20. June
JUNE
The funeral is, all things considered, perfect.
If there is such a thing as a perfect way to say goodbye to your mother.
I’m not sure there’s anything about grief that can ever really make sense or line up neatly.
I’m not sure it should even be considered perfect if the sun is shining and the skies are clear.
I’d always thought it was supposed to rain at funerals.
It had at Dad’s.
It’s a strange thing, being orphaned at thirty-six. It doesn’t really feel like I’m eligible for the title at all. And yet it’s an objective truth. People are tactful enough not to mention it.
There are so many people. So many more than I expected.
People from Mom’s old sailing club, old neighbors and friends, regulars at the Shack who still remember when she and Dad ran the place.
There are familiar faces and kind strangers, and everyone has a story; everyone keeps saying variations of the same thing.
“She was so kind. Such a joy. Loved so fiercely.”
All of it is true, yet hearing it doesn’t get any easier.
It’s been almost two weeks since she passed, and easier isn’t a word any of us even dare to cling to.
That first night, we’d all ended up at my house and crashed wherever we could.
Being close to each other felt right. Letting any of my siblings, especially Meredith, out of my sight felt unbearable.
That dependency faded slowly, but by then we had too many other things to worry about than our sleeping arrangements.
Sophie and Trent only went home a couple of days ago.
Meredith is currently wearing one of my black dresses, still unable to bring herself to return to the beach house.
She and Richard have been busy arranging today’s events in more neutral locations across town, keeping them both busy, at the very least.
Richard has been absent for the most part. There’s a part of me that feels guilty about leaving him alone in his grief; it’s not what Mom would’ve wanted. But then, I can’t exactly imagine him wanting to crash on my couch, either.
Regardless, we sit at the front of the ceremony as a family.
For maybe the first time in years, we actually look like one.
Meredith sits next to Richard, their shoulders nearly brushing.
Sophie sits next to her, helping me sandwich Trent between us.
Eddie sits behind Meredith, a gentle hand occasionally resting on her shoulder, or helping Louisa support Roland next to him.
Richard gets up to speak first.
And despite all of my reservations about the guy, it feels right that he does.
He clears his throat, and his voice is low and sure despite the intimidatingly large crowd. “I met Eleanor at the worst time in her life. Which, ironically, is how I knew immediately that she was the best thing that would ever happen in mine.”
There’s a soft ripple of breath through the mourners. I stare at him. Meredith stares at him. Trent presses closer to me.
“She had already weathered a storm I could barely fathom. She’d lost a husband she loved deeply.
She was left with three daughters who were fiercely independent, deeply intelligent, and loyal to each other and to the concept of family.
And then I showed up. Too soon, I think we can all agree, with the benefit of hindsight. ”
He glances at us and, for the first time that I ever remember him doing so, cracks a genuine smile in our direction.
I have to look over my shoulder at Eddie to confirm that I hadn’t hallucinated that.
“She never asked for perfection from me. Just honesty. Loyalty. Patience. And in return, she gave me a life I never imagined I’d live.
She loved fiercely. She forgave quickly.
She loved with her whole self. I didn’t always do it right.
I rarely did it perfectly. But she… She had this way of making you feel like trying was enough. ”
His voice finally cracks.
“When the illness came, she did what she always did with challenges. She met it head-on. With stubborn grace. With humor.” He breathes. “I would do it all again. Every good day. Every terrible one. Because loving her was the greatest privilege of my life.”
He bends his head for a moment.
“I will miss you, darling girl,” he finishes quietly. “Every day.”
The applause, though subdued, is loud on account of its sheer mass. It’s helpful, almost, in the way white noise is useful when trying to clear your mind.
When the kindest words your stepfather has ever said to you are spoken over your mother’s casket, there is, quite frankly, not enough therapy in the world to help you deal with that in the moment. Better to breathe now and dwell later.
Preferably with a glass of wine.
Though Louisa’s eyes on the back of my head make me wonder if just my sister’s company and shared dumbfoundedness will do.
