“Is here alright?” asked the driver as the car came to a stop. I look out the window. The funeral home is right across the street.

Unconsciously, I start picking at my fingernail. “Can you drive around the block a couple times?”

The driver cranes his neck to look at me in the back seat, “Yo, that’s not how Lyft works. You gotta get out, lady.” I grab my purse and open the door.

Crossing the street, I see to of my aunts smoking by the door. They smile as I near. “Hey, Ally, nice to see you,” says Aunt Sarah. Aunt Betty nods politely as she takes a drag.

“Hey, it’s good to see you both,” I muster. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”

They both agree. After some more awkward pleasantries, I open the door. Before it shuts behind me, I hear Sarah, “After two DUIs, I hope she left her flask at home.” I stop dead in my tracks as the door clicks shut. Shame embraces me like an old friend, joined by anger and my old buddy, sorrow. I just have to get through the service, I remind myself.

Inside the funeral home’s foyer, I see my older siblings talking. Greg, the eldest, sees me approach and nudges my sister. Time to put on a happy face. “Hey guys,” I say.

“Hey, sis,” says Corrine. “How’s life?”

“Oh, fine,” I scramble to find something way to spin my story. “It wasn’t really working out with Michael, so breaking up was for the best.” Corrine nods skeptically. She knows I was the one that got dumped.

“Find a job yet?” asks my brother.

It frustrates me how much like Dad he is. “I’ve got some prospects,” I say. “Where’s Mom and Dad?”

“In the parlor by the coffin,” says Corrine. The silence that follows makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

It seemed like my siblings were trading glances. Someone had something to say. Greg sighs, “Please don’t drink at the funeral. It’s only going to make things worse.”

There it was, I don’t know what made me think a conversation involving Greg to be pleasant. “I didn’t bring any booze,” I growled through grit teeth. “I’m not a fuckin’ asshole.” The thing was, now I really wanted a drink to steady my nerves. Corrine’s mouth opened, but I didn’t stick around to hear her back-peddling for our brother.

I need a drink like a fish needs water. Walking around trying to find a room without people, I opened what I thought was a closet door and found a den. The funeral home was apparently attached to a house. The room had a TV, a nice couch, and most importantly, no people.

Opening my clutch, I pulled out my phone. Ten minutes before the memorial service. Just enough time for me to relax. I walked behind couch. Around the corner was a small but fully stocked bar. My eyes passed over the bottles like I’d just struck gold. Jack Daniels, Stolichnaya, and Tanqueray stared back at me. I walked over and picked up the vodka. Every nerve in me warned me to walk away. I licked my lips. It would be so easy to have a drink. Who’d know. Slowly, I put the bottle back, shaking my head. I had a memorial to be at.

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****

I sat in a white folding chair, next to Corrine and her husband, in the parlor of the funeral home. The casket was at the head of the room, flanked by flower arrangements and portraits of my grandma, the patron saint of kindness. Some of my fondest memories are being at grandma’s house for holidays, remembering how the whole place always smelled like fresh coffee, and seeing her wrinkled smile just before she’d go in for a hug. The memories made me feel warm and nostalgic, followed by sad and despondent once I remembered where I was.

The parlor filled up with my relatives. I could see the backs of mom and dad in the front row. Corrine and I were about five rows behind them. The service started by telling us about the deceased, how great she was, how she will be missed. Eventually, it pivoted into people coming up to the podium and telling funny or heartwarming stories about grandma. It’s at this point I miss her most. She never made anyone feel like they were being judged.

Looking down my row, I see two of my cousins subtly pointing towards me and smirking. Talking about the family fuck-up, no doubt. As soon as they notice me looking, their gaze shot back to the front of the room. My fingernails dig into my thighs, I really want a drink. I grab my purse and leave the room quietly dabbing my eyes with a crumpled tissue for anyone who noticed.

Back in the foyer, I make a beeline for the den. I stomp over to the bar, desperation in my footsteps. Grabbing the bottle of vodka, I pop the top and take a long pull from the bottle. The taste sends shivers through my body. Once my face un-scrunches, I take another swig. After another round of shivers, I determine a third shot would put me where I need to be. Closing my eyes, I suck down the hairspray flavored booze. Putting the bottle back, I pop a couple mints in my mouth and return to my little white chair amidst my relatives.

Waiting out the rest of the service wasn’t hard after that. The booze made me slide into apathy, a comfortable attitude of not giving a shit if relatives talked about me. The pastor said a final word and dismissed us, noting that this is our final chance to say goodbye.

Now comes the hardest part. Mom and dad get up with the rest of our family members. Some file out the door, others go over to the coffin. The human traffic subsides as I meet them in the isle. I still feel nervous. Dad holds out his arms, “Come here, kitten.” His eyes are red. He’s been crying. I give him a hug.

Mom rubs my shoulder, “Thank you for making it, it means a lot.” I smile.

Releasing Dad, I look up at him. His smile’s gone. “Stoli make mints now?” I’m busted. I look down and shake my head. It seems like he’s winding up to say something. I feel like a five-year-old who got caught in a lie. Instead of a rant, Dad lets out a heavy sigh and walks away.

Mom gently takes my arm and nods towards the exit. We walk out the back door into the parking lot. “Is everything alright, hunny?”

I bite my lip to hold back my tears. “I’m twenty-five and everyone thinks I’m a fuck-up.” My voice is shaky. “They think I’m an unemployed alcoholic, and they don’t know what my life is right now.”

“It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks of you,” Mom says. “I know you’re in a tough spot right now, with your career and boyfriend. You’re trying to do your best. You’ve made some mistakes, sure, but you’re learning from them. One’s twenties is the time to experiment, take risks, and find out what you want out of life. You’re going to make mistakes, but it’s how you deal with those that help shape you into who you become.”

Hot tears stream down my face and sobs force their way from my chest. Mom wraps her arms around me. “Sometimes a little empathy goes a long way,” she says softly. “Besides, your grandmother came up in the Roaring Twenties, she wasn’t a saint.”

I chuckle and wrap my arms around Mom. It didn’t feel like forgiveness, but now I didn’t feel so alone. It felt like a flame of hope was catching inside me, hope for rising above everything I’m dealing with. Hope that some day soon, my life wouldn’t be as messy and ugly as it is. In this moment, I felt safe, if only for the moment.