room.
"What?" We could hear Corinne's voice protesting. "What?"
Like an echo, "What?" Sophia demanded. The two of them are like ... well,
twins.
Dad put his finger to his lips, because Sophia often needs to be reminded about the difference between an indoor voice and an outdoor voice. But he did answer Corinne's question. "There won't be anything wrong with Raquel's face."
"Moron," I muttered to Sophia. But I was glad to have Dad's reassurance.
After a couple minutes, Mom and Corinne returned. I was surprised that Mom just got back in line with us, but apparently cutting in a line at a funeral home is not as big a deal as cutting other times.
Corinne was sniffling, which she does any time she's reprimanded.
Mom rolled her eyes.
Sophia, who always takes Corinne's side, started whispering with her. Finally, together, the two of them asked, "Do we have to wait in line?"
"No." Mom and Dad answered in unison, too. "Just," Mom added, "remember where you are."
It was the girls' turn to roll their eyes.
We were getting close to the head of the line, and I really didn't want to be there. "Can I go, too?" I asked.
Mom, busy trying to find a tissue in her purse, nodded and gestured me away.
I didn't head after the twins, who had spotted some of the girl cousins across the way and had gone to sit with them. It was just that I still had no idea what to say to Uncle Al. That, and I felt I was going to pass out because the room was so warm and so full of perfume, aftershave, and flowers. If I keeled over, I'd never hear the end of it. My embarrassment would go down in family folklore: "Remember the time...?"
There were windows on the other side of the room, which were closed, but I thought maybe if I could just rest my hand against the glass, that would help me cool off.
I kept my head down as I approached to pass Raquel's coffin. Directly in front of it there was this kneeler thing, wide enough to hold two. A pair of girls about Raquel's age had been kneeling, praying, I guess. But just as I was walking by, they stood, and we almost collided.
"Excuse me," they whispered in church voices. They walked around me.
I glanced back to where Uncle Al was talking to Great-aunt Gwen, my family not far behind. Nobody was in line for the kneeler.
I took a step closer.
The coffin itself was a dark wood, like Nona's china cabinet. The inside was pink satin.
Raquel doesn't like pink,
I thought. I know this because Corinne and Sophia
love
pink. Their whole room is pink: pink walls, pink curtains, pink bedspreadsânot matching, but pink, pink, pink. For their birthday in February, Raquel had bought them pink stuffed animals: a bear for Corinne, a dog for Sophia. "Pink fur goes against the natural laws of the universe," Raquel told them as, squealing with delight, they'd ripped open the wrappings and hugged the pink monstrosities. To me, privately, she'd added, "Being in their room is like being in a wad of bubble gum."
But now, lying in that pinkness, suddenly reminding me of Snow White in her casket, was Raquel.
I hadn't been planning on looking at her face, despite Dad's reassurance. But once I did, I couldn't look away.
I knelt down in front of the coffin.
Somebody had put makeup on her, which was not something I was used to seeing. Raquel didn't wear makeupânot even on special occasions, like at Christmas or for our cousin Jesse's wedding. But the funeral parlor people had forced a healthy pink glow onto her. Healthy but powdery, like the ancient aunts.
In life, her hair had had a tendency to be wild, and now it was unnaturally tamed. Her lips were thin and stretched out. And of course her eyes were closed.
People talk about pets being put to sleep, so I guess I'd assumed dead people would look like they were sleeping, but Raquel didn't look at all like she was asleep. In fact, she didn't quite look real. For some reason, I got the idea of candy in my mind: It was like she was made of spun sugar or something.
If she
"What?" We could hear Corinne's voice protesting. "What?"
Like an echo, "What?" Sophia demanded. The two of them are like ... well,
twins.
Dad put his finger to his lips, because Sophia often needs to be reminded about the difference between an indoor voice and an outdoor voice. But he did answer Corinne's question. "There won't be anything wrong with Raquel's face."
"Moron," I muttered to Sophia. But I was glad to have Dad's reassurance.
After a couple minutes, Mom and Corinne returned. I was surprised that Mom just got back in line with us, but apparently cutting in a line at a funeral home is not as big a deal as cutting other times.
Corinne was sniffling, which she does any time she's reprimanded.
Mom rolled her eyes.
Sophia, who always takes Corinne's side, started whispering with her. Finally, together, the two of them asked, "Do we have to wait in line?"
"No." Mom and Dad answered in unison, too. "Just," Mom added, "remember where you are."
It was the girls' turn to roll their eyes.
We were getting close to the head of the line, and I really didn't want to be there. "Can I go, too?" I asked.
Mom, busy trying to find a tissue in her purse, nodded and gestured me away.
I didn't head after the twins, who had spotted some of the girl cousins across the way and had gone to sit with them. It was just that I still had no idea what to say to Uncle Al. That, and I felt I was going to pass out because the room was so warm and so full of perfume, aftershave, and flowers. If I keeled over, I'd never hear the end of it. My embarrassment would go down in family folklore: "Remember the time...?"
There were windows on the other side of the room, which were closed, but I thought maybe if I could just rest my hand against the glass, that would help me cool off.
I kept my head down as I approached to pass Raquel's coffin. Directly in front of it there was this kneeler thing, wide enough to hold two. A pair of girls about Raquel's age had been kneeling, praying, I guess. But just as I was walking by, they stood, and we almost collided.
"Excuse me," they whispered in church voices. They walked around me.
I glanced back to where Uncle Al was talking to Great-aunt Gwen, my family not far behind. Nobody was in line for the kneeler.
I took a step closer.
The coffin itself was a dark wood, like Nona's china cabinet. The inside was pink satin.
Raquel doesn't like pink,
I thought. I know this because Corinne and Sophia
love
pink. Their whole room is pink: pink walls, pink curtains, pink bedspreadsânot matching, but pink, pink, pink. For their birthday in February, Raquel had bought them pink stuffed animals: a bear for Corinne, a dog for Sophia. "Pink fur goes against the natural laws of the universe," Raquel told them as, squealing with delight, they'd ripped open the wrappings and hugged the pink monstrosities. To me, privately, she'd added, "Being in their room is like being in a wad of bubble gum."
But now, lying in that pinkness, suddenly reminding me of Snow White in her casket, was Raquel.
I hadn't been planning on looking at her face, despite Dad's reassurance. But once I did, I couldn't look away.
I knelt down in front of the coffin.
Somebody had put makeup on her, which was not something I was used to seeing. Raquel didn't wear makeupânot even on special occasions, like at Christmas or for our cousin Jesse's wedding. But the funeral parlor people had forced a healthy pink glow onto her. Healthy but powdery, like the ancient aunts.
In life, her hair had had a tendency to be wild, and now it was unnaturally tamed. Her lips were thin and stretched out. And of course her eyes were closed.
People talk about pets being put to sleep, so I guess I'd assumed dead people would look like they were sleeping, but Raquel didn't look at all like she was asleep. In fact, she didn't quite look real. For some reason, I got the idea of candy in my mind: It was like she was made of spun sugar or something.
If she
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