Where does someone even get a bright green casket like that?
The question hasn’t stopped rattling through my brain since Mom and I snuck into the chapel and slid into the very last pew. There are a lot more important things to be worried about at the moment, but all I can think is What. The. Hell? Grandpa was a weird duck—everyone knows that—but I definitely never saw this coming.
Beside me, Mom shifts uncomfortably in her seat and pushes a strand of hair behind her ear for the hundredth time. It’s a nervous tic of hers. But I get it. Being here is beyond awkward for both of us.
Two rows ahead, an old lady with painted-on eyebrows turns to squint at us. She’s probably trying to figure out why we’re sitting in the back of the chapel instead of up front with the rest of the family. Maybe she doesn’t know the story. Or maybe she does and thinks my grandpa’s death is reason enough to move past it. But fact is, the rift in my family has held strong for almost two decades now—since before my birth, anyway. Things won’t be changing anytime soon. I give her a whatcha-gonna-do-old-lady? look, and she turns back around.
Another hymn begins, and along with it, a chorus of off-key voices. Neither Mom nor I join in. Instead, I stare at my shoes. Maybe gray converse and black jeans were the wrong choice for today, but it’s not like I own anything nicer. My closet has definitely never seen a dress. Mom leans in close, her breath reeking of strong coffee. “As soon as they start lining up for the walk-by, we’re outta here.”
