Five Minutes More (2 page)

“Yes. I'm sorry I couldn't wait until you got here.” Their eyes lock. Mom looks away first. “Why don't you put your things upstairs? Then we'll talk.”

“Fine,” Claire says. “How are you, D'Arcy?” she asks as she passes me.

“I'm all right,” I say back. I may as well have said “aardvark.” If you say something over and over, the way I've said “I'm all right” in the past twenty-four hours, it stops making any sense.

As Claire goes by, her hand reaches out. I'm surprised to feel the prickle of tears in my eyes and throat. Claire was ten when I was born. In all my life I don't think she's ever hugged me, not even when I was a baby. I uncross my arms, start to open my body. She pushes the hair away from my face and moves by.

I jerk my head back as though I've been smacked. I don't think she notices. She's done that to my hair for as long as I can remember, the only times I think we've touched. Claire doesn't like my hair. It's long and blond and it curls wherever it wants to. Like Dad's. Not like hers. Claire could be in the middle of a hurricane and not get messed up. It's like there's a bubble around her so she stays neat and perfect.

I'm standing at the living room window when my mother comes downstairs. I hear her behind me, but I don't turn around. I don't want to talk. It won't help. We watch a squirrel bury a nut in the leaves around the rose bushes. I know he'll probably forget and never come back for it.

Mom touches my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Why did she have to come?”

“He's her father too.”

“I don't care. She never came when he was...here.” I fold the edge of the curtain into little pleats.

“D'Arcy, she's your sister,” Mom says sharply.

“She's my half-sister. Half. It's not the same. It's not like a real sister.”

Mom grabs my shoulder and swings me around. “Listen to me. Claire is your sister. Your real sister. We don't divide people into halves and quarters. I know,
I know
, that she's not
the easiest person to get along with, but we're going to try. It was very important to your father.” She lets me go, lets out a breath and clenches her hands into tight fists. “Please?”

I don't want to. Don't try to tell me Claire is my real sister. I'm not even sure she's a real person.

I want to shout that at Mom, but I stop myself. I look back out the window. The squirrel, finished hiding nuts for now, runs up a tree, stopping and starting in jerky motion. It's how I think I probably look when I move. It's how I feel.

I turn around to face my mother. There are tiny lines in her face that I haven't seen before. It's only a couple of days. This will be over. Claire will be gone. Then everything will be back to normal. I can do this.

“All right,” I say.

We're ready early for the service. I look out my bedroom window before I head downstairs. It's damp and dark. I can't even see the big oak tree where my swing used to be. Fog smothers the yard and seems to be pushing at the windows, trying to take over the house too.

We sit in the living room, on the edge of our seats so we don't wrinkle. Except Claire. Claire doesn't wrinkle. She's the only one in black—a dress that looks expensive and probably is. I wonder if she bought it for this.

Mom is wearing her dark blue suit. I notice she has a bandage on her thumb. She keeps getting up to answer the door and coming back with another casserole or a plate of brownies. Why would anyone think that would help? How can pasta spirals and crabmeat make a difference?

I pick microscopic bits of lint off my green skirt. My hair is twisted back in a fancy ponytail. Claire did it. She stood
in the doorway of my room and said, “I'll do your hair.” Not “can I, may I, do you want me to?” My mouth was open to say no, and then I remembered I'd said I'd try with Claire, and I thought,
Maybe she's trying with me. Maybe now we' ll be sisters
. You'd think I'd know better. How many times have I thought that before? All Claire wanted was to get my hair out of my face.

We all seem to decide at the same time that we should leave. We take Claire's car. I'm surprised at how much traffic there is, how many people I see. Everybody's just going on with their lives like nothing happened. But then, to them, nothing has.

Mr. Rosborough is waiting for us. Today he's wearing a black suit with another of those blinding white shirts. I wonder how he keeps the lint off that suit. Maybe his wife brushes it for him every night. Maybe she wraps tape around her hand, sticky side out, and takes off every speck and thread.

