Tears sprouted in her eyes. “I know how much you loved her.”
“Thank you, Oma.” I had never noticed their Belgian accents when I was little, but they had only just moved to Antwerp then. This was how I could mark the years: Oma and Opa had lived there long enough to develop accents.
Opa patted me on the arm. I took a moment to look around the chilly and depressing reception area. There was only a long modern sofa with flat leather cushions. Its hard seats were dark brown and the multicolored beige and orange backrests had been added in an attempt to bring some cheer to the room. Everything was nondenominational. There was no sign of a cross or a Buddha anywhere. We had been asked if we wanted to have a priest and politely declined. This room was as pragmatic as the Dutch, with nothing to suggest anything as nebulous as heaven or an afterlife. I closed my eyes and offered a prayer to our gods. Please take Grandma into the company of our ancestors.
The funeral director, a stubby man in a dark suit, greeted us and led us to the room reserved for immediate family. It resembled a typical Dutch living room, with a few square indigo fabric couches arranged around two mismatched coffee tables. We sat and were served tea and coffee. It felt like we were visiting distant relatives, not saying farewell to the woman I had loved the most, the only real mother I had ever had.
Then the director told us that if we wished, we could take leave of the departed privately in the mourning room. Oma, Opa, Helena, and Willem stood but I remained. Lukas stayed behind with me, shifting closer on the sofa. I would not share my grief with Helena and did not think she wished me to witness hers either. After an awkward pause, they left.
When they returned, their eyes were swollen and most of Helena’s makeup had worn off. I had not bothered to put on any cosmetics. Then Lukas and I entered the mourning room together. It was tiny, barely enough room for a few people to stand around the closed red mahogany coffin set on a high table in the center. Two lonely chairs leaned against the wall, which had been painted a calming beige.
I could not comprehend it: Grandma was inside that coffin. How could she breathe? It made no sense. How tiny she must be inside there. I felt a sudden urge to open the lid, to release her, to set her free. “She does not like that clunky Dutch-size thing.”
Then a large hand took mine and Lukas wrapped me in his arms. “She is already gone. She is free.” I closed my eyes and rested my cheek against his shoulder as he stroked my hair. He said softly, “No more pain. No gasping for air.”
Then we were racked with sobs again, our arms around each other, the two children Grandma had tended.
“We were not here,” I whispered. “I let her down. It was all my fault.”
“No.” He held my chin in his hand and bent to brush away my tears. “She wanted it this way. Do you remember the last thing she said to us?”
“‘Open your hearts. Be happy.’” And with those words, my burden lightened just a bit. In my mind, I said, Grandma, I know you can hear me. I love you.
I heard her answer in my heart: I love you too, Snow Jasmine.
When it was time for the ceremony, Lukas, Willem, Opa, Oma, Helena, and I acted as the pallbearers. We took the six handles on the coffin. It was heavier than I had expected. The wood probably weighed more than Grandma herself. Opa and Oma stood at the front, Helena and I were in the middle, and Lukas and Willem took up the rear.
The handle burned into my hand. The pressure was unbearable. I was carrying the body of Grandma. A tear rolled over my cheek. She was truly inside. I would never see her again, feel her hands holding mine. I would never get to take her on a luxurious holiday, treat her to a restaurant, or take her home to China. It was too late.
As we entered the main room, I was surprised to find people in attendance. I had not expected anyone. Estelle and Filip sat in the front row. It was clear Estelle had been crying, and Filip gave me a small sympathetic smile. Perhaps I had not completely ruined our circle of friends. Our neighbors were all here, the good faithful Dutch. Even though Grandma had never learned how to speak to them, they still came. The music was some generic classical assortment that the crematorium had chosen. Grandma never told me if she had a preference.
As we approached the front, I was pleased to find the table for the coffin laid out in the Chinese way, with a large framed picture of Grandma at the front. I examined it more closely and realized it was one of the photos Lukas had taken the day I had done her hair and makeup.
Lukas whispered to me as we took our places, “She picked it out herself.”
The room was austere—rows of chairs in a neat line facing the coffin and the podium, which would remain unused. For the Chinese, a funeral is a time for grief, tears, breast-beating, folding of sacred papers to be burned that will then turn into gold and silver for the deceased. The room should be thick with incense smoke. Where were the chanting monks, the mourners overwhelmed with pain? Oh, Grandma, I thought, we have come into a strange foreign land.
Her flowers had not been made into Chinese funeral wreaths. Helena and Willem had never followed the old customs here. What would the neighbors say about us burning ritual papers in the backyard? I thought with gratitude of Ma and Pa, who had always followed our traditions in their little back garden, where the anonymity of New York City protected us—no one had ever said a word if they noticed us at all—and of the kind monks in our temple in Chinatown, where we went to find out our fortunes for the year, each prophecy shaken from a bamboo jar. How I wished I could have taken Grandma. How much room could there be for regrets in one person? Mine were infinite.
Estelle dabbed her face with a tissue and Filip linked his arm through hers. I had known this day was coming. How, then, was it still so bitter? It hurt to leave Grandma behind in her coffin as we left the room.
In the other room, everyone was served tea or coffee and a slab of cake. It was very civilized. The neighbors, embarrassed by any strong emotion, including grief, gave us all the eternal three kisses on our cheeks, said, “Condolences,” and left. None of them had truly known Grandma. She was just the funny little Chinese woman who lived on their street.
There was a tap on my arm. It was Filip. I let him draw me outside the room under Lukas’s watchful gaze.
When we were alone, he said, “Is it going all right?” He did not wait for me to answer before pulling me into his arms and holding me tight. “Do not blame yourself.”
I sniffed. “I am so sorry, Filip.” I had treated him so badly.
His voice was muffled in my hair. “It was always only a jest between the two of us, darling. I knew that.”
I let him leave it at that. But if that was true, why had he been so angry in Venice?
As I returned to the room, I thought of the Dutch children’s song:
In a green, green, green, green tuber tuber country
There are two hares, very dapper
And the one blew the flute-flute-flute
And the other hit the drum
Then suddenly a hunter-hunter-man came
And he shot one
And that made—you must know—
The other sad and worried
Now with Grandma gone, one of my two lifelines had disappeared, the security of her arms, her smile, her love for me.
Lukas was all I had left here.
Telephone Call
Thursday, April 28