"Let us not mourn the passing of our friend, for death is only the end of an earthly existence. It is the beginning of a higher life, the eternal life of the soul…"
Marina wiped a tear from her cheek and reached down to squeeze Celeste's hand. Philip sat on her other side, already holding Celeste's left hand in his, calmly stroking her small palm with his thumb in a soothing gesture.
Celeste had never been to a funeral before, and Marina had been worried about her disrupting the sombre day, but the little girl seemed to grasp the seriousness of the event and sat quietly throughout the ceremony.
She had not understood at first, when Marina told her about Mrs. Hurst's death. "What does that mean? When can I see her again?" she had asked.
Marina had taken her little hand and explained that death meant she wouldn't get to see Mrs. Hurst ever again, and Celeste had started crying then. They had been to visit Ms. Hurst and her mother semi-regularly in the last year, and though it wasn't the most exciting excursion for a young child, Mrs. Hurst always had sweets for her and told her such nice things. Celeste and the old woman had grown quite fond of each other, and she was sure to be missed.
Marina looked over to where Ms. Hurst sat near the pastor. She was staring at the casket where her mother's body lay, her eyes dry, her back straight. The black of mourning didn't suit her – it made her look washed out and faded. Like she was fading out of existence.
After the ceremony they waited for most of the mourners to file out before getting up. Marina held Philip's hand while he got shakily to his feet, leaning heavily on the cane he had once bought for her.
It had been a difficult recovery for him, and Marina had been certain she would lose him. The fever had been hard and had left him weak. But he was alive, and he was recovering, and she was so relieved. Her feelings were all in a tumult these days, her joy at seeing Philip recovering mixed in with sadness for Mrs. Hurst's passing.
They approached Ms. Hurst, who stood near the entrance of the church, receiving condolences from mourners as they left. Gloria stood next to her, a comforting solid presence. When Marina and her family approached, she saw Gloria lean over and murmur in Ms. Hurst's ear before she passed Marina on her way out. She gave Marina's hand a quick squeeze before heading outside.
Ms. Hurst leaned in to allow Marina to kiss her cheek and smiled faintly down at Celeste. "I'm so sorry," Marina murmured. "If there is anything we can do, please, come to us."
Philip took Ms. Hurst's hand between his and gave his apologies. "She was a good woman."
Celeste reached up and took Ms. Hurst's hand, pressing a folded-up piece of paper into it. "I love her," she said simply, her child's words ringing truer and clearer than any of theirs. Ms. Hurst knelt and kissed Celeste on the cheek.
"She loved you too," she said, and Celeste hugged her around her neck. Marina took her daughter's hand then and led her away.
Ms. Hurst looked down at the paper in her hands and slowly unfolded it. It was a riot of colour and shapes, but somewhere in it, features formed themselves. Two eyes, a mouth, a shoulder… Celeste had written something quite illegible on the bottom right corner, and underneath Ms. Hurst recognized Marina's hand, where she had translated, "Mrs. Hurst."
Ms. Hurst turned to look at her mother's body, hoping this little girls' feelings would reach her wherever she was now. Celeste had brought her mother so much joy in the last months of her life – she would forever be grateful to the little girl for that. She had made the slow decline just a little easier to bear.
Her mother's death had not been unexpected, but that didn't make it easier to bear, still.
Emma Hurst was now an orphan.
She almost laughed at the thought, for how could she be an orphan? An orphan was meant to be a young child, resourceful and pure of heart, fighting to find their place in the world, if the stories were anything to go by. Their tale would be one of finding family, of discovering a new life…
Emma hadn't been a child for a long time now, and she would not describe herself as pure of heart. Would a good person be standing in the church at her own mother's funeral fighting back laughter?
It felt like hysterical laughter, born of pain, certainly, but laughter still.
She supposed she would have to find her own place in the world now, in any case. What little her father had left to her mother was mostly gone. She wouldn't even be able to afford to live in the small apartment they had called home for much longer.
Though she should be able to afford it a little longer now, now that she only had to feed herself instead of two.
