Stranger at the Funeral
I hesitate at the entrance to the funeral chapel, adjusting the itchy black hat I’d thrown on at the last minute. I seem to be one of the few women wearing black. When did that happen? And why am I even here?
Small groups of people mill around, speaking in muted voices. A few wrap those closest to them in silent hugs. I spot the grieving family standing together, close to the mahogany coffin. A spray of white flowers rests atop the gleaming wood, its fragrance drifting over the room. Next to the coffin, a small plaque sits on a gilded stand:
Stephen Anton Delaney. 1952 – 2026
Beloved husband, father, and grandfather
But not a beloved son, I think.
Beneath the plaque, in a carved mahogany frame, my brother’s face stares back at me. It’s my dad’s face. Same stern look, same grim smile. Same face that refused to see me, decades after my brother left home.
I walk toward the family and notice them leaning their heads together and whispering. I know what they’re thinking. Who is she? Do we know her?
No, they don’t know me. But they should. I swallow a bitter taste of anger. It’s not these people I’m angry with. It’s that man in the coffin.
I approach the woman I’m sure is my brother’s widow and hold out a trembling hand. “I am so sorry for your loss,” I say. Do I mean it? Only partly, but my resentment at this moment is stronger than my sorrow.
The woman, dressed in a sleek black suit, smiles. She looks to be about 65, closer to my age than my brother’s. Does she even know he had a sister? Somehow, I doubt it.
“How did you know my husband?” she asks.
I take a deep breath before answering. “I’m an old friend of his from college.” What a colossal lie. I was just a kid when he left for college. And we never had a chance to be friends.
The woman hesitates before responding. “Oh. Well, thank you for coming today. Kenneth never spoke much about his college days, but I’m sure it would mean a lot to him.”
I nod and step away. Mean a lot to him? Hardly.
She continues to study me as I move on. “Excuse me,” she says, frowning. “You look familiar somehow.”
I have no idea how to respond. “I must have one of those faces,” I say, cringing inwardly. Now that was a stupid thing to say.
Two couples huddle a few steps away from the woman. I assume they are her grown children and spouses, but I’m not sure. They don’t say anything. One of the women smiles at me for a moment and then turns back to the others. Her smile stirs a memory of an old photo I keep in the back of a desk drawer at home. It’s my brother’s smile.
Surrounding the couples are five or six children, a few of them bored teens and the rest younger ones, fidgeting and poking each other playfully, despite a stern look from one of the adults.
The funeral service has not yet started, but I have no desire to mingle. I take a seat in an empty pew and settle in to wait. My body stills, but my mind races. Those people are my family, or they should be, had my brother not inherited my father’s anger and stubbornness. Because of that, I am a stranger to them.
My thoughts lurch back to the day my brother left for good. Like so many other days, I remember angry, raised voices, my father bullying my brother – “you’ll never amount to anything” – and Kenny trying to defend himself. On this day, their arguing got louder and more irrational, at least to my ten-year-old mind. Then my father said something awful, and Kenny punched him so hard I could almost feel it. Mom tried to help my father, but he pushed her away and glared at Kenny. “Leave this house! Now – and don’t bother coming back!”
For a few moments, I sit as calmly as I can, although my whole body is shaking. Then I feel a shuffling next to me on the pew. I open my eyes. One of the younger kids from the family is sliding toward me. I’d guess she’s about six or seven and dressed in a blue check dress with ruffles at the hem and around the neck. Her blond hair must have started out combed and plaited into a neat braid; now the braid appears to be unraveling. The girl leans close to me but says nothing.
I don’t quite know what to do. Finally, I speak to her in a quiet voice. “Hello. What’s your name?”
“Angel. That’s not really my name, but that’s what my grandpa called me. My real name is Angela.”
Is that who my brother became? Someone sweet and gentle? My heart breaks at the thought of never knowing that person. But if he was sweet and gentle, why did he refuse to see me when I reached out to him?
“My grandpa died. Did you know that?”
“I’m sorry. You must have loved him very much.”
Angela frowns. “Sometimes. But sometimes he was mean to my grandma and yelled. Then I didn’t love him so much. He was scary.”
“That does sound scary. I’m sorry.” I pat Angela’s arm. I am sorry, but I’m not surprised.
We sit in silence for a moment. When I look across the room at her family, they are deep in conversation. I catch one or two stealing glances at me. I steal a few glances of my own.
Angela leans even closer and whispers in my ear. “Do you want to know a secret?”
I nod.
“My mom thinks you look like my grandpa.” Angela pulls away and giggles. “And I think you look like my mom.”
The minister is approaching the casket, and Angela’s mother beckons her back.
Do I look like my brother? I suppose I do, but I never thought about it much. I can’t help but think about it now. It’s like looking in a mirror. Tears well up, and I am tempted to leave the funeral home. But it’s too late. The service has begun, and I am too embarrassed to walk out now. I keep my head down and let the tears flow. At least I’m at a funeral where tears are not unexpected.
Why am I here, I ask myself once again? Ten years ago, I tracked my brother down online. I showed up at his house, unannounced, but he didn’t invite me in, much less invite me back into his life. He blamed me for refusing to abandon our parents and for, as he put it, choosing them over him. His last words to me — “I can’t forgive that” — still ring in my ears.
So now, I am a stranger to these people. People who should have been my family. A memory flashes up of the guy I was engaged to for a quick minute, a guy I thought was decent and well-balanced until I saw another side to him – impatient, rude, angry – when we argued. I couldn’t live with that anger again.
By the time the service is over, I have stopped crying and feel ready to leave. Just as I reach the exit door, Angela comes running up and tugs on my sleeve. “You can’t leave yet! My mom wants to meet you, and I don’t even know your name.”
I smile at her eager face. “My name is Rose Delaney.”
“That’s my grandpa’s name!”
“Rose?” I ask, teasing her.
“No, silly, Delaney. Kenneth Delaney. Isn’t that funny? Wait till I tell my mom!”
“I’m right here, Angela. Would you like to introduce me to your new friend?”