Second Helpings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [117]
I think it would make Gladdie happy to know that I’ve learned something from her passing. She was a firm believer in better late than never. I just wish I believed that I’ll get a chance to thank her someday.
the third
What is wrong with me? I am the most fucked-up granddaughter in the history of procreation.
My grandmother’s wake was today. I know I should write about how much she meant to me, but I can’t. Something even bigger than death happened to me today.
Before I go any further, let me try to explain my state of mind.
Wakes are horrible, horrible customs.
In theory, I guess I can understand why some people would want to get a look at the deceased one last time, but not when she didn’t look anything like the Gladdie we knew and loved. Her face was waxy, and yet too pale and powdery at the same time. Her makeup was applied perfectly, which is to say, her eyebrows weren’t drawn on crooked and her lipstick didn’t smudge beyond her lip line, so she didn’t look like her usual nutty self. And they had her hands folded politely across her lap, which is something she would never do when she was alive. Whoever dressed her didn’t put on one of her signature crocheted berets. The more I looked at this coffin version of Gladdie, the more upset I got.
The only people who mourned properly were my dad and Moe. Both of them sat in the front row, not really talking to anyone, deep within their own thoughts, their own memories of this woman they both loved in their own ways.
Everyone else was so chatty about everything but the reason why we were there. My mother was flitting around the funeral home like it was a goddamn cocktail party, telling second cousins and great-aunts “how lovely” it was to see them again so soon after the baby shower, albeit for such a “sad occasion.”
But it was Bethany who really stole the show. Mourners lined up to pat her baby fat. “It’s tragic that she will never get to meet my firstborn,” Bethany said over and over again, making Gladdie’s death more about herself than about Gladdie. It really was sickening.
When I finally couldn’t stand it anymore, I headed to the only place I could be alone for a few minutes, the bathroom. I had my hand on the doorknob when someone grabbed my other hand and followed me inside. I didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was.
“I’m . . . so . . . sorry.”
Again, stronger and clearer.
“I’m . . . so . . . sorry, Jessica. I . . .”
It was Marcus. At a loss for words.
“I know,” I murmured.
“Gladdie was classic,” he said. “A real original.”
“I know.”
“I liked her immensely.”
“I know.”
“I’m really going to miss her.”
“I—” was all I could get out before I turned into a blubbery blob.
Marcus put his arms around me, and I buried my face into his chest and sobbed. I breathed in deep to take him in, his scent, which evokes burning leaves in late fall.
When I exhaled, I shot a snot rocket all over his blue-and-white polka-dot tie.
“Oh, Christ!” I groaned when I realized what I’d done. “I’m a disgusting mess.”
“It’s cool.” Marcus laughed, and stroked my hair. “It’s an old tie, remember?”
I did remember. It was the same one he was wearing the first time we spoke in the Caddie, when this whole thing between us, whatever it was, or is, began. I knew he had worn it on purpose.
He pulled me tighter, closer than we’d ever been.
“Marcus,” I said.
“Jessica,” he replied.
And . . .
And.
Jesus Christ.
Without knowing who started what, our mouths met—his and mine, ours—moist and messy and . . . perfect.
As we kissed, it was as if I were returning to somewhere safe. We kissed, and it was like coming home after a long, grueling odyssey. Marcus and I kissed,