The black dress my mother had purchased specifically for this occasion was made from a rough woolen fabric that rubbed unpleasantly against my skin. It felt almost like a punishment, like so many of the decisions my mother made on my behalf.
I spotted Lucy sitting a few pews up between her doting parents, her forefinger twisting absentmindedly through her honey-blonde hair. For as long as I had known her, Lucy had a habit of playing with her hair. She did it unconsciously whenever she was thinking hard about something. Autumn was Lucy’s favorite season, and I couldn’t think of a more befitting way to describe her. She had eyes that were the color of burnt amber and a dewy peaches and cream complexion. She radiated a soft, mellow warmth reminiscent of fall—an old soul in a young girl’s body. Two weeks before, she’d had her braces removed, and her smile was like a burst of sunlight piercing through a raincloud.
On Lucy’s right sat Candela, who was with her mother and her sister, Eve. Where Lucy was soft, like a watercolor, Candela was bold and headstrong. She carried herself like a storm or a melodrama. She could walk into a room and instantly change the atmosphere. Her beautiful olive skin (an ode to her Indian heritage) and sultry bee-stung lips were the envy of every girl at school. She had emerald-green eyes that could turn from warm to icy within the space of a millisecond.
When Ana’s father stood up to speak at the podium, I watched as Lucy glanced over at Candela and the two exchanged a knowing look. Then Candela turned her head around and caught my eye, sending a wry smile in my direction. She began to mouth something to me when her mother tugged sharply at the sleeve of her dress and she abruptly swung her head back around, her raven-black hair sweeping across her slender neck.
After Ana’s eulogy was read, we were each given a white rose (passed down the wooden pews in cane wicker baskets), and the minister instructed us to place them inside the open casket. I was last in line, so by the time I saw her, Ana’s frail body was already covered in flowers. She was even more beautiful in death than when she was alive—if that were possible. She looked like an angel in her white satin dress; her pink glossy lips were set in an expression of peaceful serenity. The locks of tawny-gold hair that framed her perfect heart-shaped face were immaculately brushed and shone like a halo. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, placing my rose somewhere among the other apologies.
At the post-funeral reception, the mood was just as somber. There were no philosophical musings or fond recollections. Ana had left the world too early. As I passed the buffet, the sight and smell of food made my stomach turn. But not so much as the murmurings that caught my ear. “. . . mother didn’t turn up to her own daughter’s funeral . . .”
“. . . brought in for questioning but no charges laid . . .”
“. . . can’t be true.”
“. . . why else would she kill herself?”
“So tragic. Poor girl.”
“. . . disgusting . . .”
It was my moment, then, to clear it all up. To stand on one of the many folding chairs scattered across the room and tell everyone the truth. To say out loud what my mind was screaming in my guilt-ridden silence. That it was my fault Ana was dead.
I was sitting by the window, on a smoky gray chaise lounge, when Candela came to join me.
“Hey, Audrey,” she said.
“Hey,” I replied.
“Where’s Duck?” she asked.
“He’s sick with the flu.”
My boyfriend, Brian Duckman (whom we all called Duck), was the proverbial boy next door. He lived only a few houses away from me, and we could wave at each other if we stood out on the respective decks of our suburban bungalows. We had been friends for as far back as I could remember. One summer, I went away with his family to their lake house up north. At the tail end of our trip, Duck and I were hanging out with some kids down by the lake. We were taking turns running down the length of the jetty and hurling ourselves in the water. When it was my turn, I tripped just as I was about to launch myself into the air, hitting my head on the edge of the decking and tumbling into the lake. Everything went black. When I came to, I was sputtering water freshly pumped from my chest. Murmurs from the crowd around me washed over my ears like a radio signal; the sun blazing overhead seeped into my shut eyelids. Duck had found me at the bottom of the lake. He had to dive twice before he was able to locate my limp body and carry me back to the surface. That night, with my near-death experience on my mind, I snuck into his room, slipped into his bed, and our friendship turned into something more. It was my first time and his as well. For a while, we kept it to ourselves, but eventually it became apparent that we were more than friends. Our mothers had always been close, and it was no secret that they had long since held the romantic notion of Duck and I living happily ever after.
Across the room, Lucy was standing next to her boyfriend, Freddy, and they were in mid-conversation with a boy I didn’t recognize. Lucy had begun dating Freddy only a year ago, but they reminded everyone of an old married couple.
“Who’s that guy Lucy and Freddy are talking to?” I asked Candela.
“That’s Rad—Ana’s boyfriend,” Candela said, and I felt a lurch in my stomach. “He was at St. John’s with Freddy when they graduated last year.”
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know Ana had a boyfriend.”
“Yeah, they’ve been together for ages. Kind of like you and Duck.”
All of a sudden, a memory I had forgotten came back to me, sharp and piercing. It must have been about a year ago. I was standing in line behind Ana at the library. I don’t remember what we were talking about, but when she went to remove her borrowing card, I caught sight of a photo behind the plastic film of her wallet. “Who’s that?” I had asked casually. “Just my boyfriend, Rad,” she had shrugged, removing the photograph and handing it to me. “Isn’t he dreamy?” My eyes had fallen on the monochromatic portrait of a boy standing against a seaside setting, with dark windswept hair and brows softly knitted as though the camera had caught him by surprise. I realized with a sinking feeling that it was the same boy who was now speaking to Lucy and Freddy across the room.
As though sensing he was being watched, Rad looked over, and for one brief moment, our eyes locked. He attempted a half smile—it looked more like a grimace—before turning his attention back to Lucy, who reached out and put her hand on his arm. A few moments later, Freddy and Lucy made their way over to us as Rad strode out of the room.
“How is he?” asked Candela.
“Not good,” said Freddy, with a shake of his head. It was weird seeing Freddy in a suit. He was always in some quirky getup—checked shirts and contrasting ties, Vans with bold floral patterns. He wore black Buddy Holly glasses that teetered at the edge of his nose, and he was always pushing them up again.
“Poor thing,” said Lucy, shaking her head. “He must be going through hell.”
The air seemed to grow thicker all of a sudden, and I stood up quickly. Candela’s eyes darted upward.
“Are you okay, Audrey?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled, “I just need some air.”
I stumbled out onto the back porch a little unsteadily and clung to the wrought iron balustrade, my breathing quick and ragged.
“Are you all right?” came a voice from behind me. I looked back, startled. Rad was sitting on a swinging chair that creaked softly as it swung gently back and forth. He dug his shoes into the ground and walked toward me, a look of concern crossing his face.