The next hours move like bad weather. EMTs. Questions. A doctor’s confirmation. A police officer who is kind in the awkward way of people who spend too much time arriving after the story has ended. Then family. Gail comes crying elegantly. Thomas arrives grave and efficient. They look at the house with the eyes of people already measuring what can be boxed, sold, donated, or disputed.
The funeral is small and tasteful and somehow strangely empty, as though attendance has been curated more than invited. You sit in the back in your one decent black shirt feeling like an extra in somebody else’s family performance. Gail thanks people. Thomas shakes hands. Stories are told that sound polished by distance. Beloved mother. Fierce independence. Sharp mind. Generous spirit.
You wonder where those phrases were when she needed groceries.
After the service, Harold Greer approaches you near the church steps. He holds a cream-colored envelope in one hand.
