I don’t like to think of my sister as dead, but that can’t be helped.
She’s there now at the foot of the altar, resting peacefully as if nothing’s happened at all. They made her look different—she didn’t use to wear makeup before, and now she’s so fucking caked in it that they might as well have put a mask on her. The lower half of her coffin’s closed—why do they always do that?—and with her hands gloved and laid across her stomach, you can’t see any markings.
“Felix, if you’re not going up there, you should take a seat.” The voice is Aunt Evora’s. She comes up behind me, placing a comforting but firm hand on my back to push me toward the pews. I guess I’ve been standing in the aisle for too long. For a moment, I tell myself I can go to the casket to see the body up close, but that confidence turns to shit almost immediately. I choose one of the pews on the left.
“So far back?” she asks. “You should be in the front with us.”
“I don’t think I can get that close,” I say, which is the truth. Every time I look up at my sister’s immobile form—even the smallest, most accidental glance—I feel a surge of despair. It feels wrong not to be up there, but I couldn’t spend the entire funeral planted directly in front of her. Besides, I can see the heads of two people who might object to me joining the up-front crew. “This is where I always sit.”
“Be an adult, Felix.”
“I am,” I insist, “but that’s my sister. If you don’t want me to make a scene, you’ll let me sit back here.”
Knowing how much my aunt hates anything that “makes a scene,” I enter my preferred row of pews. Aunt Evora purses her lips, but that she doesn’t say anything is a sign she’s bestowed her reluctant approval.
“Genuflect!” she hisses, before turning away and striding toward the altar.
Obediently, I step back out into the aisle, kneel, and cross myself—feeling vaguely embarrassed for having forgotten. Despite finding myself here every goddamn (sorry) weekend, I’ve fallen out of practice with a few of the motions. Some old habits die hard, while others leave you for dead.
That expression might’ve been a bit distasteful seeing as I’m at—well.
I catch another glimpse of my sister and there’s a pain in my throat. Quickly, I lift my gaze to the Jesus figure hovering over the altar. When I was younger, the wooden carving of the Son of God used to terrify the shit out of me, not only because—true to classic Catholic morbidity—he was depicted nailed to a cross with painted blood dripping from the wounds in his hands, feet, and torso, but because I thought the statue was actually flying above the priest’s head. If at any moment I wasn’t praying hard enough or obeying the commandments, he looked poised to soar out over the congregation to strike me down. Only later would I figure out the statue was hung from the ceiling with cables. Children have ludicrous imaginations.
Movement at the podium.
My brother-in-law has taken the stand. Brian looks like he hasn’t slept well in several days, though he smiles politely at everyone gathered in the church. When they don’t see him waiting patiently, he speaks into the microphone. His voice is deep and soothing.
“Hello, everybody. I would like to thank you all for making the effort to be here today for Dores. I know she would have appreciated it, as do I. If you wouldn’t mind finding your seats, we’re going to begin shortly.” He rejoins his family in the front row. I can just see the top of Mariana’s head poking over the back of the pew, and I wonder if she understands that her mother is the one on display. I imagine she knows but doesn’t truly grasp what the lifeless body means. Again, I feel a pain rising in my throat and I have to avert my gaze. Mariana is so young. I hope this doesn’t steal that joyful part of her personality. She doesn’t deserve to lose her mother.
None of us deserved to lose Dores.
The people quiet down, ceasing their idle chatter to find a place in one of the many rows of benches. I spot several relatives—most of whom I haven’t seen, nor spoken to in years—clustered together on the opposite side of the aisle. Our family is larger than most, though not extensive by any means. Mom was one of four. So was Dad—Evora included. But I’m not close to any of my aunts or uncles for one reason or another. Aunt Evora’s the only one I talk to regularly, but that’s just because she’s also the only one who lives in Sacramento.