Mr. Rosborough takes us to the Chapel of Ease so we can “look things over.” The casket is at the front of the room with a big spray of red and white carnations on top. I won't think about what's inside.

There are way too many flowers in the room. Dad says flowers are wasted on dead people. Doesn't anyone remember? This is wrong. I turn to tell Mom, but she's kneeling on a padded step in front of all those flowers. She rests her hand next to the carnations. Claire's just standing there, so I kneel too. I don't want to, but it looks wrong, my mother on her knees by herself. I lower my head so I'm looking at the carpet and lace my fingers tightly in front of me. There's no way I'm putting my hand up there.

As Mom stands up she touches my cheek. Her hand is freezing. Her hands are always cold. “Cold hands, warm heart,” she'd always say when my dad would tell her that there were corpses with warmer hands. But I don't want to think about that either.

As I get up, Mr. Rosborough is saying something about the lounge. Mom shakes her head. Her voice is low, so I can't hear what she tells him, but I guess that she wants to stay in this room.

“I don't think that's necessary, Leah,” Claire says in her cool voice.

“No, Claire, I don't suppose that you would,” Mom answers. Her voice is still quiet, but everyone hears her. Then she turns to me, “D'Arcy will stay with me, won't you?”

No. I don't want to do this. I don't want to stay in this room, with that box, with what used to be my father, but how can I say no? Five minutes. I'll stay here for five minutes. But not one second more.

I nod.

We sit on a bench, close to the door. It's a lot like a church pew, which means you have to sit up straight and it's not very comfortable. Mom sits with her back as rigid as the back of her seat, her hands folded in her lap—no picking at her thumbs today. I can't look where she's looking, so I study the flowers closest to me. Mostly there are lilies and carnations. Serious flowers.

I don't like the lilies. Their smell sticks in the back of my nose. I know I'll still smell it days from now.

I touch Mom's arm. She jerks and looks at me as though she'd forgotten I was there. “These flowers, don't you think
they're wrong?” I ask. “I mean, he wouldn't like this. I don't understand why people sent them. Didn't anyone pay attention to what was in the paper?”

“They're beautiful, aren't they?” she says, getting up.

What? Didn't she hear me?

“I chose the carnations. I didn't think roses seemed right for a man. But the carnations, they even smell sort of spicy, like a man's aftershave.” She runs her fingers lightly over the top of the blooms, ruffling the petals.

I don't know what to say now. I'd like to run up there and rip the petals off every single flower. But I don't. I never do those kinds of things, except in my head. I want to ask Mom why she's acting like this. But I don't do that either. Maybe she thinks some of the things I'm doing and saying are strange too.

Then I'm saved from having to say or do anything because Brendan is in the doorway with his parents. I didn't know he owned a suit. I'm sure the tie is his dad's. And he had his hair cut. All the curly bits at the back of his neck that I like to twist around my fingers are gone.

Brendan takes one of my hands and squeezes it. I try to smile at him but it doesn't feel like the muscles in my face are working.

Mrs. Henderson hugs Mom. Mr. Henderson takes her hand, holding it between both of his.

“You all right?” Brendan whispers.

I nod. “I'm okay. It's just...It's just so weird.”

“I know.” But he doesn't. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He pulls a pale blue envelope out of his pocket. “It's from Marissa. Her mom brought it over to my house. She's still sick.”

Marissa's my best friend—the first friend I ever made, the second week of second grade. I take the envelope. Marissa thinks Brendan's a dumb jock. I get a lump in my throat, thinking about her worrying about me and sending her mom over to his house.

Brendan touches my arm. “Want me to stay with you?”

I do and I don't. Mostly I don't. I shake my head. “There isn't anything you can do. You're coming to the house, after, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Brendan looks around and then kisses my forehead before he gives my hand one last squeeze. Mrs. Henderson gives me one of those lips-only smiles that everyone's been using since this all started.

There are more people coming in. Mom's hugging people and shaking hands, thanking everyone for coming as though this were some kind of party. I do the same thing, because as strange as it feels, it seems to be what you're supposed to do.

