She should have had weeks longer to live. Hospice wasn’t even coming until the next day. But that night, my mother closed her eyes and didn’t open them again. None of us was with her, but she wouldn’t have wanted us there. In fact, I’m quite sure that if we had kept vigil over her bedside, she would have held on longer, too long even. I love that the last memory I have of my mother is her smiling, surrounded by her children and grandchildren, on the beach. I love that she closed her eyes for good in Peachtree Bluff, one of the places she treasured most in the world. She would have told us not to cry, would have told us to dance instead. But how could I dance when my mother was gone? Simply knowing she was there made me feel like I had someone.
The last person on the planet who loved me unconditionally was gone. Forever. I would never see her again. At first, it terrified me to my core. But then I realized that was my job now. My job was to love the other people in my life unconditionally. I could give that so fully because I had received it so very well.
If anyone had asked, I would have told them that was the thing my mother taught me best of all.
OUR HOUSE HAD BECOME a command center. So many people were filing in and out that I couldn’t remember everyone’s names. As it turned out, the Peachtree “Funeral Fairies,” which were instated when my grandmother was alive, were still thriving. They were here to help, like it or not.
They stuffed the already full freezer with yet more casseroles, defrosted frozen lemonade for the funeral punch, and generally made a lot of noise to keep me from hearing my thoughts. I was most appreciative, as my thoughts were not ones anyone would want to hear.
Well, except for one. The one I kept hearing over and over again, between the bouts of crippling devastation: you have six months.
“Ansley, dear,” I heard Mrs. McClasky say. My skin crawled. I wasn’t wild about having all these people in my house.
I heard the back door open and saw Hippie Hal with a bucket of wildflowers in one hand. He took one look at Mrs. McClasky, made a horrified face at me, and jetted back down the steps. I had to put my hand over my mouth to keep her from seeing my laugh. Hippie Hal and Mrs. McClasky were on-again, off-again mortal enemies because, in addition to a variety of other very useful skills, Hal refurbished bikes—and generally had no fewer than 150 of them scattered about his front yard, which Mrs. McClasky found reprehensible and deemed it appropriate to say so at every single town meeting.
If she noticed my laughter she didn’t let on. “Darling, the altar guild brought these dreadful black napkins. I thought your mother would much prefer white linen.”
I smiled supportively. “Thank you so much. I appreciate your attention to detail. I have 150 linen napkins starched and hanging in the coat closet.” I paused. I needed to give her a job, preferably a time-consuming one, if I was going to make it through this. “Mrs. McClasky, would you be so kind as to fold them for me?” I whispered behind my hand, “I’m certain none of these people knows how to do it properly.”
She smiled authoritatively. “Oh, of course, darling. I’ll do them all myself.”
I peered into my dining room where there were women polishing silver, women arranging flowers, women standing in the corner admiring or criticizing my light fixtures, women fussing over the punch bowl. In the living room were yet more women, who I assumed were waiting to receive gifts, food, and flowers from whoever stopped by. I wanted to tell my mother about it. She would find it terribly funny, all these women making such a fuss. And then I remembered my mother was gone. I would never talk to her or laugh with her over one of life’s little absurdities again. I wanted my mother. It was as though the rest of my life was stretching out in front of me, long and bleak and empty.
I suddenly felt so sorry and so stupid that I had wasted time resenting her for not being there for me. And now she was gone. All I wanted was the time back. The typhoon of all those emotions washed over me.
I knew all these people meant well, and in some ways, I was grateful for them. In others, I just wanted a quiet house where I could mourn my loss. When no one was looking, I opened the pantry door, thankful I had opted against the French style with the glass panes, and sat down on the overturned mop bucket, my head in my hands.
My mother was gone, and I was all alone with these three daughters who were my responsibility and, in some ways, that felt harder and bigger and even crazier.
I heard a hand on the doorknob and wiped my eyes. I don’t know who I expected to see. One of my daughters, my grandchildren, Jack maybe. One of the dozens of women who had invaded in the march of the Funeral Fairies. But nothing could have prepared me to stand up and nearly run right smack into a teary-eyed John. When he saw me, he didn’t say a word, just engulfed me in his massive hug. He was tall, broad, and strong, and much to the chagrin of Scott and me, the most attractive of the siblings. He had these bright blue eyes and long eyelashes that were balanced out by his masculine features. He was stoic and a giant ass, so it was a tad shocking to be standing in my pantry with this hulk of
