“Oh, honey, that’s the same day as Vanessa’s housewarming party.”
“I know.”
“Well, I’m sure Vanessa will understand. She’ll reschedule. This is more important.”
I wanted to believe her. I waited for my mother to say she would call Vanessa immediately, that of course they would be at their granddaughter’s funeral, that nothing mattered more than being there for me.
Instead, my mother said, “Let me talk to your father and Vanessa. We’ll figure something out.”
That night, Vanessa called me. I almost did not answer, but some part of me hoped she would do the right thing.
“Meera, mom told me about the funeral date,” Vanessa said, her tone careful, measured. “I’m so sorry about Grace. I really am.”
“Thank you.”
“But I’ve been thinking, and I really can’t change the party date. I have over a hundred people invited, the caterers, the band, everything set up. It would cost me thousands of dollars to reschedule. I’ve already lost the deposit on the tent rental because they’re booked solid for the rest of summer.”
I felt like I was underwater, her words reaching me from somewhere far away.
“You want me to change my daughter’s funeral date?”
“Well, I mean, does it have to be that specific day? Can’t you do it the week after or even the week before? Funerals are more flexible than you think. My friend’s mom died last year and they waited almost three weeks for the service and Grace is at the funeral home. Vanessa in a refrigerator. You want me to leave my daughter’s body in storage so you can have your party?”
“Don’t be dramatic. I’m just saying there are options. And honestly, Meera, a funeral is such a sad event. Maybe it would be better for everyone to have some time to process before gathering. You know, let the shock wear off.”
“The shock of my daughter dying. Yes.”
“Look, I don’t want to fight with you. You’re grieving and you’re not thinking clearly. Why don’t you talk to the funeral home? Explain the situation. I’m sure they can accommodate you.”
“Accommodate me around your party.”
Vanessa’s voice hardened.
“You’re being selfish. This is a huge moment in my life, and you’re trying to ruin it. Everything is always about you and your problems. Some of us are actually succeeding in life, mirror. Some of us have things to celebrate.”
I hung up again. This time, I turned off my phone.
The next morning, my father called the hospital where I was still camping out in the family waiting room, unable to face my empty apartment. Someone at the nurses station came to find me.
“Mera, your father’s on the line.”
I took the call in an empty consulting room.
“Honey, your mother and I have been talking,” my father said, his voice had that forced cheerfulness he used when delivering bad news. “We think Vanessa has a point. It would be very expensive for her to change everything now. And you know how hard she’s worked to get this house. Maybe you could move the funeral. We could all be there if it was a different weekend.”
“You’re choosing Vanessa’s party over Grace’s funeral.”
“We’re not choosing anything. We’re trying to find a solution that works for everyone. This has been a difficult time for the whole family, not just you. Vanessa’s been stressed about the house closing. Your mother’s been worried sick about everyone. I had to take time off work just to deal with all this emotional turmoil.”
“Emotional turmoil,” I repeated. “Your granddaughter died dead and were heartbroken.”
“You know we are. But Grace wouldn’t want us to stop living. She’d want us to celebrate life. Vanessa’s new house is about the future, about hope. Maybe that’s exactly what this family needs right now.”
I looked out the window at the parking lot, watched people coming and going, living their normal lives.
“So, you’re going to her party?”
My father hesitated.
“We’ve already bought the plane tickets. And Vanessa really needs us there. She’s been planning this for months. It’s not like we didn’t care about Grace. We sent cards. We called when we could.”
“You visited twice in 6 months.”
“We live in Phoenix, Mera. We can’t just drop everything and fly out every week. We have lives, too. Responsibilities. Your mother has her book club and her volunteer work. I have golf tournaments. We can’t be expected to put everything on hold.”
Something inside me went very quiet and very cold.
“Don’t come to the funeral,” I said. “Go to your party. Celebrate Vanessa’s house. I hope you all have a wonderful time.”
“Now, Mera, don’t be like that.”
I hung up.
My mother called an hour later. Then Vanessa, then my father again. I blocked all their numbers.
That evening, my best friend Julia came to the hospital with coffee and forced me to eat something. She was the charge nurse in the pediatric intensive care unit, and she had been there through every step of Grace’s illness.
“Your family’s insane,” Julia said, her dark eyes blazing. “Who does this? Who picks a party over a funeral?”
“People who never really cared in the first place,” I said. My voice sounded strange to my own ears. Flat, empty.
“What are you going to do?”
“Have the funeral. Say goodbye to my daughter. Try to figure out how to keep breathing.”
Julia squeezed my hand.
“I’ll be there. Everyone from the hospital who loved Grace will be there. You’re not alone.”
But I was alone. I had never felt more alone in my life.
The funeral was small. Julia came. Grace’s father, David, flew in from Seattle, where he had moved after our divorce. We had split when Grace was one, and he had been sporadic in his involvement, but he had loved her in his way. His face was ravaged with grief.
Some colleagues from the clinic attended. A few neighbors, Grace’s preschool teacher, who sobbed through the entire service.
My family was not there.
I stood at Grace’s tiny white casket and delivered the eulogy I had written at 3:00 in the morning. My hands shaking so badly the paper rattled. I talked about her laugh, her love of strawberries, the way she sang made up songs about everything she saw. I talked about her bravery, how she never complained, even when the treatments made her so sick she could not lift her head. I talked about the light she brought into the world, and how that light had been extinguished far too soon.
