THIRTY-ONE

* * *

They lowered the coffin slowly, and the earth accepted it as though into the arms of a lover.

"And so we commit to the earth the mortal remains of Henry William Summers, beloved son, beloved husband, beloved father. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

She watched as Joyce, her face veiled in black, took a handful of dirt and, trembling slightly, threw it into the gaping hole. Those with shovels followed.

#

Later now, at their home. People there, gathered. Awkward silence. Some friends, family, sitting, talking softly, as though to speak in their normal tones would somehow offend.

They were strangers, all of them. She felt out of place, just standing in a corner in her black dress, just watching and wishing there was more she could do.

Joyce?

Upstairs, with her sister.

It's hard. My name's Bob. I worked with him. He was a good guy, a good friend. He'd do anything for you, work holidays, whatever.

She nodded.

It was all like a bad dream.

#

In time, people began to go. She waited as they did, not moving from her corner as one stranger after another filtered away, until it was only family that remained.

Joyce was here now and she looked at her.

"Thank you," she said.

She nodded.

"You didn't have to come. Thank you."

She spoke for the first time since arriving.

"I thought I should. I thought I could be here for her."

Joyce smiled. The weight, Cynthia thought, watching her. How much can she endure? How much must she?

"I know she'll appreciate it, Cynthia."

Cynthia nodded. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Summers. I'm so sorry about it all."

Joyce blinked, her eyes already red with tears, reached for her and hugged her. Close. They held for a long time. Then at last they drew back.

"How is she?" Cynthia asked.

"No change," Joyce said.

Cynthia nodded again, looked down. "I wish --"

Joyce watched her, reached out and touched away the tear that had suddenly erupted and run down her cheek.

"What is it, Cynthia?"

"I wish I could help her. I wish there was something I could do."

Joyce, here eyes shimmering from her weeping, answered softly.

"Maybe there is," she said. "Will you come with me today?"

#

She had never been in one of these places before, and felt frightened, out of place in her black dress. They passed the admissions desk, were led by an orderly down a long, white hall. There was a common room over there, a television flickering in one corner. A few patients watched it. One noted their passing and looked at them as they did. She was middle aged, her blond hair looking singed, almost burned, her eyes burning with a fierce intensity.

Cynthia looked away.

A door. Joyce pushed it open, stepped inside. Cynthia followed.

A bed, there. Just like any other bed. No straps or restraints or other clichés. Just a bed. And there, sitting atop the bed, just sitting and staring, was her best and truest friend.

Buffy.

It was dim in here, the shades drawn as though the sunlight might hurt her. Dim and quiet, too. Joyce stepped forward, toward the bed, but Cynthia suddenly found herself frozen, unable to move.

Buffy did not react to her mother as she sat. She stared straight ahead, eyes sometimes blinking, but that was all. Her hair, her lovely blonde hair that Cynthia had helped to primp only last week, was flat now, dull in the dim light, hanging straight, some strands running over her face, moving slowly with her breathing. Her hands did not move but only lay on her crossed thighs, themselves obscured by the gray, featureless hospital pajamas she wore.

Cynthia remembered a sleepover, one of many. Buffy's pajamas had been silk then.

Joyce was looking over at her.

"Come closer, dear. Let's let her see you."

Cynthia did, her feet moving awkwardly, until she was at the bedside and sitting. She looked closer at Buffy.

"Look, Buffy," Joyce said. "It's Cynthia. She's come to say hello."

Buffy didn't move, didn't respond.

Cynthia smiled, the effort of it showing on her young face. "I miss you," she managed to say, but that was all.

She remembered what Joyce had said to her; when was it? Two days, three days ago? A breakdown. The grief, the shock, was more than she could bear. She's in a hospital now. The doctors are trying to help her.

Will she be all right?

We're going to do everything we can.

School then. In the halls, walking. Everyone had seen, everyone who had been at the prom, and they asked: Is she all right? What have you heard? Cynthia said nothing, and she knew they were talking about her now.

Graduation was tomorrow.

And her best and truest friend in all the world wouldn't be there.