There’s a pause in the proceedings as Richard makes his way back to his seat. We all know what’s coming next; it’s written out in the service sheet she had printed out.
But Meredith simply stares at the ground, as if frozen in place.
I reach over to her, and four hands lie on her at once.
She stands a moment later. Despite her initial freeze, her movements are unwavering, and she adjusts the microphone slightly before stepping forward herself.
And I am suddenly so grateful for her I could choke.
Because I can’t do this. There is no universe where I could stand at a podium and try to articulate Eleanor Holloway to the people who loved her.
Meredith, though, had volunteered. Meredith understood what was needed and rose to the challenge.
And for once, I don’t resent her for being able to lead, for being stronger than I am.
“Thank you all so much for coming,” she starts. “Today, I stand before you on behalf of my sisters to honor the life of our dear mother.”
Her voice doesn’t shake, but her face has turned carefully blank. A part of herself closes to the grief that I know echoes through her heart so that she can do this, representing us all to the best of her ability.
“She’s such a lawyer,” Trent whispers in my ear. It’s a fond sort of insult, one that almost makes me cry as I laugh.
“I’m speaking on behalf of my sisters,” Meredith repeats, and there’s the slightest hint of a smile. “If we’d all tried to talk at once, we would’ve ended up in a fight so loud that half the island would know about it by morning.”
Soft laughter ripples through the crowd. Even Richard lets out a breath that sounds vaguely amused.
“Our mother was many things,” she continues. “Warm. Funny. Occasionally terrifying, but only when she needed to be. Stunningly beautiful. Deeply comforting. Absolutely abysmal with technology. An extremely talented sailor and baker. Gullible and proud.”
More laughter.
“She created a childhood for us filled with joy and laughter, putting us first in every conceivable way. Even amid financial struggles, deep betrayal, and the death of our father…Mom never let her light go out. She always had a smile for you, always a kind word. There was no storm she wouldn’t endure for us, even if we would never truly appreciate her sacrifices until much later. ”
My throat tightens as she looks into the crowd.
“She was also funny.” Her voice warms as she finally glances back down at the podium.
“Not always intentionally, which might’ve been the best part.
She once grounded me and then un-grounded me fifteen minutes later because she forgot and asked if I wanted to go shopping with her.
It took her several months to realize we—my sisters and I—were stealing her cranberry pies from the refrigerator at the Shack, and it wasn’t the live lobsters we kept in the tank next to it. ”
Another tear slips free as my lips curl at the memory.
“But beneath every hilarious moment was this huge heart.” Her voice gentles.
“She wasn’t perfect. None of us are. But she loved with her whole self.
Stubborn and unconditional. Unconcerned with convention or what is expected, she would love and love and love, even if you never felt you deserved it.
The kind of love that lets you make mistakes and still come home.
And even near the end, when things got harder, and the world got confusing, and pieces of reality slipped away… her love didn’t.”
She steadies herself just enough to breathe through the emotion.
“It’s through her example that she gave us everything we needed to survive in a world without her…
a day none of us could’ve ever truly been prepared for.
But now we have to use it. We have to do the things she taught us.
We have to be brave. And stubborn. And loving, even when it hurts.
Especially when it hurts.” Her voice dips into tenderness.
“We love you, Mom. Thank you for every minute. We’ll try to make you proud. ”
I try to focus on how silly all the sniffing around me sounds. Someone is blowing into a handkerchief with comical loudness, and I let the humor battle the grief that’s falling down my face.
Meredith quietly returns to us and is immediately enveloped again by loving touches. Every one of us is unspeakably grateful for her courage to stand up there at all.
The rest of the ceremony slips by me, and then suddenly, we’re standing, and the coffin is lowered, and my hand is somehow in Meredith’s, and it’s over, just like that.
It’s a strange sort of relief, really. It gives me enough breathing room to return to myself and begin to register the faces who come by to offer their sympathies.
There’s a migration to the wake. Hosted by the sailing club—a hall not quite as grand as Westmoor, but with a bar willing to accommodate us all. We squeeze in and slowly allow ourselves to be separated in the crowd.