conversations with strangers. Or people who have become strangers. I could make mindless chatter and repeat all the questions that Mom had probably just asked him, like how he’s doing, or what he’s been up to. Instead, I stand there, my gaze bouncing from the funeral home to the two cars still in the parking lot, to the gravediggers still waiting for us to leave so they can bring the dirt around from wherever they keep it. Anywhere except the eyes that watch me with pity.

I’d love more than anything to fall back into our easy camaraderie, the way we could make each other laugh in any situation, the way the air seemed lighter whenever he was near. But I doubt I’ll ever see him again after today, and I’d prefer not to waste my time.

I’d prefer not to kick at the pile where my feelings are neatly collected, sending them flying all over the place.

“Um- would it be okay if I stopped by the house? My mother gave me some food to bring over.”

“That was thoughtful. And you’re always welcome. You can eat with us and we’ll catch up,” Mom answers. Mom’s car is already loaded down with food from friends and neighbors, and even more waits at Mom and Dad’s house to be eaten by my family of eight. And Sam, I guess.

After giving me one more tight-lipped glance, he thanks her and turns for his car, while Mom pulls me toward hers. Despite her promises of watching over Grandma, she tells Dad to drive and we head towards my childhood home.

“That was a great turnout. The service was beautiful,” Mom says. She wipes her nose with the thin shreds of a tissue.

“It really was.” My fraternal twin, Sage, lays a comforting hand on Mom’s shoulder from where she sits beside me in the middle row. In the third row are my two younger brothers, Spencer and Solomon, each lost either to a phone or game device, and my older sister rides behind us with her husband.

“So, did Grandma have money?”

“Sage!” Dad warns.

“What? I’m just asking, jeez.” Crossing her arms, she turns to look out the window.

“She and your grandfather were farmers and didn’t make much,” Mom starts. “They invested most of their life savings into the diner to update things when it was passed down, and whatever they did leave behind is not going to you .”

“Fine. I’ll just get it when you die.”

In answer, Mom rolls her eyes. Exasperation is a feeling we’ve all grown accustomed to, thanks to Sage.

Mom turns to me, changing the subject. “That was a nice surprise, wasn’t it, Cori? To see Sam.”

“Sam Bennett? Is that who that was? Damn. He grew up.” Sage bounces her eyebrows.

“It was definitely a surprise,” I answer. “How did he even know about the funeral?”

“Well, I posted the details on social media, his mother probably saw it and relayed the news,” Mom says.

“I wish he would have come to say hello before I got in the car,” Dad says, and Mom pats his arm.

“He’s coming to the house, don’t worry.”

Except I would argue Sam coming over is definitely worth worrying about. Worrying is the only thing I’ve ever been good at.

My older sister, Stephanie, has Grandma’s homemaking abilities and can make a delicious meal out of the barest of ingredients. Sage and Spencer both inherited her athleticism, and her confident and carefree personality; the ability to not let anything crack her nonchalance. And Solomon was blessed with her brains.

I got her love of coffee and reading.

Not bad things to have shared with Grandma. My favorite memories include book sharing and buddy reading with her, and sending her letters with summaries of my latest reads. The only time book reports were fun. But she had so many good qualities, it’d be nice to have gotten something I could use to help make up for my overthinking and sensitive nature.

“Hey, can I have one of these cookies?” Spencer asks from the backseat, holding a plastic bag stuffed full of what appears to be oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. As a junior in high school and outfielder for the baseball team, food isn’t safe around him.

Mom turns around in her seat to ensure he captures the seriousness in her eyes. “You can have one.” Holding up her finger, she repeats, “One.”

I reach my hand back for a cookie but receive a high five instead. Sage turns around in her seat to threaten Spencer, and because her threats are never empty, he throws the bag at her in surrender.

“Oh my God.” She holds the bag out for me after taking a bite. “These are fucking heaven.”

“Language,” Dad warns again.

“She’s right,” I agree as Sage takes the bag back for another. “Guard those from Spencer with your life.”

“If they get seconds, I get seconds,” Spencer calls from the back.

“Cori, I thought you were watching your weight?” Mom asks.

“No, Mom. You’re watching my weight. I don’t care about my weight. Besides,” I take a bite and reply, “I’m grieving.”

“Well, your bereavement leave ends today, you’re both back to work tomorrow,” Dad says to Sage and me. We’re servers at Grandma’s diner. It’s the only restaurant for miles besides a rundown fast-food chain, and it serves everything from eggs to burgers to lasagna. The diner now is rundown as well because, instead of taking over when he should have, Dad hired a manager, Mike, to do it instead. When Grandma ran it, the food was delicious. However, in trying to keep costs low, Mike changed suppliers and hired cooks with no experience.

I graduated with my associate's degree in business last semester, a two-year degree that took me four years to complete because of a lack of funds, but I’ve had no luck finding a different job. No one wants an associate’s degree, they want a bachelor's. And they want experience to go along with that bachelor’s degree, but they want to pay as little as possible. So, for the time being, I’m stuck working as a server—an introvert’s personal hell. At least it’s Grandma’s diner, though. Or, used to be.

Admittedly, if Dad allowed me a little more control, I’d love it. Grandma used to tell me it would be mine one day because I was the only child out of my siblings who had any interest in brainstorming ideas for improvement with her: new dishes to try, seasonal items, possible promotions. But I don’t see Dad allowing that to happen—he’s never been thrilled with the idea of me working at the diner.

“Have you had any more interviews, Cori?” Dad asks. Case in point.

“No, I haven’t. I was thinking though…” I summon the courage from deep down inside of me to say what I want to say. Every other time I’ve stepped up to the door of the plane, I sat back down. But the time to jump has come.

“Now that the diner will officially be yours… What if I took a more active role? Like, an assistant manager? I could be there when Mike can’t be, and I can start learning from him. And I have tons of ideas-”

“Cori, you know nothing about running a restaurant.”

“Yeah… that’s why I said I could learn .”

Dad actually laughs. “There’s a lot more to it than you think. Just focus on finding a big girl job for now. You know I waited tables at that diner when I was in high school, but the minute I turned eighteen I found a job actually worth my time. If you just try harder, I know you can too.”

“You just need to have more confidence in yourself, honey,” Mom states.

Oh, confidence! Why didn’t I think of that?

“And ambition.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I answer dryly, yanking the bag of cookies from Sage and wondering why she never receives this lecture.

“I’m just saying. You need to have more drive and pride in yourself. You’re twenty-two and not getting any younger. It’s time you move up in the world. Time to…” Dad drones on and on, but I stop listening because it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. This is the kind of stuff Grandma used to tell me to ignore: Mom’s comments about my looks and my Dad’s disappointment in my lack of accomplishments.

The only problem is, I agree with them.