We bury Emily on Wednesday.
It's the third day of Hanukkah, five days before Christmas. It snowed yesterday and today the snow has turned to slush under our feet and we step cautiously on the steps outside the funeral home. Mom is on my left, her arm wrapped around my waist, and Grace is on my right, our fingers entwined tight within each other. Up ahead, I see Julie being practically carried by Mr. Stern, the toes of her black heels dragging across the loose gravel. I'm pretty sure she's been sedated with the same tranquilizers as Mrs. Bernstein. The steps of the funeral home are crowded. All around me, I recognize faces from school. Kids from journalism, from statistics, all here for Emily. As for the Bernsteins, they're far ahead of everyone, gathered in a crush of black, following behind Emily, hoisted high on the shoulders of eight men in her plain pine box.
I don't know how this happened.
Everything has been a blur since Monday night. It's like I'm walking in a slow motion haze and yet everything is moving very, very fast. I don't know how this happened. I don't know what happened. No one has any answers and hardly anyone's asking any questions. And already Monday is fading from my mind in a disjointed jumble. I'm not really sure what happened and what didn't and what blanks I've filled in with my own bad judgment and misconceptions.
I remember the ambulance sirens and the Bernsteins in their Buick and turning to Mom, telling her to follow. I knew then, somehow. Rosedale Road was lit like the fourth of July with spinning lights from the ambulance, the police cars, and the fire truck. The sidewalks were lined with neighbors. When Mom and I parked across the street in front of the Marshalls' house, Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein were out of their car, running across their front yard, but Mr. and Mrs. Stern were waiting and stopped them, holding them back. The first person out of the house was a police officer carrying Julie, kicking and screaming. I couldn't hear what she was shrieking as she thrashed in his arms. She was wearing pink pajama pants with purple unicorns. I remember her feet were bare. Rachel came out behind them, looking dazed and confused. And even in the night bathed in the red glow of the siren lights, I could see the blood soaking her mauve scrubs.
Not everyone comes to the graveside. A long stream of cars are leaving through the cemetery gates. I watch them from my folding chair in the ninth row, until Mom taps my arm, letting me know the rabbi is about to begin the prayers. Beside me, Grace listens intently, but I allow my mind and eyes to wander. I can't bear staring frontward at that pine casket, knowing Emily's laying inside, wrapped in a plain white shroud, not moving, not breathing, not alive. It isn't right. It shouldn't have come to this.
I stare at my crimson-painted nails for awhile, half-listening to the rabbi, who is Emily's uncle, Mr. Bernstein's brother. Then I glance around the graveside at all Emily's mourners. The journalism class is sitting together, off to my right. Mallory Pike and Shawna Riverson are seated side by side. Shawna's twisting something in her lap. I hope they are both very sorry for how they treated Emily. Mary Anne's two rows in front of me, sobbing into the sleeve of her father's coat. Kristy Thomas is beside her, holding her hand. I bet Mary Anne regrets it now, forcing Emily to choose between us. Oh. I shouldn't think such selfish, petty thoughts. Not now when Emily's laid out before me, dead.
Dead.
Emily Bernstein is dead.
Emily, my friend. My wonderful, clever friend. And I did nothing to save her. Not really. Mom wraps her arms around me, holding me close, as I sob into my hands. Grace offers me a tissue, but I shake my head, and instead bury my face in a soft fold of Mom's turtleneck sweater. I stay like that for a long time, sobbing and hidden, Mom stroking my hair. Finally, Mom whispers in my ear and I lift my head. The Bernsteins stand in front of Emily's casket, looking down at her for the last time. Mrs. Bernstein reaches out and touches Emily, then draws her hand back, shaking. The lid closes and Emily's casket begins a slow descent into the ground.
Starting with Mr. Bernstein, the family takes turns shoveling dirt onto Emily's grave. All four of Emily's grandparents are still living. They're tiny and old and Mr. Bernstein has to help each of them hold the shovel. Mom says it's a terrible thing for parents to outlive their children. It must be even worse then for grandparents to outlive them too. After Emily's cousins, Barbara Hirsch's parents take their turn, followed by a string of people I've never seen before. Friends from the Bernstein's synagogue, I suppose. Everyone uses the backside of the shovel, but I don't know why. Then all five of the Sterns step forward. When it's Julie's turn, like Emily's grandparents, she can barely hold the shovel. She looks small and pathetic as she scoops up the dirt. She's at least five times paler than she was half an hour ago when she stood at the front of the funeral service, attempting to eulogize Emily. She got four sentences out, then collapsed onto her knees. Mr. Stern had to carry her off the stage. Julie slowly tips the dirt into Emily's grave, then drops the shovel at her feet, so Paul has to pick it up for his turn.
