And the casket. Mahogany or some other nut-brown wood, brass handles around the edges. The top half of the lid was open, and as I escorted Becca closer to it, I saw first Ben’s hair, black and shiny. Becca hiccuped as we approached and clung to me. I steeled myself as we took the last step. Then we were standing in front of the casket, and Becca had her face buried in my suit coat.
“I d-d-don’t want to l-look,” she mumbled.
“Then don’t,” I said. “You know who he was.”
She shuddered in my arms, and then slowly turned her face away from me, straightened, stood on her own. Her hands smoothed her shin-length black dress over her hips, and I watched her visibly steel herself. Her back went ramrod straight, her head tilted back, her hands clutched into fists, and her breathing went long and deep and fast. I stood beside her and forced my fingers into hers, and she grabbed at me as if for a lifeline, gripping hard enough to cause pain.
I watched her. She opened her eyes and stared into the middle distance over the casket, and then, nearly hyperventilating, she forced her gaze down to the body of her brother. He was dressed in a plain black suit, white shirt, black tie. His hair was slicked back, and makeup had been so artfully applied that you could barely see the dark black bruise ringing his neck.
“God, he w-w-would have hay-hated that s-s-suit,” she murmured, then covered her mouth with her hand. “Why do w-we d-d-do th-this? Why do we t-t-t-torture oursel—selves like-like this? That’s n-nnn-not Ben.”
I had no answer for that question. I just held her, my arm high around her waist.
Mr. de Rosa came up beside Becca and rested his hand on her shoulder. She’d told me she didn’t blame him, late last night, but now she shook his hand off, moaning low in her throat.
“D-d-don’t, Father.” She pushed away from me, stumbling and almost knocking over the framed collage of photographs of Ben standing on an easel near the casket.
He watched her go, sadness in his eyes. His gaze flickered to me and held a hint of accusation, as if I’d done something to alienate them. She said she didn’t blame Enzio de Rosa for her brother’s death, but her actions said otherwise. It was none of my business, so I did the only thing I could: I followed her, wrapped my arm around her waist, and pulled her to a chair near the back, by the door. She’d bolt again, I knew.
A priest came and stood in front of the crowd. “Dearly beloved,” he began, his voice throaty and phlegmy, “we are gathered here to mourn the passage of Benjamin Aziz de Rosa. His life ended far too soon, we would all agree. We’ll probably never know why Benjamin chose to take his own life, but nonetheless, we mourn his death and choose to celebrate his life—”
Becca choked on a sob, coughed, and stumbled to her feet. I chased after her as she righted herself and stepped in front of the priest, who cut short and stared at Becca in shock and confusion. She met my eyes and shook her head, and I knew she was fully aware of what she was doing, so I stood with my back to the wall and my arms crossed over my chest, daring anyone to try to stop her.
“Th-this isn’t what my brother would have wanted.” She spoke slowly, an artificial, scripted quality to her words. “H-he would have hated that s-stupid suit. He would have hated those stupid pictures of him, and these stupid flowers. He would have hated the fake words this preacher is saying—no offense, sir. He-he-he—would have wanted us to get sss-stoned for him. We w-won’t do that, ah-ah-obviously. We know exactly why he hu-hung himsel—self. He was troubled. He was depressed. He was angry. He did-didn’t th-think he ha-had any-anything t-t-to off-off-offer.” She paused, closed her eyes, and gathered herself.
I noticed Kate then for the first time, wearing, instead of black, a deep emerald dress that hung at her knees and clung to her svelte frame. Her hair was twisted up into a complicated braid, and she had thick makeup on. She’d dressed for Ben, I realized, not everyone else. Her eyes were red-rimmed, tear-stained, and angry.
Becca saw her, too, and she spoke to Kate.
“I knew him best, except for Kate. I loved him, and I hated to see him…s-struggle…with himself.” Becca was pausing frequently, forcing words out, forcing fluency on herself. No one was breathing. “His n-n-note said he was sorry. That he’d failed…Kate, and everyone. He didn’t fail. He did-did…didn’t. Not once. W-we failed him. We all did.” Her eyes flicked her father then, and he visibly flinched, eyes screwing tight and a single tear slipping down his cheek. “We all…judged…hi—him. We tried to fi-fix…him. Only Kate just loved him. Let him feel what he felt and…accepted…him-him-him.” Her eyes ticked with the last three stuttered syllables.
At that, Kate broke, standing up suddenly in a crash of metal folding chairs, and ran. Becca watched her, and then moved her gaze back to the podium, staring at the wood. She glanced at me, then gestured to her purse on the chair where she’d been sitting. I snagged it and handed it to her. She pulled out a piece of lined paper folded into eighths, unfolded it, smoothed it against the wood surface.
She breathed deeply, her mouth moving as she read the words in preparation to speak them aloud.
“I wrote this. For Ben.” I knew how hard it was for Becca to share her poetry. This was the only thing, the best thing she could give him.
“I don’t mourn you,
Brother.
I don’t grieve for you.
If there is thought
Or grief
Or love
After this life,
Then you’re watching,
And you’re mad at us.
You’re angry,
But you’re at peace.
I don’t mourn you,
Brother.
But I miss you.
I wish you hadn’t left,
Hadn’t removed yourself
So violently
From us all.
From me.
I miss you.
I love you,
Brother.
And I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I didn’t love you
More.
I can’t say if you’re in a better place.
Maybe that’s a myth we tell
To comfort ourselves.
There’s too much to say,
And not enough words
For me to say it all.
If you’re here,
If you’re listening,
Then I hope you find,
In whatever place you’re in,
What you were looking for.”
She crushed the paper in her fist, slumping forward onto the podium as if the effort to say all that so fluently had used up all her strength. I moved to her, pulled her against my chest, and moved backward, away. She hung from my embrace, and I lifted her into my arms, careful to keep her dress smoothed modestly over her legs. I carried her out of the viewing room, out of the parlor, and to the tree, the same tree where I’d seen Nell run from Kyle’s funeral. I think that’s where she’d first met Colton, or, well, met him again, really, since we’d all sort of known him before he’d left.