The Funeral Singer (21 page)

Not now, he’d said. But maybe someday?

***

I holed up in my room for the next two days, shades drawn, trying to avoid the world. I ignored my emails and texts—all from reporters and haters. My friends, if I still had any, had fallen off the face of the earth. The few times I dared to check my Facebook page and Twitter feeds, I ended up in tears. People could be downright ugly. I didn’t hear from Zed, and honestly, I didn’t want to.

The nights were the worst. I had a recurring dream where I was talking to Mick’s grandmother, only instead of sitting in my mom’s cozy office, we were trapped in a huge crypt. It always ended the same way: I’d turn to her and say, “I wish I’d known Mick,” and she would grab my arm with a cold, bony hand and snarl, “You wanted him dead.” Over and over, I woke up in a cold sweat.

Finally, on Monday morning, I made a decision. I needed to go see her. Everyone and their dog hated me—two minutes on Facebook or Twitter was enough to confirm that—but she was the one who was haunting me.

I snuck down to the funeral home during Dawn’s lunch break and went onto the computer. A quick search of my dad’s database turned up Ruth Nolan’s address, and I headed out with the Jetta.

***

A large fountain graced the entrance to the Meadowbrook Retirement Community. Mick’s grandmother lived in the last cul-de-sac on the left, and her car, with its familiar Grime bumper sticker, sat in the driveway.

Shoot. A part of me had hoped she wouldn’t be home. What would I say? What could I possibly do to make things right? Even worse, what if she hadn’t watched the news this weekend and didn’t know what had happened yet? What then?

The look on Mrs. Nolan’s face when she opened the door told me she did know. “Come in.” She pointed to a chair at a small table. She acted almost as though she were expecting me. “Can I get you some tea?”

“No, thank you, I’m fine.” I perched on the edge of the chair. “I came to apologize.”

Mrs. Nolan disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a teapot. “Is Earl Grey okay?”

“No, really, I—”

She began to pour.

“Thank you. That’s very kind.”

She sat across from me and sipped silently. It was a mild day, but I felt chilled. I cupped the mug in my hands, grateful for its warmth. “I don’t know what to say. I guess there isn’t much I can say other than I’m sorry. I’m truly, truly sorry.” My voice caught.

Mrs. Nolan said nothing, simply continued to sit and drink her tea. She had an old-fashioned clock on the wall, and its tick, tick, tick punctuated the silence. I watched as the steam rose from her tea. Why didn’t she say something? Anything?

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I almost wished she’d yell at me or tell me to get out. Anything but this awkward silence.

Finally, she set her mug down and stood. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

She led me through a small kitchen and through the back door. On one side of her yard, a small dogwood tree showed off its delicate pink blooms. On the other grew her vegetable garden. It was huge, with perfectly straight rows of sprouts and vines. Mrs. Nolan led me toward a small shed at the back of the garden. She opened the doors to reveal dozens of gardening tools mounted to the walls in rows as neat as her vegetables.

“Want to know who built this?” she asked. “Want to know who gave me all of these tools?”

I could guess, but I just nodded and waited.

“Michael. He did it because he knew how much I enjoyed my garden.” She picked up a spade and cradled it in her hands as if it were a rare jewel. “The world remembers Mick as a musician who died of a drug overdose, but I remember him as a wonderful, giving, caring grandson. Do you understand?”

Understand what? Was she trying to make me feel worse? If so, it was working. “I can tell you loved him very much,” I said finally.

Mrs. Nolan nodded and set the spade down. “Yes. Still do.”

She closed the shed door and walked past me back into the house.

I leaned against the shed. What now? Should I follow her inside? Leave? I’d done what I came to do. Surely nothing else I could say would make a difference. Ty had called what I did “unforgiveable,” and maybe he was right.

I walked around the house and back out to the street. As I opened the car door, Mrs. Nolan appeared on her front porch.

“Melanie,” she called.

“Yes?” I took a few steps toward her.

“Why did you sing ‘Amazing Grace’ that day? Was it because you wanted to become famous?”

“No, of course not.” How could she think that? I didn’t even know it would end up on the news, much less on YouTube. “I sang it for you.”

