My eyes haven’t spotted her yet but the buzz in my veins tells me she’s within reach.
“She’s in there.” Kristen points to a small room around the corner where a door sits partially ajar. “She said she wanted to be alone, but I think you should go in.”
No time for pleasantries, I nod my thanks, offer a passing wave to the guys when they spot me, and head for the other half of my heart.
I push the door open slowly until she comes into view.
Hannah sits in an armchair pulled up to the window. Her arms are crossed on the ledge, chin resting on top as she stares through the glass looking empty and so damn tired.
“Baby?”
Her head snaps up. When her red-rimmed eyes meet mine the emotional dam inside me cracks. We don’t waste a moment. She stands up and I cross the small space and swoop her into my arms.
Soft, sweet, and a little broken, she breathes into the shell of my ear, “You came.”
“Of course I came.”
Lydia wantedto be cremated so the stage is simply adorned with floral displays alongside an enlarged photo propped on an easel. Hannah’s mom’s smile is all teeth, head thrown back in laughter—joy incarnate. She and her daughter look so much alike the realization manages to warm and break my heart all at once.
Per Lydia’s wishes, the funeral is simple, not overly morose. There’s no open mic time or drawn out montage video of snapshots set to music. Hannah didn’t want people to dawdle.“Get to the after partyand talk about me over cheese and wine,”she’d said, recounting her mother’s instructions. My grin at the memory is involuntary because I laughed out loud when she told me the first time.
Lydia James, for as little as I knew her, was a one of a kind woman.
Hannah doesn’t cry much during the service. Perhaps because she has no tears left or maybe because she’s spent months, years, preparing for this day. All I know is she never lets go of my hand—from the time we leave the family room to when I help her into her car, she holds on.
Everyone gathers at Hannah’s house after the service for the“after party”as Lydia called it. And that’s exactly what it is: a party. For every story I hear from one of her friends about whatever hijinks Lydia was up to at her yoga class, or farmer’s market, or art studio way back when or way too recently, I overhear a dozen more. Smiles and laughter reverberate off the walls and from every corner. Everyone knows what Lydia battled over the past several years, and they know how she wanted to be remembered. And they’re doing one hell of a job.
Hannah floats through the crowd, ever the hostess. Kristen, Richard, and I encourage her to sit down on more than one occasion, offering to take care of whatever dishes or clean-up task she’s busied herself with. Her spirits remain high through the early afternoon, but I notice the exhaustion settling in as the day wears on. When someone you love dies, nobody prepares you for how much workyouhave to do in comforting others through their grief. And the happy kind of grief can be just as tasking as the sad kind.
I find Richard at the kitchen sink rinsing a stack of plates and come up beside him, grabbing a dish towel. “Let me help.”
We work in silence for a couple minutes, occasionally glancing behind us when an uproar of laughter trickles in from the living room.
“I never got a chance to thank you,” I say.
“Thank me for what?”
“First off, for being here.” His eyes bounce to mine, then back to the sink. “I’m sorry for your loss. Lydia was…”
“She was. And no thank you is necessary. I was exactly where I wanted to be.”
I nod once, dip my chin, and cast a long look to Hannah on the couch. “And for helping me with those texts.”
Richard grins softly, drying his hands. We both turn and settle our backs against the counter. For a few moments, we watch the chaos around the coffee table unfold.
“They were all hers, you know,” he says. I meet his gaze. “Every word. I just typed them out.” His hand grips my shoulder. “Your messages brought her so much comfort and you need to know that.”
I take a breath, trying to let go of the guilt I feel over not being here to say what I needed to say to her face.
“And I deleted them from Lydia’s phone like you asked,” he adds with an accomplice’s wink.
I grin wide, thank him, and shake his hand, knowing full well those messages from Lydia still live on my phone. When the time is right, I’ll share them with her daughter.
Over the next hour, people begin to clear out and for the few remaining stragglers as the sun begins to set, Kristen politely nudges them out the door.
Hannah, barefoot and shoulders slumped, heads for the kitchen. “Hey, just go on back to bed. Kris and I will take care of all this.” She casts a weary look over the stack of casserole dishes, homemade pies, and bags of groceries littering every surface until she finally gives in and pads down the hall.
It takes us forty-five minutes to reconfigure the fridge to squeeze everything in and tidy up the house. After Kristen leaves, I check the locks, shut off the lights, and make my way to Hannah’s bedroom. It’s barely past dinner time, but I just want to climb under the blankets and hold her.