It was the first time I sat down all day, and I was determined to enjoy it. How to get past that smell though. I twisted around to open the cabinet under the sink with my foot. I scanned the labels of toilet scrubs and countertop disinfectants and spied something with lilacs on the label, tucked way back. It was old, the top rusty but a quick spray revealed it was still of high potency. In a few seconds, I was transported to a lilac chemical grove. Beautiful. I took a few inhales and leaned back, the tank cold against the small of my back.
This was my second wake this month, another one of my parents’ acquaintances. They concurred it was an unusually busy month. This one was for Fred Butler, a member of the Eastwood Photography Club with my dad. I did my obligatory kneeling at the open casket. It was a good thing I came in with my parents as it was hard to remember what Mr. Butler looked like without a camera pressed up to his face. His wife gripped my hand. “Oh, he loved taking photos for your wedding, Carol dear,” she said. I was amazed by her memory, even if she got me mixed up with my sister. That wedding was nearly 30 years ago. I nodded and hugged her a one-arm hug.
Fred did take photos for my wedding, for the failed marriage one. The one and only one. I came across the photos in the back attic when I was moving in with my folks (again). The ex and I are hopefully and hopelessly young, no evidence at the corners of our mouths or eyes of the upcoming doom. He didn’t have that curious vacant and struggling look he later acquired. He doesn’t even look drunk in any of them, though chances are good that he was.
For my own comic relief, I flushed the toilet. “I’m gonna flush that man right outta my…,” I sang. I better get back in there, make another round. By then, my parents would be ready to go. It was nearly four o’clock and they ate dinner in about fifteen minutes. I sprayed again and thoughtfully left the spray on the top of the sink, next to the antibacterial soap.
Making my out of that room wasn’t easy. I got stuck on the rug almost immediately. The rug at the Holden Funeral Home is out of this world. The plushest, thickest pile ever. There must be a futon-thick carpet pad under there lifting it six inches off the ground. My heels were a measly two inches, the highest I own, but everyone else, the over-seventy group were in running shoes or orthopedic type shoes. I fell into tiny Mrs. Patrick, my first grade teacher, who was waiting outside the bathroom. We exchanged pleasantries after I made certain I hadn’t dislocated her shoulder.
“So nice of you to come,” she said. “Now where are you living?”
“I’m back with the folks,” I said. I’ve learned to just smile brilliantly and keep it short at this, instead of trying to explain, or lying, which is what I did the last time I moved home. That was after the aforementioned marriage disaster. “Nice to see you!”
“Lovely to see you dear,” Mrs. Patrick said and tottered into the bathroom at a slight angle, maybe because of the overpowering lilac bouquet.
Even though I was sure there was a completely reasonable explanation why she was at Mr. Bryant’s wake, I wondered momentarily if all my hometown cast of characters were going to start popping out to remind me of my boomerang life…