The priest begins the funeral rights and I fade into the rafters, listening as though I’m standing in the foyer beyond the closed doors. Everything is muffled. When I realize this, I feel some guilt—after all, this is my sister’s funeral—but it’s a reflexive response I have whenever religious proceedings take place. Aunt Evora and some cousin whose name I can’t remember read bible verses from the podium, and the pianist plays a couple songs in a truly impressive mechanical manner. We kneel and stand, hold hands and mumble prayers in unison. When it’s time to go up for communion, I debate whether I should participate. I’d normally go without second thought, but doing so means willingly placing myself in close proximity to my sister’s corpse. I feel the pressure of dozens of eyes on me whether real or imagined. And a voice in my head reminds me that it is Dores’ funeral. So, despite my trepidation, I join the swaying lines of attendees trudging toward the altar.
The entire journey, I either keep my eyes focused painfully on the ground or on the priest’s hands as he passes me a host. I don’t even chance a look at Aunt Evora and the gang in the front row, knowing that the sight of the nameless two gathered alongside her will bring its own set of troubles.
Then it’s time for eulogies, something I’ve been dreading all fucking morning. Brian had telephoned me while preparations for the funeral were under way. He was gentle about it, but he’d inadvertently signed me up for something I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to do.
“I don’t know when you want to speak,” he’d said, as though me speaking was a foregone conclusion.
It’s your sister’s funeral.
“You can go first if you like. I know public speaking isn’t your favorite thing to do.”
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
It might actually be my least favorite, but I couldn’t refuse, knowing what kind of a dick that would make me out to be.
So, when the priest calls me up, I stand obediently, my hands already shaking and perspiration beading on my spine. I nod at everyone who has turned to look at me. Deep down, I’m sure their hundred-watt smiles are meant to be encouraging, but in my mind, each toothy simper does little more than remind me everyone here knows I’ve got issues. I clear my throat and step out of the pew, heading for the altar before hearing Aunt Evora’s perfunctory cough. I’ve forgotten to genuflect again, I guess, but it’s too late now. I lumber up to the front of the church, my footsteps echoing into the raised ceiling.
Then I’m at the podium, adjusting the microphone, my struggle coming across in blaring thuds through the sound system. This is not the right time to look out at the dozens of people watching me, which is, of course, exactly what my dumbass does before nearly swallowing my tongue.
“Dores…Dores was my sister.” Not a strong start.
Last night, I’d tried a seemingly infinite number of times to write a eulogy out, but every single effort was trash. Not a single goddamn attempt was worth keeping. Every sentence I wrote, I erased at double the speed it took to come up with the words. How was I supposed to summarize the life of the woman lying dead before me? That was an impossible task. We’d spent thirty-four years together and she’d lived for an additional two before that. If someone were to summarize my life in a five-minute sentiment, that might be easy. But Dores?
Everyone’s waiting patiently, but I can tell a few are already restless. To them, this is typical Felix.
“She was many things: a daughter, a wife, a mother, a journalist. But to me she was a sister. Our family taught us about life, but she taught me about people. How to make friends. How to try new things—experiment for myself without crossing the line. She was a voice for me when I couldn’t find that voice myself, and I will never forget that.” Several family members shift in their seats. Aunt Evora is no longer looking me in the eye. So I immediately fall silent for a few seconds, figuring out where to go next. Only Brian’s gaze is steady. He looks genuinely touched by my words. I can’t help but notice Mariana beside him though. She hasn’t stopped staring at her mother.
“Dores once said to me, ‘Sometimes, the hardest thing to do is to realize you need help and to ask for it.’ But I never had to ask with her. She always knew. Somehow. It was like an instinct. And I think most people who knew her would agree. That was what made her so special, and that’s what I’ll miss the most.”
Nods from the congregation. I breathe a sigh of relief, certain by now that the back of my suit is three shades darker with sweat. I suppose one silver lining of being this wracked with stage fright is that I was so focused on my nerves I got through the eulogy without dissolving into tears. A sad compromise, but I do most of my grieving on my own time.
“I love you, Dores. I’ll miss you always,” I finish, then hurry away from the altar.
Brian stands up immediately to follow my speech. And by the time I’m taking my seat, he’s at the microphone, his eyes already glistening. I would be absolutely mortified to cry in front of so many people. But there’s no chance my mind would ever allow for raw emotion to surface with so many eyes on me. At least where I’m concerned, any reaction becomes performative where expectations are involved. It’s how I’ve always been—even as a child opening presents on Christmas and knowing the gift-givers were watching.
