was helping her to her feet. She felt so cold—as if she might never be warm again. But the shivering had stopped.
"I’ll go with her, Paul," Myra was saying, laying the dishtowel on the counter and coming forward, wiping her hands on her apron.
But Paul was already ushering Ellen from the room. "No, it’s okay. You go on with what you were doing. And you might see if anyone would like more tea or coffee, Myra, if you don’t mind."
As they reached the stairs, Ellen glimpsed a wedge of living room, saw the tree she had so lovingly decorated. People were milling around, eating small sandwiches, holding cups of tea or coffee.
She wondered idly where all the food had come from, and then she remembered seeing all those saran-wrapped trays and plates lined up on the counter, and Myra saying she couldn’t cram another thing into the fridge. Friends had brought the food, of course. Friends of hers, of Gail’s, co-workers.
How kind people were. She should thank them. It was her place. This was her home, after all—and Gail her sister. Oh, Gail, please, dear Lord, let me wake up and all this be just some terrible dream. The living room went out of view as Paul, his hand gently at her waist, guided her up the stairs. Ellen clutched the smooth, oak banister for support, every step she took an enormous effort.
"It was a big funeral," Paul said when they reached the landing. "Fitting for a star. Your sister would have been pleased."
It was as if he had struck her.
~ * ~
She was lying on the bed with the curtains drawn against the sunlight, when someone rapped lightly on the door. She turned her head, half expecting to see Myra, hoping it was, but it was Reverend Palmer who entered her room when she said, "Come in." Without asking her permission, he sat down on the edge of her bed and began to pray over her.
"You may not understand it now," he said when he lifted his head, "but some higher purpose has been served by this terrible tragedy." His moon face glowed with pious righteousness, reminding her of some evangelist she’d seen on television. "God never gives us more pain than we can bear, dear."
"That’s not true."
The minister only looked pityingly at her. Ellen thought about the way the wind had lifted his hair and laid bare his bald spot. She looked into that virtuous face and thought about that, and liked thinking about it. She was glad when he left.
Paul had engaged Reverend Palmer’s services. He was not someone she would have chosen. Paul had taken care of all the arrangements. She supposed she had no right to be critical.
"A funeral fitting for a star. Your sister would have been pleased."
How could he have said that to her?
She looked over at the vase of yellow roses on the wicker table. They were curled and brown.
Dead. Like Gail was dead.
~ * ~
In the days and nights that followed, Ellen floated in and out of a Valium-induced haze, trapped in a well of blackness so deep no light could reach her. With the passing of time, her doorbell rang less and less often, though Ellen took little notice.
Gradually, she began coming downstairs, sitting in a kitchen chair, or pacing from room to room, or staring out of windows, seeing nothing. When the pain got too bad, she took to her bed.
Other times, she found she was quite able to sit and talk with Myra, or Paul, or whoever was there, functioning almost normally, just as though she were not an empty shell, with nothing left of her but severed, bleeding nerves. And at odd times a part of her seemed strangely to stand apart from whatever was taking place, to become both spectator and participant.
Paul tried to reason with her, explaining to her about the stages of grief, quoting the experts, just as if she had never heard all the psycho-babble, had not spoken it herself. She was glad he was away at a conference in California.
At some point, she noticed the tree was gone from the living room, together with her gifts for Gail. Myra, of course. Dear,
"I’ll go with her, Paul," Myra was saying, laying the dishtowel on the counter and coming forward, wiping her hands on her apron.
But Paul was already ushering Ellen from the room. "No, it’s okay. You go on with what you were doing. And you might see if anyone would like more tea or coffee, Myra, if you don’t mind."
As they reached the stairs, Ellen glimpsed a wedge of living room, saw the tree she had so lovingly decorated. People were milling around, eating small sandwiches, holding cups of tea or coffee.
She wondered idly where all the food had come from, and then she remembered seeing all those saran-wrapped trays and plates lined up on the counter, and Myra saying she couldn’t cram another thing into the fridge. Friends had brought the food, of course. Friends of hers, of Gail’s, co-workers.
How kind people were. She should thank them. It was her place. This was her home, after all—and Gail her sister. Oh, Gail, please, dear Lord, let me wake up and all this be just some terrible dream. The living room went out of view as Paul, his hand gently at her waist, guided her up the stairs. Ellen clutched the smooth, oak banister for support, every step she took an enormous effort.
"It was a big funeral," Paul said when they reached the landing. "Fitting for a star. Your sister would have been pleased."
It was as if he had struck her.
~ * ~
She was lying on the bed with the curtains drawn against the sunlight, when someone rapped lightly on the door. She turned her head, half expecting to see Myra, hoping it was, but it was Reverend Palmer who entered her room when she said, "Come in." Without asking her permission, he sat down on the edge of her bed and began to pray over her.
"You may not understand it now," he said when he lifted his head, "but some higher purpose has been served by this terrible tragedy." His moon face glowed with pious righteousness, reminding her of some evangelist she’d seen on television. "God never gives us more pain than we can bear, dear."
"That’s not true."
The minister only looked pityingly at her. Ellen thought about the way the wind had lifted his hair and laid bare his bald spot. She looked into that virtuous face and thought about that, and liked thinking about it. She was glad when he left.
Paul had engaged Reverend Palmer’s services. He was not someone she would have chosen. Paul had taken care of all the arrangements. She supposed she had no right to be critical.
"A funeral fitting for a star. Your sister would have been pleased."
How could he have said that to her?
She looked over at the vase of yellow roses on the wicker table. They were curled and brown.
Dead. Like Gail was dead.
~ * ~
In the days and nights that followed, Ellen floated in and out of a Valium-induced haze, trapped in a well of blackness so deep no light could reach her. With the passing of time, her doorbell rang less and less often, though Ellen took little notice.
Gradually, she began coming downstairs, sitting in a kitchen chair, or pacing from room to room, or staring out of windows, seeing nothing. When the pain got too bad, she took to her bed.
Other times, she found she was quite able to sit and talk with Myra, or Paul, or whoever was there, functioning almost normally, just as though she were not an empty shell, with nothing left of her but severed, bleeding nerves. And at odd times a part of her seemed strangely to stand apart from whatever was taking place, to become both spectator and participant.
Paul tried to reason with her, explaining to her about the stages of grief, quoting the experts, just as if she had never heard all the psycho-babble, had not spoken it herself. She was glad he was away at a conference in California.
At some point, she noticed the tree was gone from the living room, together with her gifts for Gail. Myra, of course. Dear,
Similar Books
