Somehow, the funeral managed to slip my mind entirely. Will brings it up the day before; I have my flight booked, I'm due back in Afghanistan tomorrow. I seriously debate missing the funeral altogether, because I know that Emily wouldn't care. She'd understand; hell, she'd probably encourage my not to go.
Less time you have to spend with my mother .
I hear the quippy remark in my mind as though I've heard her say that exact sequence of words before, even though I know that I haven't.
It's almost funny, but then I remember that Elizabeth has lost her daughter, and it's just sad all over again. I remember that I'll never again hear her make a slating remark about her mother, and suddenly my throat and my eyes are both burning.
I've only been to two funerals in my life, Roslyn and Haley.
Penelope has been trying to call me. I don't even look at my phone anymore; the ringer has been switched to silent for days. I don't reply to texts, her's or Reid's. What am I supposed to say to either of them? I can barely carry my own grief, I know that trying to add theirs on top is too heavy. It'll consume me. I'm too close, already. They all have time off, a fortnight, I think. Two weeks off to mourn the loss of their best friend. Every now and then, my mind wanders to Hotch, but I can't go there. If Penelope and Reid's grief would consume me, I know that Hotch's would drown me.
In the end, I decide that I have to go, if only to be close to her one last time. I have to face it, and them. Will is a pallbearer; Elizabeth asked Hotch to choose, and I guess he's there as my stand in. Hotch called Will directly, which we all knew was strange, and which we all chose not to comment on. I heard the whole conversation, and heard Hotch tell Will where Elizabeth had decided Emily would be buried.
Emily never wanted to be buried, she wanted to be cremated. But, as usual, Elizabeth gets her way. It made me angry, so I made up my mind not to talk to the Ambassador at all.
My dress is hers. I borrowed it from her, a year and a half ago, for another funeral. Haley's.
It's designer, Dior , and more expensive than any item of clothing I've ever bought for myself. I know because I googled it when she loaned it to me. She never asked for it back, so I never gave it. I think I kept it on purpose, although if she had asked I would have made a show of telling her I'd forgotten I had it. It's so soft, sometimes I would just run my fingers down the material where it hung in my closet. It wasn't as though I couldn't buy myself fancy clothes. I could. Maybe not Dior fancy, but better than I'd been raised with. The mentality of living paycheck to paycheck, like my parents always had, stuck. Henry gets nice clothes, new clothes. Maybe he won't grow up with my overly frugal mindset. For myself, though, I still almost exclusively shop the sales, I don't know what this season's trends were. It just isn't something I have ever cared about. She did. She used to sit there, on the jet, filtering through magazines. More than once, she and Penelope made me watch Fashion Week coverage. She used to scold me for being on my phone.
"Will you watch? Look at those shoes!" She would say, and I would marvel at how this was the same girl I'd seen walk through a swamp the week before, in waders that went up to her thighs, searching for corpses. "We'll go, one day." She would say, so confidently. "I promise you'd love it Jayje, it's so much fun."
We never would go, though.
Standing in that dress, running my hands over the soft material, I can see that I've lost weight. It hangs off of me. I've never had the curves to fill it out, not like she did, but it's even looser now than it was last year. I never saw her wear it (it still had the tags on it when she loaned it to me) but I just know it would have fit her like a glove. She'll never wear it, though. I suddenly feel guilty that I never gave the dress back. I wonder if she wanted to ask but felt awkward about it. I wonder if she never thought about it again. Maybe she forgot.
I didn't eat this morning, and I can feel my stomach churning as we drive up to the church. I tried to eat, I poured out some cereal but then I remembered the morning of Roslyn's funeral, when I threw up Cheerios all over my mother's dining table, and watched her cry over it as she cleaned it up. My appetite dissolved quickly after that little memory.
A burial and a catholic ceremony. She would have hated this. I decide to hate it on her behalf, so I scowl the whole walk up the stairs and in through the tall, oak doors, stopping just inside. I hate that the church is beautiful. I hate that it's so light and airy, and that the windows are painted glass, so the light that streams in is a beautiful rainbow. I hate that the benches are cushioned and comfortable. I hate all of it, for her.
