16.

 

I look at myself in the full mirror. My face is pale, without makeup, like usual, and my eyes look empty and cold. I am wearing these uncomfortable clothes; this long, static-y fake velvet dress, a sweater over it…someone’s necklace. My dress shoes.

            I look around my room, messy and different. I remember when I had that bedspread…I think, as I fix my hair in the mirror.

            “Oh, dearie. How about you come downstairs?” I hear a little voice, and look over. It’s Aunt Gilda. What is she doing here? And then it hits me: I am going to a funeral.

            She looks at me, and I remember that I haven’t seen her in a while….

            “Oh, Jill. She would have wanted you to be happy, why don’t you try and look a little bit more alive?” Nice word choice, Gilda. She picked up some blush and started brushing my cheeks with some of it.

            “Stop.” I say, and she looks a little taken aback.

            Who died, anyway?

            “Let’s go, then, sweetie.” Aunt Gilda says softly. “I know this is hard, but make sure you are strong for your Dad too. This isn’t easy for him, either.”

            We walk wordlessly down the stairs, to the living room. Family is everywhere. Cousins I don’t even remember, grandparents, aunts, uncles…and flowers. So many flowers, mostly that one small white flower, what’s it called, Queen Anne’s lace? Yeah, I think that’s it. Everyone stops talking a little when I come down, and their shifty eyes freak me out a little.

            So I just go over to the kitchen, which is completely covered with baked goods.

Casseroles, brownies, cakes, cold dishes of macaroni and cheese, fruit salad, plates of cookies. They are littered with brightly colored post-its. I look at one. “Our Condolences…” it read. “The Brown Family” was the sender. The Brown’s are our neighbors. They don’t like my family.

            Who died? I repeatedly ask in my mind. I search for an answer of some sort. So I look around, and move over to the crowd of family.

            What is going on?

            And I look at my grandma, who is clutching a picture and crying. I look over her shoulder at the picture. It is of a young, pretty, teenage girl. She has blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. I gasp.

            It’s Bethany.