For now, we don’t have to.
I stare at the closed casket as one of Ben’s high school friend’s, Tyler, drones on and on about what a great guy he was. I want to yell at the guy because he hasn’t even talked to Ben in recent years. But he’s here sharing in a grief I don’t feel like he has a right to claim.
The flowers overflow the casket in colors of purple and yellow. I think his mom chose those colors. I can’t remember. I’ve been too checked out the last few days—only mumbling responses when spoken to. I left all the funeral planning up to Loraine. I can barely stomach the word funeral. It’s so final.
My parents are here. I didn’t call them and tell them. I should have, but I didn’t. I’m not sure who told them. I guess it doesn’t matter. All I know is one morning my mom climbed into bed beside me and held me as I cried.
“It’ll be okay, baby girl,” she whispered like she used to when I was little. “Mom’s here.”
Only, unlike when I was a small child, her presence didn’t make this any easier. She couldn’t wave a magic wand and heal me. My grief would have to take its own course, and I was scared it might destroy me in the process. The sad part was I couldn’t bring myself to care if it did.
My mom sits beside me and she takes my hand, like she is silently aware of my thoughts. She gives my hand a squeeze, and I wish I could take some small comfort in the gesture, but I feel nothing.
Tyler finishes speaking and takes a seat.
Ben’s mom gets up and stands near the casket. Ben’s brother, Jacob, stands beside her, offering support.
She holds a tissue to the corner of her eye, dabbing away the moisture. Everyone sits quiet and rapt, waiting for her to speak.
I swallow past the lump in my throat. Getting through this is killing me.
She clears her throat and taps the microphone. A pitched noise whizzes around everyone and I wince.
“Benjamin,” she says, “he was a good boy. He was always so sweet and thoughtful—putting others needs above his. I wasn’t surprised when he told me he wanted to be a doctor. Saving lives … it was just ingrained in him. Once, when he was little, probably six or so, he tried to save the life of a dying mouse he found in our backyard. A cat had gotten it, and let me tell you this mouse was in bad shape. But Ben …” She shakes her head. “He didn’t give up on it. And even when it died in his hands he said to me, ‘Next time, mommy, I’ll know what to do. I’ll save the next one.’”
I squish my eyes closed and tears dampen my cheeks.
So many tears.
“And, Ben,” she continues, “he grew up to live his dream. He met the love of his life. He was to get married in less than a month and I know he would’ve been the best husband he could be to Blaire. I’m sorry that he’ll never get to prove that to you.”
I lift my head and find her looking at me.
“We were all robbed of a future with Ben in it. As a parent, you never want to outlive your child. I’ve had a hard life and a lot of bad days, but I’d relive those bad days a thousand times over if it meant I never had to live one of today. Thank you.” She hiccups on a cry and Jacob helps her back to her chair.
This is the part where I know I’m supposed to speak—to shed some enlightening words on my time with Ben. I can’t. To say the words is to accept that he’s dead and I don’t want to. I don’t want the finality.
“Blaire,” my mom whispers, nudging me with her shoulder.
I don’t move. I don’t even breathe.
I feel the weight of everyone’s eyes—waiting, hoping, for me to do or say something.
After a long stretch of awkward silence, the preacher, or whoever he is, gets up and says a few final words.
I don’t even hear them. Everything becomes a dull roar in my ears.
I feel a drop of water hit my cheek and it’s not my own tears—although those are still falling too. I look up and see that the sky has turned a dark stormy gray. Thunder rumbles in the sky. The sky—the heavens—they’re echoing my pain. I know it. It’s like Ben’s up there and he’s sad and angry because this is happening and it’s all so unfair.
People begin to stand, and I know it’s time to leave, but my butt is glued to the seat. I can’t go. To leave is the final goodbye and I need one more minute. One more second.
“Blaire?” My mom stands and waits for me to do the same.
I shake my head.
“Blaire,” she says again, this time in a harsher tone.
“No.” I stare at his casket and the waterfall of flowers. “Give me a minute.”