I watch the people arriving. Everyone is dressed in black, and I hate them for it until I realise how Emily would have loved it. She loved a black outfit. Hell, half of her wardrobe was entirely void of colour. On second thought, perhaps the monotone clothing is appropriate. This is a day for darkness, a day for hating. A day to be angry. This isn't a celebration of life, regardless of what the order of service says.
Will kisses my cheek, and I say nothing, and then he's gone from my side, to find the other pallbearers, and I'm glad. I lift my eyes. Penelope is standing near the doors, and she's wearing black, and that looks so wrong. For a moment, my anger falters, and I'm just terribly sad. I need the anger, it keeps me safe. Without the anger, I am a body with no bones; I will collapse in on myself. Penelope is at my side. She says some form of greeting, but I don't trust myself to speak, so I offer her a smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace. She reaches for my hand, and I let her hold it because I don't want to cause her any more pain today.
My eyes find Spencer, standing at the bottom of the church's steps, near to the road. His eyes are downcast, and even though I can't see them I know they are bloodshot and ringed with red. His shirt is unironed. Hotch stands in front of him, fixing Spencer's tie, as if anybody cares if it's a little crooked when his shirt looks like he dragged it from the laundry. Hotch's face is stern, he doesn't meet Spencer's eyes and I don't think I will ever see him smile again. Morgan gently claps Will on the shoulder as he joins them, and they shake hands in a solemn, morbid kind of way. Kevin says something to Will, I can't make it out but my husband shakes his head and gives a little shrug. I know, then, that Kevin asked how I am doing. Not great, Kevin. Not great at all. Ashley joins us at some point, an already sodden handkerchief in her hand, and I want to scream at her, because why is she crying? She barely even knew Emily. Not the way I knew Emily. I don't scream, though. I don't even look her way, which is cruel because I know she sought my eyes, whether for reassurance or shared grief. I don't need her grief, either.
There are so many people here, and at least half of them are FBI. The rest, I've never seen before. I wonder who they are. Friends from college? Seems unlikely, but also inevitable. Family members? Maybe that old guy is an Uncle. I know there are at least a few government representatives here, because of who Elizabeth is. Emily always ran in those circles, even once she escaped Elizabeth's shadow she maintained many connections forged thanks to her mother.
As I'm searching the crowd, a black car pulls up. Elizabeth climbs out of it, a veil covering her face, and I can feel the muscle jumping in my cheek. My eyes bore into her as she greets the others, as, in turn, the men in my life all kiss her weathered cheek like she's the grieving widow in a gangster movie. I hate her for doing this, for dramatising Emily's death. I don't care about her pain. I'm glad she's feeling it. I hope she has many regrets about her daughter, because I know the pain she caused her. And so do they, which is why when Spencer's eyes find mine, after he kisses Elizabeth's cheek, I look away. From the corner of my eye, I see him shrivel a little.
The hearse drives slowly up to the foot of the stairs, and the gathered crowd falls silent. I steal another glance at Elizabeth, and I can see that her cheeks are dry.
The casket is pine, the flowers are too much. Her name, written in huge white roses. Daughter in pink. I didn't bring flowers. It's okay, Emily wouldn't have cared.
I watch, as everyone does, as the boys lift the casket. Aaron is at the back, with Spencer, because they're the tallest. Next come Derek and Kevin and, finally, Will and Easter. I focus on them because I can't bring myself to even comprehend the oak, lead-lined box they carry. I focus on their faces. Easter's brow is deep with frown lines, his eyes downcast, and I think he's struggling with the weight of the casket. Beside him, Will's eyes find me for a moment. He's been checking on me constantly, there's no change now. Derek looks sadder than I've ever seen him, and he doesn't have a spare hand to wipe the tears that roll down his cheeks. I can't see Kevin or Spence, they're on the other side to where Penelope and I stand, but Aaron stares dutifully ahead.
He's disassociating, like I am. Like he can't accept it. Like he won't. I stare at him, as he passes by, but he stares ahead. I don't even see him blink.
The procession files in after, led by Elizabeth.