I hate funerals.
And, yet, there I was. At the funeral of the husband of the woman I call Mrs. Robinson. Christian and I were at the hospital when he died. Trust me, it was an ugly scene.
"Get out!" Mr. Lincoln yelled from his hospital bed when he saw Christian enter the room, his skinny arms flailing about like an angry muppet's, tubes and wires flying everywhere.
"He's never forgiven you for having an affair with me when you were fifteen," she told my husband, ignoring me. "Or me, for that matter. I'll never forget how angry he was the night he found out. He broke my arm, cracked four of my ribs, busted my jaw... and I loved every minute of it."
"And I STILL haven't forgiven you, Elena," he rasped, gasping for air. "By all that is holy, after I'm dead I'm going to dig my way out of my grave and come back and haunt you!"
And then he promptly expired.
Like I said... not pretty.
At the wake after the burial, Christian and I went up to pay our respects.
"Elena," my husband offered.
"Christian," she cooed.
"Mrs. Lincoln," I said, icily.
"Ana," she answered, just as frosty. "I'm so grateful that you came."
"Tell me, Mrs. Lincoln..." I began.
"Ana," Christian cautioned, giving me a look.
"Yes?" Mrs. Robinson challenged me, a sharp glint in her eye.
Encouraged to continue, I continued, "Aren't you afraid?"
"Afraid?" she repeated, the sharpness turning quizzical. "Why should I be afraid?"
"Before he died," I reminded her, "your husband swore he would dig his way out of his grave and haunt you."
"Oh, that," she dismissed with a flip of her wrist. "Let him dig to his heart's desire, dear. I buried him upside down."