Mrs. Stern raises her arm and beckons toward me and Grace. She spoke to us last night about Mrs. Bernstein's request. Grace pops up quickly, like she's overeager, but I rise much more reluctantly. Grace takes my hand, as she leads me up the aisle. The ground is frozen and my black boots slide slightly. I worry momentarily that I'll slip and dive headfirst into Emily's grave. That is all anyone needs now. Paul hands the shovel to Grace, who thrusts the blade deep into the pile of dirt. She comes up with a large shovelful that she struggles to hold steady. She dumps it quickly over the casket, then presses the handle into my hands. I step forward, briefly considering if I should use the backside of the shovel, even though Grace and the Sterns did not. I gingerly lift a small mound of dirt, then hesitate over Emily's casket. It's mostly covered in dirt by now with only a few patches of pine peeking out. It doesn't seem right throwing dirt on top of Emily. I glance up and Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein are staring at me. Somehow, I think they know what I'm thinking. I tip the blade slightly and watch the dirt tumble down in a slow cascade.
I take Grace's hand and lead her back to our seats. I'm not sure if we're supposed to stand around or not. I guess I didn't listen very closely to Mrs. Stern's instructions. But I don't want to be up there, so near to Emily's grave. Grace and I watch the rest of the burial from our seats. Erica Blumberg is after me, then Lauren Hoffman, Katie Shea, Mari Drabek, Pete Black. All people who have known Emily all their lives. And now they're throwing dirt on her. I lean against Mom. I've known Emily such a short amount of time compared to everyone else. Less than half my life. And when I am old, years and years from now, that time will be a short blip in my life. Maybe I will hardly remember Emily. Maybe years will pass in which I don't think of her. A few years weighed against a lifetime. I barely knew Emily.
I cover my eyes again and cry.
"It seems wrong," I say, when Mom, Grace, and I are in the car, leaving Stamford. We're stuck in a minor traffic jam outside the cemetery because both Pete Black and Shawna Riverson are insisting on the right of way. "It's like the Bernsteins' couldn't bury her fast enough. It hasn't even been two days."
"Mrs. Wallingford told my mom that Mr. Bernstein wanted to have the funeral yesterday, but Mrs. Bernstein's parents couldn't get an earlier flight out of Atlanta," Grace replies. She rolls down her window and leans out. "Pete Black! Move your damn car! People are mourning here!"
"Yesterday!" I shriek. "A full twelve hours after Emily...after Emily...died?"
"Stacey..." Mom says. "Don't be hard on them. The Bernsteins are Jewish. Jeanie Stern told me that they couldn't wait more than two nights to bury Emily. It's disrespectful to leave someone unburied for too long. Don't judge the Bernsteins too harshly, Stace. This has been a horrible shock. I can't imagine..." Mom trails off and dabs her eye with a tissue. All the venom she had for Mrs. Bernstein has quickly disappeared.
I rest my head against the window. Pete, Erica, Lauren, and Mari are beside us in Pete's Saturn. Lauren's turned around in the front seat, showing something to Erica and Mari. They're laughing. Right now, I feel like I'll never laugh again. I close my eyes so I don't have to see them. "It still seems wrong, " I mumble. If Mom and Grace hear, they don't acknowledge it.
When we get back to Stoneybrook, there's already a long row of cars lined up on Rosedale Road. We have to park in front of the Sterns' house, then walk down to the Bernsteins'. The street is icy, so we step carefully. I pause in the driveway, gazing at Emily's house. All I see is Monday night, played back at low speed - the Bernsteins running, Julie screaming, Rachel covered in blood. And then Mrs. Bernstein braking free of Mrs. Stern's grip and tearing into the house. I should never have followed. I should have listened to the Sterns.
"Come on, Stacey," Mom says, touching my arm.
Inside the house, we toss our coats into the den. The house is too warm from all the bodies and the heater running on high. Mrs. Stern spots us and rushes over. She's shorter than the rest of the Sterns and shaped like a pear. She has Julie's pointy ears.
"Stacey, Grace," she says in a sort of breathless voice. She pats Grace's arm, then takes my hand and squeezes it. "Are you okay?" she asks, softly.
"I'm fine," I insist.
She smiles, vaguely. "Good. That's good," she says, then turns to Mom and lowers her voice. "Rachel and Julie are having such a terrible time. Julie especially. I had to drag her out of bed this morning, then I had to dress her. She's like a zombie. Marian and Bernie aren't much better and it will only get worse when everyone goes home and they're in this house alone. I don't know how Emily could do this. What was she thinking?"
Mom shakes her head. "I don't know, Jeanie. It's a tragedy. When we almost lost Stacey..."
