Page 10 of Life After Me

David

Pain hit me almost as soon as I woke up. It was the day I’d been dreading. The day I had to say goodbye to Jenn.

I don’t know how I slept, but I’m glad I did, because I dreamt Jenn was with me, warm, comforting and loving.

When I first opened my eyes I could have sworn I felt her disappearing in the bright morning light, leaving nothing behind except the vaguest hint of honeysuckle and apple.

Somehow that helped to push some of the dread away.

The sun shone past the curtains I had forgotten to close, and the sky was clear.

Such a beautiful day. I couldn’t help thinking that I would have preferred it if it was raining.

Somehow it would have seemed more appropriate if the day were grey, sombre and overcast, instead of bright, fresh and vivid.

Though I’m sure Jenn would have disagreed. Even when it was freezing, she’d be out in the garden, drinking her morning tea and breathing clouds of steam into the winter air.

It all seemed so bizarrely unreal. My dark suit and crisp white shirt hung on the door, and when I put the shirt on, I got a whiff of sweet chocolate from the cocoa butter hand lotion Jenn always wore.

It must have been one of the ones she’d ironed and put away that morning, before we left the house together for the last time.

I almost didn’t want to wear it, because then it would stop smelling of Jenn and just become another dirty, meaningless shirt.

And it would be one more part of Jenn that would be gone from me forever.

But then again, she ironed it for me. I should wear it.

Flowers arrived all through the morning.

The first florist, our florist, turned up at about eight, while I was still in my slippers and dressing gown.

She’d done a wonderful job, and managed to get the daffodils and irises we’d asked for.

Huge, beautiful explosions of yellow and white that filled the house with their fresh, cold smell while they waited to be collected.

There was nothing for me to do. Lucy, Matty’s girlfriend, had arrived the previous evening and flipped straight into organisation mode.

There wasn’t much we hadn’t already done, but it seemed to make her feel better.

She zipped between the church and the house, dropping off orders of service, tied with ribbon in Jenn’s favourite shade of yellow, and checking that every last detail was in place.

She even produced dozens of those little packets of tissues from somewhere.

What it all meant was that I had nothing to do but sit around awkwardly and wander between the kitchen and the living room trying not to crease my suit and nursing tea so hot that it scalded my fingers through the mug.

It hurt, but I couldn’t put the mug down.

If anything I was grateful for the pain because it kept me grounded in reality.

I slipped one of Jenn’s hair clips into my pocket.

I knew it was silly, but I desperately needed something of hers to hang on to throughout the day.

It was almost like a talisman to keep her with me.

Because that way, even after we were finished, I’d still be able to take a bit of her home with me, and the thought of not doing that was unbearable.

As I slid my fingers into my pocket and wrapped them around the clip, the door swung open to reveal Lottie, far too pale and dull in her smart black dress and the scarf covering her pink streaked hair.

‘Dad?’ She offered me a weak smile. ‘She’s here. Mum’s home. It’s time to go.’

* * *

Jenn

I am so proud of my beautiful, sweet, brave family. I love them all so much, and I am so lucky to have known them. How did I get fortunate enough to be surrounded by such wonderful people?

Every single decision they’ve made has been perfect.

I loved the flowers. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many daffodils and irises together.

And not a single, hated, lily in sight. They found tulips too.

They must have bought out half of Holland.

Everywhere I looked there were more flowers, and huge baskets of pure white tulips at the door.

The location was perfect as well. They picked the church just down the road from the school I’d taught at for so many years.

I knew the vicar well, and it meant some of my children could come.

I’m stunned by how many of them did. Not just my current students either.

Plenty of my former pupils who long ago left school to start their own lives came too.

The fact that so many took time out of their lives to come and wish me farewell is incredibly flattering.

I didn’t realise I’d touched so many lives so deeply.

I mean, you spend your life trying to help people and make a difference, but to see so many faces at your funeral, and to know you’ve actually succeeded, is incredible.

The church was so packed with people that the children ended up sitting on the backs of the pews, dangling their feet over the shoulders of their friends, while the girls sat on their friends’ and boyfriends’ laps.

Even like that, and with the extra chairs, there were still young people standing at the back, spreading halfway down the aisle, and leaning against the walls and pillars.

Some even ended up shoving candles out of the way so they could perch on the windowsills.

I know it’s just a local church, but it was still humbling to see it so packed with people.

I loved the way that, after a few seconds of shocked silence, everyone burst out laughing at the first song, and then joined in singing.

‘Spirit in the Sky’. It wasn’t a song I had especially liked in life — I didn’t dislike it — it just wasn’t anything special to me.

Not until I saw all my students, and my friends and family, singing along and snapping their fingers in time to the beat.

Some people even started swaying and dancing.

Then I got it. Whoever’s choice that was, it was perfect.

If I’d anything left to bet with, my money would be on my sister, if for no other reason than the slight smile on her face.

And I’m blaming Lottie for the projector and slideshow of photos. I didn’t even know that the church had a projector, but there I was, up on the wall and smiling down at everyone. Lottie’s done a wonderful job. She’s so talented.

Then all the music and dancing stopped, and it became much more serious. Tissues were passed back and forth and I could feel all the hurt and pain in that room, and all the sadness that was hidden behind brave smiles washed over me.

I could see people squeezing one another’s hands, or leaning up against others for support.

They fiddled with jewellery, or bits of tissue, or just their fingers, and looked around awkwardly as the vicar began to speak.

For some reason most funerals seem to start like that, with everyone watching everyone else, nervous and worried that they’re going to react wrongly and be judged.

Within seconds I could already see a few shoulders twitching with nervous laughter, but I didn’t mind. People handle grief differently.

There was no laughter in the front rows though, not even the nervous kind.

David did well to start with. He was pale and kept clearing his throat, but his tears didn’t really start until the vicar caught his eye and described me as a loving wife.

Lottie had already buried her face in his shoulder and was sobbing quietly, in that horrible, shoulder-heaving way that lasts for hours.

Matty was pale, his mouth tight and eyes too bright as he stared ahead, not really focusing on anything as he squeezed Lucy’s fingers more tightly, the knuckles of his hand turning pure white.

Lucy’s slim fingers must have been creaking under the pressure of Matty’s grief, but she didn’t wriggle or complain, just leaned against him a little more, offering her silent support.

Sarah sat on the other side of the aisle. She looked tiny wrapped in her husband Gary’s arm, with my nephews on either side of them, and David’s parents in the pew next to them, squished towards the wall. The sight of them hurt — and made me glad my parents weren’t there to witness it.

The service sped on, and lots of lovely things were said about me.

Matty gave a beautiful eulogy but, to be honest most of the funeral — most of my funeral — passed in a blur.

The sadness and grief of my friends and family was so overwhelming that pain seemed to ricochet around the church.

Every soft sob and sniffle echoed in the air and struck a blow against me.

Just when I thought the pain had peaked, David stood up and walked to the front.

He paused at my coffin, and for a second seemed frozen to the floor.

I tried to reach out to him and lend him my strength, but his grief was thick and heavy and I couldn’t push through it.

He rested a hand briefly on the warm wood surrounding what was left of the physical “me”, then visibly straightened his shoulders and walked to the lectern.

He cleared his throat nervously, and looked out across the crowd.

He seemed to draw strength from them, but I suppose that’s the point of funerals.

To come together and share your memories, stories and strength as you say goodbye to someone you care about.

When he spoke, his voice was rough with tears but clear and strong.