Mirabel:Hi Elizabeth, you’ve been on my mind so much. Lunch tomorrow? My treat?
I groan.
My Steel Magnolia, passive-aggressive mother-in-law has been trying to get me out to lunch since the funeral. Lunch. I stare down at my Tupperware of mostly uneaten macaroni. Apparently, the grieving have to eat.
There’s been a persistency in her texts.
Something’s off.
And I just can’t even with her because it will make me think of that night—Philip was leaving her house when his car ran off the road.
There was the call from him, just before the accident. The voicemail he left:My god, Lizzie, wehave totalk.
The spongy casserole feels like a lump in my stomach. I’d rather face ten meetings with Bill Rhodes than think about that night and all the factors involved: rain, lightning, deer, emotional shock, the million random sparks that might have made Philip’s 2017 black Camry slide off the road between Summerville and our home in Columbia, South Carolina. But painful as it might be, I need to know what happened at her home to upset Philip. Mirabel’s been acting cagey, and I’ll have to tread carefully.
My mother-in-law loves her azalea gardens, her large home, the Methodist Women’s League. She likes lipsticks and Talbots dresses.
Unfortunately, the one thing Mirabel doesn’t like (besides me) is the truth.
2
One Month Earlier
The Funeral
My priest, Chloe, reads the funeral liturgy about committing Philip’s body to the ground.
Heathcliff farts loudly.
She pauses, suppressing a giggle.
“Usually, we do thatawayfrom people,” I hiss at my six-year-old, before noticing that everyone except griefy-killjoy me seems to think it’s cute. Even Philip would have loved the idea of our son stinking up his funeral service.
Still.
“Do you need to go to the bathroom?” I whisper.
“No.” Big grin, a giant front tooth next to a baby one. “I just wanted to poot!”
I sigh and drop it.
God,the sun is hot in this old church graveyard; a strand of curling star jasmine keeps tickling my neck like an insect. Sweating profusely under my black dress, I hope I rememberedto wear deodorant. Widow’s brain is a thick fog. Last night I left the keys in the front door.
I can’t look at Philip’s urn in the open two-by-three-foot niche. We made quiche together last Saturday morning. Quiche with roasted red peppers and capers. My chest tightens.
I distract myself by thinking of all the people here who loved Philip.
My family would do anything for me. I glance at my brother, Ian. In spite of his high-pressure bank job, he flew in from Indiana last night. Mom would have driven down in a heartbeat. Even while I’m grieving for Philip, my heart stillachesfrom losing her last year. My quiet professor-father sent white roses this morning. He threw out his back yesterday and was unable to fly. I want him with me now like I did as a child during thunderstorms. But he doesn’t need to sit through Philip’s funeral. Dad’s still swallowing losing Mom, and Ian and I are worried for him.
Mirabel dabs her eyes with a silk handkerchief. She’s a Southern Martha Stewart, classic whiskey in a teacup. At sixty-years-old, she still sports thick blond coiffed hair and fits perfectly into a size six black tailored Talbots dress. I used to tell Philip that I really want to know the witch her great-great-great-grandmother sold her soul to for Mirabel to inherit that fabulous skin and hair.
My father-in-law, Ted, puts his arm around her. He’s dry, mild, but nice enough. Mirabel runs the show. Ted doesn’t get excited about much. He likes his low-fat grits and chilled berries by six thirty every morning and lukewarm tea with lemon sliced thin and circular.
Philip helped so many, often pro bono, through the law firm. At home, sympathy cards clutter my desk from clients describing how he compassionately guided them through a divorce or out of a bad contract. Many more people would haveturned up, but I tried to keep the funeral attendance small. Besides family, I allowed Philip’s closest friends from law school. Through a tangle of jasmine, I spot his best friend and law school roommate, Henry Lawton. He’s staring stonily into the niche, jaw set tightly under his trim beard.
I’ve only seen Henry a handful of times in the past several years. But Philip and Henry met often—for lunch, an after-work beer, a Saturday fishing excursion upstate. And although he’s in the middle of his own divorce, Henry has offered to help me close the estate. He glances up, meets my gaze, and I look quickly away. I can’t face his pain.
Philip’s parents, his friends. Too many grieving hearts here for me to handle.