Mrs. Nolan nodded and gave me a thin smile. “Yes, you did.” She turned and walked back inside, shutting the door behind her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

A light drizzle fell as the guests arrived for Milton’s funeral. As I’d done so many times before, I snuck through the back of the funeral home and up to the balcony before anyone could see me.

I didn’t want to be there and I doubted any of them wanted me there either, but Lana’s grandfather had signed a pre-need contract after his wife’s ceremony naming me as vocalist. “Prettiest singing I ever heard,” he’d told my dad. “Eleanor would have loved it.”

Had he known I would eventually desecrate the dead, humiliate myself on video and become a worldwide pariah, perhaps he wouldn’t have written down my name, but what was done was done and my father was determined to fulfill his wishes.

Milton was laid out at the front of the chapel in a dark sycamore casket. On a small round table beside him sat four framed photos: one of him as a young man in uniform; one of him and Eleanor on their wedding day; one of him, Eleanor and Dumbledore a few years ago; and the photo we’d taken of him with Lana and her mom just a few hours before he died.

“Milton asked that we sing this first hymn together.” Dad glanced up to make sure I was in place. “The lyrics are in your program. Please stand as you are able.”

It was “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” the same song he’d requested for Eleanor’s funeral. The final verse seemed particularly appropriate now.

If you get there before I do,

Comin’ for to carry me home,

Tell all my friends I‘m comin’ too,

Comin’ for to carry me home.

Eleanor had gotten there before him, and now he was coming, too. I’d seen it many times before. One spouse died and the other followed closely behind. I always felt bad for their families, but in a way, it was beautiful. Milton and Eleanor were soul mates, meant to be together. And fifty-eight years of marriage was a blink of the eye compared to eternity.

I sang with my eyes glued to the music sheet in front of me, though of course I knew the hymn by heart. Lana would be below me, sitting in the front row. I didn’t know which terrified me more, the disappointed expression she’d had in the video or the pain I knew she was feeling today, but either way, I couldn’t bear to look at her.

I sat down as my father began the eulogy. “Some of you remember Milton as a war hero,” he said. “Some of you remember him as a loving father or grandfather. Some of you surely remember him for his wonderful sense of humor. One thing is certain: All of us remember him as a good man, a man of honor.”

I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes. So often, sitting up here in this balcony, I’d wondered what my own legacy would be. Now I knew: I would forever be the girl who had skyrocketed to fame only to crash and burn in one spectacularly thoughtless, selfish moment.

***

I waited until the pallbearers had wheeled away the casket and all the guests had cleared out, and then I crept down into the chapel for another look at Milton’s photos. I grabbed the prom picture and studied it, searching for a sign—something, anything that might indicate what was about to happen.

“Hey.” Pete’s voice startled me. He was sitting in the back row, under the balcony.

“Hey. I didn’t know you were here.”

“I came in just as it started. It was a nice service.”

I walked over and handed him the picture. “Look how happy he was that day. My dad always says, ‘We know not the day nor the hour.’”

“That’s how I want to go,” Pete said. “A big grin one minute, gone the next.” He handed the photo back. “How are you holding up? You’ve had a rough few days.”

I shrugged and sat down next to him. “I’ll be okay. I’ve stopped obsessing over the Twitter comments—at least the ones with the Melanie-must-die hashtag.”

“Idiots. Remember, these are the same people who made Snooki a star and who think Katy Perry’s music is … music.”

I smiled, probably for the first time since prom. “Thanks for staying here and talking to me. I know I’ve been kind of a jerk to you lately.”

“Kind of.”

“And that I made a fool of myself at All State. I still feel bad about that.”

“Ah, yes, ‘The New Moon’ duet. Not your finest moment.”

I cringed. “Right. Unfortunately, also not my worst.”

Pete nodded. “Touché.”

“So … you and Lana?”

Pete shrugged, but a half-smile played at his lips. “We’ll see.”

“What happened to Sadie?”

“Oh,” Pete gave a vague wave of his hand. “That was never really anything. Just … convenient. And then at All State she met some dude from Norfolk, which is of course much less convenient but I guess more exciting.”