I clutch Grace's hand. "Come on," I hiss and urge her away. We leave Mom and Mrs. Stern in the foyer, shaking their heads, and whispering. I am the only one who knows the whole truth, all of Emily's secrets, and it looks like I will keep them forever.
Grace and I push our way into the dining room, where a buffet has been set out on the table. Neither of us feel like eating, but Grace pours herself a cup of coffee while an old woman in a nubby knitted gray sweater serves me weak herbal tea. Cups held over our heads, we slip through the crowd and back out into the living room. It's still too warm, but much less crowded. I spot Rachel and Paul Stern across the room, standing with Erica and Pete. I almost miss Julie. She's on the floor between them, seated indian-style. She still looks small and pathetic and much too pale. She's wearing a short-sleeved black dress that's baggy in the bodice and hips. This is only the second time I've ever seen her in a dress. Her hair is pinned up in a coronet. It makes her look young, little girl-ish.
"Hello," I greet when Grace and I join them. "Hello everyone." I offer a small smile.
Grace skips the pleasantries. "Why are you sitting on the floor?" she asks Julie.
Julie mutters a reply.
"What?"
"She said that Mrs. Bernstein told her to sit on the floor," replies Rachel.
Grace glances around. "Why? Are there not enough chairs?"
"It demonstrates that I am at a low point in my life," Julie says in a low, scratchy voice, like her throat is very dry. "The Bernsteins are sitting on the floor, too."
Grace frowns. "Oh. Well, I like your hair, Julie."
Paul laughs, but is quickly silenced by a sharp look from Rachel.
"What's so funny?" I ask.
"Nothing," snaps Rachel.
Erica and Pete shrug. We stand awkwardly for awhile, not speaking, until Pete and Erica excuse themselves. Grace and I follow, leaving the Sterns alone in their corner. We pass a lot of familiar faces from school. It seems like most of the senior class has come, full of memories and regrets for Emily. Mary Anne and Katie Shea are huddled underneath the staircase, hugging and sobbing on each others' shoulders. Strangely enough, I don't feel the need to rush over and comfort Mary Anne. Instead, I tighten my grip on Grace's wrist and walk on.
Shawna Riverson corners us in the foyer. I'm searching for Mom, who has disappeared. Shawna's wringing a used tissue, her cheeks streaked with navy blue eyeliner. "Stacey!" she wails and throws her arms around my neck, nearly collapsing on top of me. "Stacey!" she wails again, releasing me.
"Shawna," I reply, politely. After three years working together on the SHS Gazette, Shawna and I have only ever bordered on friendly terms. I'm surprised to see her here, in Emily's house, ruining her make up. Shawna has never kept her dislike of Emily a secret.
"Oh, Stacey, I am wracked," she tells me. "I was so cruel to poor Emily. She wasn't such a bad editor. She only wanted us to put out the best possible paper. And I tormented her. I never should have called her Comrade Bernstein. Especially not after Mr. Arden ordered me to stop. But I just kept picking at her. And now she's gone. I'll never get to..." Shawna doesn't finish. She lowers her head and blows her nose.
"I'm sure Emily didn't take you seriously," I assure her, even though I know it's a lie.
Grace and I leave Shawna in the foyer. We go back into the living room. I feel so lost and aimless. I don't know where I should be. I don't know what I should do. Grace and I stop at the bottom of the staircase. We look up. It's dark at the top. Foreboding. I told Grace the truth, not the lie I was supposed to. Now Grace and I share two secrets. Two secrets to take to our graves.
"Let's go up," I say, setting a foot on the bottom stair.
Grace's jaw drops. "You want to go up there?" she asks, incredulous. She shakes her head. "No way. I don't want to ever go up there again. How can you?"
"I need to check something," I reply and start up the stairs.
Grace's footsteps fall behind me. I don't know what I'm expecting. At least now I'm prepared. I wasn't prepared Monday night. I reach the landing and flick on the hallway light. The scent of lemon cleanser permeates the air. I start down the hallway, approaching Emily's room. Aside from the lemon scent, everything looks normal. Perfectly in order. Except for the burgundy and forest green rug laying between Emily's room and the bathroom. It's never been there before. I step over it, like stepping on it might be bad luck. I know not to look under it.
Mary Anne and Katie Shea are sitting on Emily's bed. Two of the Bernsteins' cats are between them. The Bernsteins have five cats. They had seven, but two died last year.
"Hi Katie, hi Mary Anne," I say, quietly, stepping into the room.
Mary Anne averts her eyes and concentrates on petting the cat. The all white one. Sassafras, I think. I can never keep them straight.
"I'm sorry about Emily," Katie says.
"Thanks," I reply, then turn to Emily's desk. I slide open the top drawer. The Georgetown letter is gone. All that's there is a half-pack of cinnamon gum and a plastic tray filled with pencils, pens, and erasers. I knew. I knew it would be gone.
