Here they were, the survivors of a small family.
No other living relatives.
Just us now, Greg thought as the organ’s peaceful, rich timbre floated above the mourners crowding into the main floor and the balcony.
Outside, cars, including a sprinkling of media vehicles, lined the shoulders of the two-lane rural road. The newspeople were set up a respectful distance across the road with their cameras concentrated on the entrance and the cemetery, which was adjacent to the church.
Inside, Jenn’s closed casket was displayed at the front.
She would’ve wanted something plain, simple, Greg had told the funeral director. The model he and Kat had chosen was the Celestial Rose, made of 20-gauge steel, finished in glossy white. They’d kept it closed during both showings, and Greg ceased pursuing his attempts to see Jenn’s remains. The funeral director, his voice a whisper, had said: “There will be some difficulty, Mr. Griffin, but I assure you we’ll do all that can be done for her.”
Jenn was radiant, smiling at the mourners from her framed photo atop a bed of roses on her coffin, positioned between two large sprays of flowers.
The organ stopped, the reverend began the service, then later, one by one, people stood over Jenn’s casket and eulogized her. The president of the school board praised her, “as the embodiment of altruism.” A tearful teacher acknowledged all Jenn had accomplished, calling her “a warrior angel.” A longtime friend and colleague at Crystallo View Optical spoke of the care Jenn took in helping people improve their vision, especially children. And Holly Wiley, their neighbor, said Jenn was “the kind of mom all moms wanted to be, completely devoted to her family.”
Greg struggled to absorb the words but while listening, he turned to the light streaming through the stained-glass window, observing how it spilled on her casket with such horrible beauty that...it couldn’t be...no...no, this is not real.
In an instant, Greg thought, no, this wasn’t true. This funeral was imagined. Jenn didn’t die in a fireball on a freeway in Cleveland. She came home that night from her book club and they started the next day the same way they always did. Jenn had even caught him drinking milk from the bottle and got mad, really mad: “Greg, come on! How many times have I asked you to stop doing that? It’s so gross!” He expected her to walk into the church, to wake him up, take him back to their life now. Oh God, he’d give anything to get back to what they had.
Because Jenn’s death was not real.
But it was real.
His twisting stomach underscored his pain as he took stock of Jenn’s casket, the packed church. He knew the press was outside. At one point, Greg was certain he’d seen Kozak and Carillo among the mourners. He recalled how in a true-crime documentary he’d watched on Netflix, the detectives had said that to avoid the distraction of getting emotionally involved, they never attended a victim’s funeral—unless they thought the suspect was among the mourners.
Vince tapped Greg’s knee.
This part of the service had ended.
It was time to bury Jenn.
Juan Perez and Charles Stanton, two teachers from Jake’s school, and Nate Wiley and Ahmed Karim, men who were neighbors, along with Al Clayton, and Greg, served as pallbearers.
They took the casket through the church doors, leading the procession over soft green grass beside the church, then through the wrought-iron gates of the burial ground. They moved among the headstones to the plot that was one row from the graves of Jenn’s mother and father.
Jenn’s stone wouldn’t be ready for some time.
Following the funeral director’s instructions, they aligned the casket over the open grave, placing it on the straps of the aluminum lowering device. Once everyone was assembled, they remained standing and the reverend read a passage from Ecclesiastes. When the reverend finished, the funeral director released the brake on the device.
Greg’s knees buckled but he caught himself, holding Jake tight to him, as much to steady himself as to comfort his son, tears rolling down their faces as Jenn’s casket descended slowly into the earth, disappearing into the grave.
And with his next heartbeat, Greg saw Jenn on the Florida beach, smiling with one last wave: So long. Bye.
* * *
After Jenn’s burial, a reception was held at the Cedar Winds Community Center, two miles down the road.
Many of the volunteers who’d helped search for her in the first days were there, helping load tables with an array of sandwiches, buns, cold cuts, salads, vegetables, dips, fruit, cheese, crackers, chips, pastries, cookies, and cakes, spread out buffet-style. The book of condolences was set up on a table at the entrance for those who hadn’t yet signed it. It was a casual atmosphere for friends to share memories and celebrate Jenn’s life.
Ties were loosened amid handshaking, hugging, and cheek kissing. Children rushed to the dessert table as people, nearly two hundred in all, found places to sit and talk.
The volunteers guided Greg, Jake, Kat, and Vince to a table reserved for them, where they offered to bring them food, drinks, and coffee. Vince opted to take Jake to the food table. Kat sat with Greg, who declined all offers as he watched.
How can anyone eat? he thought. He supposed it was a matter of closeness. Those who’d come with others but were insulated from grief because they didn’t know Jenn were inclined to eat. Greg thought there was a healing quality to it; that life went on. But not for him, not now, for he was lost in a haze, where all he could hear was one, prolonged scream. It took every molecule he had to go through the motions of being alive as people approached him with their condolences.
Among the first was Nicole Pitcher, a teacher at Jake’s school.
“I’m so sorry, Greg.” Pitcher hugged him. “Jenn was treasured by everyone who knew her.”
Then his neighbors, Holly and Nate Wiley.
“Oh, Greg.” Holly hugged him, sobbing.
“If there’s anything you need,” Nate said, “anything we can do. We’re here for you, Greg.”
Next, Bert Cobb, a custodian at Jake’s school.
“My condolences, Greg.” Cobb took his hand in a warm, firm grip, his face ashen and his voice soft. “Not long ago, I lost my sister.” He swallowed. “You just got to take it one day at a time.”
Greg nodded his appreciation.
Liz Miller, from Jenn’s book club, and her husband, Calvin, were next.
“I just don’t know what to say.” Crimson veins webbed Liz’s eyes. “I’m so, so sorry, Greg.” She embraced him.
When the Millers left, Porter Sellwin stood before Greg.
“My condolences,” Sellwin said. “I know this is a hard time and I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through. Jennifer will always have a special place in my heart. She worked selflessly for the well-being of the kids. I’m so sorry, Greg.”