Alice Bliss - Laura Harrington [95]
Alice lifts her head and opens her eyes and looks at her father. Now she can’t get enough of looking at him. He is not the same; he is not the same at all. But what there is, what there still is, right here in front of her, close enough to touch, is this broken body, this man, this soldier. Her father. Hers.
She reaches out and covers his hands with her own. And with that touch, she knows that she will never see his eyes again, his smile again, she will never see him pick up a hammer, or stake a row of tomatoes, or drive a car, or twine his hand in the hair at the nape of her mother’s neck.
She lets herself be led away by Gram. The family is receiving instructions from Allison Mahoney; she is telling them where to find the restrooms, where they can take a break from the receiving line to sit down, how they should arrange themselves in line. She will be standing right behind them, she tells them. She will do what she can to keep the line moving. It looks like it is going to be a long night. They can cut it off whenever they want, if they can’t go on. People will understand.
Somehow Alice had not really paid attention to the fact that she would be standing in this room, while friends and neighbors came through to pay their respects and speak to the family. Mom, safely hidden behind her glasses, had instructed Alice and Ellie on shaking hands and saying a simple thank you, but Alice had not imagined facing all of these people.
“Mom,” she says.
“Not now, Alice.”
“What do I do if I feel sick?”
“Go to the restroom.”
“Can I go home?”
“Now?”
“If I get sick—”
“You’re not going to get sick. Stop being so dramatic. Mom, can you deal with Alice, please?”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“I can’t handle it.”
“This isn’t about you, Alice. Pull yourself together.”
Gram takes Alice by the hand, which only makes Alice angry. She pulls away and stands in sullen, stubborn silence, looking at the floor, shaking hands without looking up or saying anything, until her mother reaches around behind Gram and pinches her. Then, shivering, with cold, sweaty palms, Alice shakes hand after hand, and thanks friends and neighbors and perfect strangers for their condolences. She keeps glancing at the coffin as if she could draw strength from her father, but there are always people kneeling or standing there, blocking her view.
Mrs. Piantowski comes through the line with baby Inga in her arms. She speaks for some minutes to Alice’s mother and when she stands in front of Alice, she does the most unexpected thing; she pulls her into a quick embrace and says:
“Come sit down with us for a minute.”
Alice looks to her mother who nods permission. Mrs. Piantowski leads Alice to one of the waiting chairs. Alice sits facing the coffin, and Mrs. Piantowski puts baby Inga in Alice’s arms. Inga is a sleepy, yielding bundle. When Alice brings her close she molds her little body against her. Mrs. Piantowski has one hand on Alice’s shoulder and one hand on Inga’s back. She is sheltering them, making a safe space for Alice to catch her breath, to find herself again. Alice listens to Inga breathe amid the noise and the hush of this room, this odd, nowhere place where they are all suspended between life and death. How strange to have a dead man in their midst; how strange to visit a dead man to say good-bye, how strange to hold a baby in a place like this.
Mrs. Piantowski is humming right into baby Inga’s ear, and Mrs. Piantowski’s warmth and the baby’s warmth is somehow warming Alice. She has stopped shivering finally. Alice looks up at her own mother who meets her glance and smiles at her before someone else moves down the receiving line and blocks her view.
There are people waiting in the anteroom, and there is a line out the door and down the sidewalk. Matt’s baseball team is here,