“Treatment caused her to lose her hair, so she wears a special kind of wig called a halo.” Wilma uses her thumbs and pointer fingers to form a halo on top of her head. “The hair is real. People send their hair to a company called Crowns of Courage, who take it and make it into these wigs. Once Ellie pops a hat onto her head, nobody can tell a thing. She has real, shiny, bouncy beautiful hair. Like yours.”
“That’s incredible,” I murmur, my fingers gingerly touching the hair I’ve coaxed back into a bun for today.
“It is.” Wilma agrees, adjusting her bag onto her shoulder. “You’d better get to the sanctuary. The service will be starting soon.”
“I’ll escort you,” I tell Wilma, offering her my arm. I’m still thinking about Elliot and her halo wig.
She frowns at me. “I’m not going to look at whatever is in that box you put in Pastor Thomas’ office.”
“I’m not worried about that,” I assure her, even though I am. I drop my offered arm and step through the open office door and into the hall.
Wilma harrumphs and walks out, turning back around to lock the door.
On the way over, Wilma tells me Elliot asked for my phone number. “She seems to like you.”
“Did you give it to her?”
Wilma nods.
I smile. “I like her too.”
“I don’t know what your plans are after today, but don’t leave without saying goodbye. Please. She’s fragile these days.”
“I won’t.”
* * *
The sanctuary reeks of flowers.They are everywhere, and it’s like a choking, thick fog. Near the front, sitting in a pew, is Laine. She styled her hair the same as mine today. When we met in the kitchen this morning, she smiled at our hair and called it the proper funeral bun.
Brady and Finn sit beside Laine. When I approach, Finn scoots over, making space between him and Brady.
I sink down, my gaze flitting over to Laine. She winks at me and reaches across Brady to brush a hand on my arm. Finn winds his fingers into my right hand, and Brady does the same to my left.
Tears spring to my eyes. From my first day in a new school to my mother’s funeral, these guys have been by my side. Their love is sewn into the fabric of my soul.
Pastor Thomas walks to the pulpit, and I catch his gaze. He nods at me and steps up to the microphone.
My mother’s funeral is a blur. Literally. I cry the whole time. It’s unexpected, and I’m unprepared. I don’t even have tissues. Laine, thankfully, has thought ahead. She hands them to me.
Why am I even crying? It makes no sense. This woman was awful to me. But she was so wonderful to everyone else. That’s what triggered the tears. Hearing about her work with the children’s ministry. The positive effect she had on countless people. Who was this woman? Why was she cruel to me and kind to everyone else?
The funeral ends on a song and a prayer. At Pastor Thomas’ urging, I form a one-woman receiving line. I recognize all but a few faces. Of the people I recognize, only a handful do I remember their names. My mascara is running, my eyes red, my face splotchy. Looks of pity pour in, as do the intrigued gazes.
Elliot steps up and hugs me. When she pulls away, I inspect her hair. If Wilma hadn’t told me about the wig, I never would’ve known.
“Your grandma said you asked for my number. I want you to use it, okay?”
Elliot smiles and hugs me a second time. She’s holding up the line, but that’s fine by me. She peeks back and mumbles an apology to the person behind her, then quickly moves on.
When the last person has come through and shaken my hand, and I’m so full of condolences I could vomit them up onto the brown carpet, I go in search of Laine.
She, Brady, and Finn stand off in a corner. I was upset when I walked in earlier, and I didn’t notice what Brady and Finn were wearing. Brady’s suit is black, traditional for a funeral. It’s obviously expensive, well-cut, molding around his body. He looks better than any man has a right to.
As I watch, he slips his hands in his pockets and rolls back on his heels, laughing quietly at something Finn has just said. It’s a practiced move, something Brady has done a million times. Brady wears this suit and dress shoes like they are as comfortable as his pajamas and slippers.
Not like Finn. Finn’s suit is a midnight blue, his shirt white, and he doesn’t wear a tie. He fingers the fabric at the back of his neck with a hooked finger, grimacing. Finn looks every bit as handsome as Brady, but far less confident.
“Hi,” I call out, approaching them.