Every hand I shake, I look into the person's face and wonder what they know. It didn't say in the announcement in the paper. Maybe they think my dad had a heart attack while he was driving. I don't want anyone to know. Because it's not like we really know for sure. I don't want people talking about him and thinking he did something when nobody knows for sure that he did.

The seats are full. Mr. Rosborough and another dark-suited man set up folding chairs at the back. Claire comes in with a woman. Her mother. I've never met Claire's mother, but right away I'm sure of who it is. She is all cool and blond, like Claire. She's wearing a black suit and a little black hat with a veil.

Out of nowhere I feel intense hate for that stupid hat. Hate that makes my head ache, pushing at my forehead, trying to get out. I want to rip that hat off her head and stomp it flat.

My mother has gone over to them. She's talking to
her
, taking
her
hand. Mom turns, reaches for me, urging me over. “D'Arcy,” she says. “This is Claire's mother.”

“Hello,” I say. I can't think of this person being married to my dad. He was funny. He laughed a lot. He made other people laugh.
She
doesn't look like she ever laughs.

“Hello, D'Arcy. I'm so sorry about your father.”

I catch my hand starting to move for that hat. I make it touch Mom's arm instead.

“Elizabeth, sit with us. Please,” Mom says.

Sit with us. I don't think so.

“I don't think so,”
she
says.

Good.

“Please.” Mom is insistent. “You're family.”

She
hesitates.

I don't want to sit next to
her
and that hat.

“All right. Thank you, Leah.”

What's the matter with my mother? Is she crazy? I have this feeling that the world has tipped sideways, and I reach out for something to steady myself. This person is not family. Not ours. She's part of my father's life from before. The life he didn't want anymore.

At exactly two o'clock, we take our seats. Mom, me, Claire and
her
, all in that front seat.

The words of the service blur in my mind. I hear the minister say something about faith and God's plan for us. I let the words come into my head without paying attention to them. I'm not talking to God right now. Not talking. Not listening. He let this happen. I concentrate on breathing steadily. In and out. I'm not going to cry. I don't know why that's so important, but it is.

And then it's over. We're in the lounge waiting for everyone to leave the chapel. I sit by myself on a couch along the end wall. The cushions are too squishy. Mr. Rosborough is talking to my mother. I can't make out the words, but she's nodding. I think that's all we've done today, nod and mumble.

Mom comes across the room and sits on the edge of the couch next to me. “Are we going now?” I ask her.

“Not yet.” She puts one of her hands over mine. It's still very cold. “D'Arcy, would you like to see him? Before we go.”

I almost say, “See who?” But even as a part of my brain is thinking that, another part realizes that she's talking about my dad.

“He looks nice, D'Arcy. Just like he was sleeping.”

I yank my hand away. He's dead. How can he look nice?
Don't think about it.

“No,” I say. My voice is loud. She looks hurt, but I can't care about that right now.

“All right. That's all right.” She lifts a hand toward my face, then hesitates and pulls it back. “We'll be leaving soon,” she says as she gets to her feet.

I watch her go over to Claire. I wonder if she's saying the same thing to her. Mom looks back at me then. I look away fast. I stare at the wallpaper. It's the same paper as in the chapel, some sort of fuzzy burgundy design like palm fronds. It looks like something that belongs in a restaurant.

Everything feels wrong. Ever since that police officer came to the door, it's as if real time, real life, has stopped. There's a whole piece of my life after that that's missing. I don't know what happened to it.

We drive home in silence. It's raining, big fat drops that splatter on the windshield like tears.

Almost everyone comes back to the house after the service. People have been bringing food for days. I'd wondered how we were ever going to eat it all. I don't think that's going to be a problem anymore.

There are trays of sandwiches with no crusts cut in fingers and little triangles and even perfectly round circles. There's a platter of ham and one of turkey. There are two kinds of coleslaw and three of potato salad, plus enough rolls for the minister to recreate the miracle of the loaves and fishes right here in our kitchen. At least the loaves part.