“Ouch. You know, I’m sorry I went off on you that day. That was—”

“No.” Pete said. “It’s okay. You were right, actually.”

“No, I wasn’t. I was obnoxious.”

“Well, yes, you were obnoxious. But you were also right. I was afraid to audition at UVA. Afraid I’d screw it up. Afraid of that look everyone would give me when I told them I didn’t make it.”

“But you would make it. You’re amazing. They’d be lucky to have you.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I was afraid to find out. But your little … pep talk … snapped me out of it. I’m trying out next week.”

I clapped. “For real? That’s awesome.” Maybe something good would come out of all of this after all. I glanced at the clock on the back wall. “The burial service starts soon. You’d better go. Lana would want you there.”

“What about you? You’re her best friend. You should be there, too.”

“I don’t think she wants to see me now. Maybe ever.”

Pete raised his eyebrows. “
She
doesn’t want to see
you
? Are you sure that’s it?”

What was that supposed to mean?

Pete stood and headed toward the chapel door. He stopped and turned. “A minute ago, you thanked me for staying here and talking to you. Sometimes just being there for someone is enough.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The funeral home garden was so peaceful. I sank onto a bench in the gazebo, breathing in the light, sweet scent of the honeysuckle that twisted its way around the gazebo trellis.

She
doesn’t want to see
you
? Are you sure that’s it?

Of course that was it. Wasn’t it?

I was still clutching the photo, and now I looked at it again. Lana practically sparkled in this shot. Her smile, her eyes, the way her head tilted toward her grandfather—she was a vision of joy. I couldn’t imagine how she was feeling now, but I was certain she didn’t need me around to complicate things.

I plucked a bloom from the vine beside me, snapped the base and pulled it through the flower slowly, slowly, until I was rewarded with a single drop of nectar. I touched it to my tongue. Lana and I had raided these vines so many times when we were younger. She had a knack for finding the juiciest ones.

The drizzle turned into a steady rain. I leaned back, closed my eyes and tried to lose myself in the sound as it fell on the gazebo roof. I wanted to block out all thought, but it was no use. Pete’s question haunted me.

What if he was right? True, I’d messed up, and true, Lana probably hadn’t quite forgiven me for it yet. But maybe deep down, a part of me was glad and was using that as an excuse not to have to be there for her today, not to have to deal with her loss and her grief. Could I possibly be that callous, that selfish?

One thing Pete definitely was right about: I
was
her best friend. I did need to be there. Even if it scared the hell out of me.

***

The sun was starting to go down, and several cars were leaving as I entered the cemetery. Was I too late? Would Lana still be here? As I pulled through the parking lot, I could see the service tent at the top of a hill in the distance. A small crowd of people milled around under it.
Please let Lana be one of them. Even if she won’t talk to me, let her see me, let her know that I came.

Thankfully, the rain had stopped. I parked and hurried down the pathway toward the tent. Halfway there, I heard shouts.

“That’s her! There she is! Melanie, stop!”

I turned to see two TV camera crews racing toward me, Andrea Little leading the pack.

What should I do? I didn’t want to talk to them, but I couldn’t keep walking. What if they followed me all the way to Milton’s grave? I turned back toward my car. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come.

Suddenly Patrick, my dad’s driver, appeared between me and Andrea. “Excuse me,” he said to her. “This is private property and a private event. You were explicitly denied entrance.”

Andrea replied in her sweetest voice. “We were told our vehicles couldn’t enter. No one said we couldn’t park down the street and walk in. We just need to have a quick word with Melanie, and then we’ll be out of your way.”

Patrick stood his ground. He dialed his cell phone. “Mr. Martin, we have a situation.”

Oh, no. Not my dad. The last thing I wanted was to involve him. I tried to signal Patrick to tell him never mind, but it was too late. Dad was already rushing over the hill toward us, his expression furious.

“What do you mean, interrupting a burial service like this?” he asked when he reached us. He too positioned himself between the cameras and me. “You are trespassing. All of you. Now leave.”

Andrea ignored him and instead stuck out her microphone. “How has your daughter’s recent indiscretion affected your family, Mr. Martin? How has it affected your funeral home?”