Nonfiction by Halea Fields
Aunt Kris’s funeral repast is packed. I’m standing in the kitchen of my Uncle Mikey’s townhouse stuffing a bagel into my mouth. I forewent the cream cheese and choked on the dehydrating bread. Nobody noticed. The place was teeming with the bereaved who were, frankly, having a great time. Like everyone else, I indulged in the bottles of wine that were packed onto a table. The only difference between me and the rest of them was I maybe didn’t pace myself too well. Hence the bagel. I chew, slightly swaying.
The elbow room in here is minimal and the most anyone can do to move through the throng of bodies is push and squeeze. The sheer number of people packed into the house fills the interior with thermal energy that has me woozy. Sweat prickling my forehead, I look for a fissure in the wall of funeral-chic-laden bodies. Every time I see an escape the exit morphs and closes, opening feet away, then closing again. The most I can do is clumsily lurch this way and that, mumbling apologies as my face smooshes into the backs of suitcoats, and my shoulders into loosely-held wine glasses.
I stumble into a tightly-knit handful of attendees whom I do not recognize. But, one of them recognizes me.
“Oh, Samira, so good to see you.” She cups my cheeks and pouts at me before placing a glittering pink set of lips on my cheek. I nod and lean in for a hug, unsure of any other appropriate response. I awkwardly overshoot her arms, my hand hitting her wrist and knocking her wine glass into my black dress. I feel my chest cool under the splash. Apparently, a hug is a maneuver I’m not sober enough to execute. Shame and body heat warm my cheeks, and I continue through the crowd. I hear them murmur behind me.
“She’s grieving in her own way…”
“Must be her first funeral…”
“Studying film, I think…”
“Ugh, poor thing…”
As I reach the front of the house, I veer off towards the deserted staircase, relieved at having overcome the hurdle of the droves of mourners. I use my hands and knees to ascend the stairs. I reach the top, a half-level with a hallway, bathroom, and my uncle’s room. At the landing, I sidestep an old woman who I don’t recognize exiting the bathroom. She smiles and pats my shoulder while I pass her and stand in the white-tiled room. The air is pungent, smelling of musk and vervain. I promptly exit when I see the last tuft of her gray hair descend the stairs.
I peer into Uncle Mikey’s bedroom, immediately noticing how pristine it looks. I can easily recognize this kind of cleanliness as the type a room only exists in when its inhabitants are expecting guests. Everything is neatly placed, save for a dingy cardboard box on the bed. I cluck my tongue at Uncle Mikey’s negligence and giggle to myself as I step into his room and get a closer look. Inside the cardboard box is a polished, wooden jewelry box. Kris’s jewelry box. I quickly recognize it as the one she kept on her nightstand.
Memories flood my thoughts. Vivid images of our summer trips to the zoo, the time I slept over at her house and she let me watch three Pixar movies back-to-back, and the New Year’s party where she sneaked? snuck? me a shot of spiced rum when I was fifteen. Strangely, these memories elicit a physical feeling, rather than an emotional one. It’s as if the wine, still wet on my chest, gets heavier and heavier and the fabric pulls my chest to the floor. But I can’t seem to cry.
I imagine this might be like the time my hamster died. One morning, I found her curled in her cage, her chest unmoving. My stomach sank, but that was all. I still went to school and aced a spelling quiz, traded snacks at lunch, and played Foursquare at recess. The feeling of loss finally hit me when, later that week, I pinched my finger in the car door after school. The pressure wasn’t even enough to bruise, but I was suddenly overwhelmed with an inexplicable sadness. My mom kissed it better, but I still bitterly sobbed into my scarf the entire ride home, thinking of Fluffy the hamster.
I reach into the box and grab Kris’s favorite brooch. It’s a Claddagh. A tribute to her Irish heritage. The gold is melded into the shape of two hands holding a heart with a crown placed atop. A symbol of everlasting love. I clench it in my fingers and squeeze before stumbling back downstairs.
After surviving the treacherous descent down the stairs, I reach the foyer, desperate for some fresh air. I’m emotionally spent. I look behind me, taking one last survey of the crowd. I see the older woman from upstairs speaking solemnly with my uncle. He nods his head deeply a few times, giving the woman a pat on her arm. I can’t help but read his expression as concern. Guilt clenches my gut, and I feel my stomach roil. Did the woman spy me taking the broach? Mikey is going to hate me. I don’t have the integrity to face them, so I turn back to the door, turning its handle, and my body sways with its outward motion. I hang there for a moment, worried if I take the steps too fast I might faceplant. I clench my sweaty hand, careful not to drop the brooch.
“Samira.” My stomach lurches at my uncle’s voice calling from across the room.
Shiiiiiiiiit.
“Close the door, sweetheart,” he says, exasperated. “It’s fucking January.” He turns back to some guests, hugging and smiling at them. This time, I sway inwards with the movement of the closing door. Disbelief, relief, and guilt swell within me. But, I can’t bear to part with what I’ve taken. Rather than face my actions, I find an unoccupied chair and sit, staring at a wall. From my periphery, I see the crowd slowly thin and dwindle. Eventually, I rise, a little steadier on my feet than before, and get myself a glass of water. I grab cream cheese as well to compensate for my undressed bagel from earlier. A great uncle offers to drop me off at home and I agree. I sit in the back, tuning out the chatter of my great uncle and his wife. I’m worried that whatever I’m feeling is wrong, and I feel even more wrong for feeling guilty about it. I just sit in my discomfort. Speechless and numb, while rubbing my thumb across the cool gold of Kris’s brooch. My precious contraband. For now, I accept that all I can do is let myself indulge in this small comfort.