She bit the inside of her cheek to hold back the laughter that morbid thought nearly brought on.
She had always known there was something wrong with her. That she was never quite feeling the correct emotion, never having the right reaction somehow. She hadn't realized before just how bad it was though.
Everyone but the pastor had left the church building, and Emma followed them out into the sun. She had no desire to talk about her mother's life or death with Mr. Clarke. She would probably say something that would get her kicked out of the church, with the mood she was in.
People started to file home, leaving the churchyard empty. Emma stood near the church and watched them leave, barely registering their faces and voices. She felt hyper aware of the sun on her cheek, warming her body through the dark mourning clothing, and the light wind blowing across her neck, disturbing the little twist of hair that had fallen loose there.
She knew she should not be so aware of her body, in a time like this. Now was the time for souls, and spiritual matters. Now was the time to feel her loss in her heart.
She didn't feel the sadness she should. She had expected to feel free. All those months, when Mother had been so sick, when Emma had had to take care of her, she had caught herself wishing sometimes that it would just end. She told herself that it was for Mother's sake really – anyone could see she was in pain – but there was a part of Emma that was just so tired of it. She resented her mother for being so much work, for needing so much from her daughter. She had wanted to be free of the burden.
But now, she didn't feel free at all. She felt crushed.
She could feel sobs coming on and forced herself to focus on something else; the tightness of her toes rubbing against her shoe. She was still in public after all. Stiff upper lip and all that.
Speaking of lips… The younger Mr. Bankes had come to the funeral, the first time she had seen him in years, and he had grown a mustache in the meantime. Or he had fallen asleep and two small mice had taken up residence under his nose, it was hard to tell which. There was a distinct little droop to the ends of his mustache that made her think of nothing so much as a skinny rodent tail.
There, now she was on the verge of laughter again. Was that better than crying?
Someone was saying something kind to her, but they didn't need her to respond, not really. What could she say? She nodded and murmured softly, some nonsense syllables, and they left her, their features an indistinct blur in her memory.
She was considering whether she could escape now, go home and let out all her emotions, when someone took her by the elbow and led her away from the crowd. Gloria.
Emma grasped Gloria's hand, grateful to feel her responding strong grip, and let herself be steered onto the garden path nearby, a path that led back behind the church, away from town, away from the people. Gloria pulled them around behind a large oak, so that they were mostly hidden from view, then turned and put her hands on Emma's shoulders.
"My dear, are you alright?" Without waiting for Emma's answer, she pulled her into a hug. "I'm sorry – what a stupid question. Of course not."
Emma put her arms around Gloria, but she didn't let herself relax into her. If she did, then she would seriously start crying, and there would be no going back. "I knew it was coming," she said, repeating the same line she had used so many times already today. "She was peaceful, in the end. She's gone to a better place."
Gloria pushed Emma back, holding her shoulders tightly. Emma had the sudden, wild thought that she could feel Gloria's fingerprints through the fabric of her dress. That when she undressed for the night, she would see them there still, burned red into her skin.
No, she was not alright.
Gloria gave her a little shake. "Emma, my dear, cut the crap," she said, frowning at her. "Don't use that nonsense on me, please."
Emma stared into Gloria's beautiful brown eyes, flecked with green. Those eyes she knew so well – they had always told each other all their secrets since they were young girls. A sob tore itself from her body – but only one. She quickly covered her mouth and shoved the rest down again. "I can't Gloria, not here. I can't be honest here."
Gloria looked around, listening to the murmurs of nearby mourners. "Fine," she relented. She eyed her friend. "But I won't have you going home to that empty room – you're coming to stay with me."
Emma grinned weakly at her. "And if I say I want to go home?"
"Don't be ridiculous; it's not happening. Besides, you always end up doing what I want," Gloria reminded her.
Emma nodded, and let Gloria lead her again. Truth be told, she was glad to let Gloria take charge. It was good not to have to think about what to do next, about how she would live, how all her things would need packing, and mother's…
Truth be told, she did not want to return home.