I hear the bed springs creak as Katie adjusts herself on the bed. "I heard you were there," she says to me, "when they found Emily."
I slide the drawer closed. "Julie and Rachel found her. I came later."
"I heard she was just laying out there in the hallway,"
"Yes, she was," I reply.
"Was she already...you know...when they found her?"
"No,"
Katie must open her mouth to ask another question because Grace snaps, "Why do you need to know this?"
I turn away from Emily's desk. Katie's mouth is, indeed, hanging open, poised to make another inquiry. She shuts it quickly.
"She doesn't mean anything by it," says Mary Anne, still watching the cat. "This has all happened so fast. Everyone's in a state of disbelief. We're just curious." Mary Anne sniffs, but doesn't cry.
Katie nods. "It all seems so pointless. Things like this aren't supposed to happen to our friends. Emily's parents are pharmacists! She should have known not to mix sleeping pills with her asthma medication!"
Grace and I exchange a glance. Grace folds her arms and looks away, studying a spot on the wall. Of course, the lie. It's amazing the things people will believe. Everyone should know that Emily didn't have asthma. But that's the lie Mrs. Stern told the neighbors as the paramedics wheeled out Emily's covered body. And so it is the lie we are all stuck with. The Bernsteins, the Sterns, Mom, and I, we will all tell that lie for the rest of our lives. Underneath the lie, we will know the truth, and that's worse than anything else.
"It was a mistake," I say.
Erica and Lauren swing around the doorframe. They're standing on the rug.
"That rabbi sent us to tell you guys, the Bernsteins don't want anyone up here," Lauren informs us.
"Hey, I haven't been in here since eighth grade!" Erica exclaims, sweeping into Emily's room, apparently forgetting the message she was sent to deliver. She plucks a stuffed yellow duck off Emily's bookcase. "I can't believe she still has this! Lauren! Do you remember when Clarence King gave this to Emily in sixth grade?"
"Ew! Yes!"
"Clarence King? Are you joking?" I ask.
Erica shakes her head. "No! He had a huge crush on Emily. Yuck! Why would she keep this?" Erica drops the duck like it might be diseased. "Hey, Stace. Earlier, Pete and I were talking about that video we did in eighth grade. Remember? About the students at SMS? And Pete got all fired up over a truck? How lame was that video?"
"Oh, I thought it was good!" I protest.
Erica rolls her eyes. "Yeah, for eighth grade. Remember how Emily insisted we include all those horrible interviews? Man, she was mean."
I smile. "Yes, like of me talking about my parents screaming at each other?"
"Or me being mad at my mom for dying?" adds Mary Anne, quietly.
"Emily Bernstein, cutthroat journalist at thirteen," I joke.
No one laughs, like suddenly we've all remembered.
"We have to find a new editor-in-chief," Mary Anne tells us. "For the Gazette. Mr. Arden wants Julie to come back. She's the most experienced. She and Emily spent all those summers at that journalism camp. I hope she comes back."
"What's the deal with Julie's hair?" Grace asks Erica.
Erica turns back from the bookcase. "Oh. Well, apparently, Mrs. Stern had to pin her hair in the coronet because Julie refuses to wash it. I guess it's pretty oily."
Grace scrunches her nose. "She won't wash her hair?"
"Mrs. Bernstein told her not to. Because she's in mourning and physical appearances aren't important. That's why all the mirrors are covered. She isn't bathing either,"
"Gross," Grace and Katie say in unison.
"I think it's kind of nice," says Mary Anne. "Nothing is more important than Emily right now, and grieving for her."
Grace bites her bottom lip and bows her head, cheeks pinking slightly. We all fall silent for a few minutes, staring around Emily's room at all her beloved belongings - her photos, her books, all the mementos of her childhood. And beyond it all, all I see is Emily sitting in her desk chair, rocking and weeping, telling me of her failure. I should have done more. I hardly did anything at all.
"We should go," I finally say. "The Bernsteins don't want us up here."
Everyone nods and starts for the door. Grace is out quickly, practically leaping over the rug. She'll never come up here again. Katie scoops the orange tabby off the bed - Saffron, I think - and carries him out the door. Erica and Lauren follow, casting slow backward glances into Emily's room. Mary Anne picks up Sassafras and starts toward the door. She turns to me before crossing the threshold.
"I should have been nicer to Emily," she says, quietly, sadly. "I should have been nicer to everyone." Then she's gone, trailing behind Lauren down the hall.
I flick off Emily's bedroom light. I wonder if I'll ever come in here again. Do I even want to? I close my eyes tight, attempting to block the tears. It's a losing battle. I open them and let the tears stream down, hot and quick. I close the door.