“Dores was the best human being I knew,” Brian begins, speaking slowly and deliberately to maintain control. Whereas the room had an air of awkward tension while I was at the podium, it feels now like we’re all poised on an emotional precipice and the wrong word might send us plummeting into tears. I can feel the pain in his voice and I hang my head. “She cared so deeply about everything and everyone. She not only wished to make the world understand one another, she wanted to teach every individual how to be compassionate. That was and always will be her greatest strength.
“She loved her job, and she approached it with an open mind at all times. It was less a job and more a lifestyle.” He smiles to himself, remembering something that none of us can see, though we share that specific space with him now. “Sometimes, in my lesser moments when we were debating, I’d say, ‘Stop interrogating me. I’m not an interviewee.’ Usually, that was when I could tell I was losing the argument.”
A few people chuckle.
“She would respond—very calmly, mind you—‘I’m not debating you, Brian. I’m just trying to understand your side.’ And she would. She would always come to understand.” Brain stares down at his hands on the podium, or perhaps his notes. The pause is long enough that I wonder if he’s crying, if he’s finally lost composure—I can hear several sniffs from the congregation. When he looks up again, his eyes are dry though—morose, but dry.
“Not many people know this because Dores was embarrassed to talk about it, but I think it’s important that we talk about these things—destigmatize them. And maybe we can lessen the number of people who come to meet the same devastating fate as my late wife.” Brian takes a deep breath, steeling himself against what he wants to say. My heart skips a beat as I have no idea what’s coming next, unaware that she’d been hiding something from the world.
“Dores was diagnosed with Lacrimosus several months ago,” he says, then pauses again as a murmur runs through the church. Dozens of guests turn to one another, muttering unintelligible words that coalesce into a humming—like an active beehive. Expecting this response, Brian waits until the talk has died down. “She had it under control—or so we believed. She was medicating, she was fine most of the time. And from the outside, she made it so that you couldn’t even tell. But the illness was there, eating away at her still. And in the end, she succumbed to it by suicide.”
More murmurs, but this time Brian doesn’t wait.
“In one of the last conversations she and I had, Dores encouraged me to talk to people. Never assume that they were fine just because they appeared to be okay. You can’t even tell most people who have Lacrimosus are suffering from it. So, in the words of my late wife, who I will not have the opportunity to discuss anything with for a very long time: talk to your loved ones, try your best to understand them, and let them know you love them. I miss you, Dores. I look forward to seeing you again someday.”
He’s crying by the end of it, thin streams cutting down his dark cheeks. Before returning to his seat, he goes to the casket and lays a gentle hand on my sister’s arm. A lump forms in my throat and I might have started crying too, except my mind still clings to his words—this revelation about her condition.
My sister was suffering from Lacrimosus—had been diagnosed several months ago—and nobody had fucking thought to tell me? Nobody had shared this crucial tidbit, and now I’m only finding out about it after my sister’s suicide? My heart sinks, leaving a void in my chest that quickly fills with a mixture of guilt and sadness. I know I shouldn’t be making any of this about me—my sister is the one who’s dead, after all—but I can’t help feeling this diagnosis had been purposely kept secret from me. I know others in the family avoided contact because in addition to being bigoted ass-wipes they thought me unstable, but I’d always taken for granted that Dores was an open book where I was concerned.
I guess that wasn’t the case after all.
Don’t make this about you.
Brian heads back to his seat in the front row, but my eyes linger on Dores’ profile. I can’t see much from this angle, but it’s enough to recognize her by. Any hurt I feel inside is suddenly overcome with a wave of sadness.
I’m acutely aware of my inability to be a source of comfort—have been for the better part of my life—but I’d have hoped that she knew she could come to me at any time and I would’ve done my best not to judge her. Maybe I wouldn’t have known what to say or what to do, but at the very least, I wouldn’t have dismissed her or turned her away.
It’s too late to ask her now, but I hope she knew that.