Stories: All-New Tales

THE FUNERAL WAS HELD at a church neither Abe nor Sarah attended, a service arranged by Sarah’s mother, who in spite of this still managed to believe in God. At first, Sarah had fought it—how many idealistic discussions had she and Abe had about religion being akin to brainwashing; about letting their child choose her own rainbow of beliefs?—but Sarah’s mother put her foot down, and Sarah—still reeling—was weak enough to be toppled. What kind of parent, Felicity had said tearfully, doesn’t want a man of God to say a few words over her daughter? Now, Sarah sat in the front pew as this pastor spoke, words that flowed over the crowd like an anesthetic breeze. In her hand was a small teal green Beanie Baby, a dog that had gone everywhere with her child, to the point where it was hairless and frayed and barely even recognizable in its animalhood. Sarah squeezed it in her fist so tight that she could feel its seeded stuffing start to push at the seams.

Try to remember, as we celebrate her short and glorious life, that sadness comes out of love. Sadness is a kind of terrible privilege.

Sarah wondered why the pastor hadn’t mentioned the truly important things: like the fact that her daughter could take a toilet paper roll and turn it into a pretend video camera that occupied her imagination for hours. Or that the only songs that made her stop crying when she had colic as an infant were tracks from Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. She wondered why he hadn’t told the people who’d come here that her daughter had only just learned how to do a round off in gymnastics and that she could pick the Big Dipper out of any night sky?

Oh, Lord, receive this child of Yours into the arms of Your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the company of angels.

At that, Sarah lifted her head. Not Your child, she thought. Mine.

Ten minutes later, it was over. She remained stone still while everyone else left to get into their cars and drive to the cemetery. But she had worked out something special with Abe; the one request, really, she’d had for this funeral. She felt Abe’s hand come onto her shoulder and his lips move against her ear. “Do you still—”

“Yes,” she interrupted, and then he was gone too.

She walked up to the coffin, surrounded by an embarrassment of flowers. Fall flowers, like the ones she’d had in her wedding bouquet. She forced herself to glance down at her daughter—who looked, well, perfectly normal, which was the great irony here.

“Hey, baby,” Sarah said softly, and she tucked the small green dog underneath her daughter’s arm. Then she opened up the large purse she’d brought with her to the funeral service.

It had been critical for her to be the last one to see her daughter before that casket was closed. She wanted to be the last one to lay eyes on her girl, the same way—seven years ago—she had been the first.

The book she pulled out of her purse was so dog-eared and worn that its spine had cracked and some of its pages were only filed in between others, instead of glued into place. “‘In a great green room,’” she began to read, “‘there was a fireplace, and a red balloon, and a picture of…’”

She hesitated. This was the part where her daughter would have chimed in: the cow jumping over the moon. But now, Sarah had to say the words for her. She read through to the end, going by heart when the tears came so furiously that she could not see the words on the page. “‘Goodnight stars,” she whispered. “‘Goodnight air. Goodnight noises everywhere.’” Then she drew in a ragged breath and touched her finger to her daughter’s lips. “Sleep tight,” Sarah said.