Page 22 of The Beachgoers
ten
— Then —
10 Years Ago, End of August
The Visitor
DO YOU THINK JASON WILL be here?”
The young woman asking sits in the passenger seat of a dusty pickup truck pulling into a parking lot. She nods, too, toward their destination—St. Bernard’s Church. Damp sea air has weathered its cedar shingles driftwood gray. The bottom third of its stained-glass windows are tilted open to let in any salty breezes. On this late-August morning, there’s also a black hearse parked at the church doors.
“Probably not, Lauren. He wasn’t at the wake yesterday,” the man driving the truck says as he parks and shuts off the engine.
“But this is his brother’s funeral.” With one hand, the woman tucks her blonde hair behind an ear and turns to him. “Come on, Kyle.This is goodbye,” she whispers.
Kyle looks from Lauren to the hearse. “I doubt they can take Jason out of the hospital, Ell. I talked to his parents last night. You know, at the wake.” He looks back at her now, across the seat. “His mother told me he’s been sleeping a lot—most of the time, actually. But he’s got the best doctors. Still, with everyone here at the funeral, she worried that he’d be alone today.”
“Well that’s really sad.”
They’re quiet, then. This couple in the pickup is dressed formally: he in a black suit and tie, she in a short jacket over a dark paisley-print skirt—its handkerchief hem draping below her knees.
Lauren digs into her shoulder bag for a tissue. Dabbing it at her eyes, she finally asks, “How can everything feel so suddenly wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
She shakes her head with a quick breath. “I mean, just like that, the world changed. I broke up with you a week ago, Kyle. Put my diamond ring on this very dashboard,” she says, holding up her ringless left hand. “And I left you for Neil.” Fresh tears fill her eyes as she fights a lump in her throat. “Now, a week later, Neil’s being put in the ground? And Jason’s barely conscious in the hospital, with half his leg amputated? This isn’t how life’s supposed to be. Everything feels wrong, wrong, wrong.”
“It’s a bad time,” Kyle says, watching the parked hearse. “I know.”
“Eventhisis wrong,” Lauren insists, crying now.
“What is?”
“This.” Lauren motions back and forth between them. “You and me going to the funeraltogether. My parents could’ve brought me.”
“Wehadto come together, Lauren.”
“But after everything—”
“Listen. No one evenknowsour wedding’s off. Which is why I called you to come with me here. We can’t pin our breakup on this day. Couldn’t show up separately and start explainingthatat Neil’sfuneral.” Kyle hesitates. “Like it or not, we just have to get through this together, and keep the breakup private,” his low voice says. “For a little while longer, anyway.”
Still they just sit—very far apart—in the truck. A steady stream of cars and pickup trucks and SUVs turns into the church parking lot. There’s a waiting line of even more traffic backed up on the street. Each vehicle’s blinker flashes; each car inches along until it pulls in. In the parking lot, people walk past the hearse and into the church.
“We should go in now,” Kyle says, glancing at Lauren before opening his door.
But she doesn’t get out. She seems incapable of talking, walking, moving. She just sits there in her pretty jacket and handkerchief-hem skirt—a complete wreck.
So Kyle buttons his suit jacket, walks around the pickup truck and opens her door. He leans close and holds out his arm. “Take my hand.”
“Kyle,” she whispers, dabbing at her eyes again. “I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
“You won’t, Ell. Come on, just take my hand.”
She looks at him with her tear-filled eyes. Reluctantly, she puts her hand in his as he helps her out of the truck. After straightening her long skirt, they cross the parking lot. Kyle never lets go of her hand, either, as they walk, side by side, into the church.
* * *
“As we take leave of our brother Neil, give our hearts peace in the firm hope that the gates of Your kingdom will open…”
