My eyes fluttered open as the sound of low murmur of conversation brought me back to consciousness. It took me a minute to gather my thoughts and do a self check on what had all gone on the evening before. The old brass bed moaned as I reached over for my water. I grabbed three Advil to chase away the pounding sensation coming from my head and a Xanax to chase away, well anything else. Today was the funeral, and if I had any chance of making it through in even the resemblance of one piece, I was going to need some help from my lovely little pain relieving friends.

I had arrived back at Mimi’s so late last night, or should I say early this morning, that even Papa couldn’t wait up for me; but he always left the light on. I had tried to be as quiet as possible with my entrance, but we all know how that works out when you have had a few. What I thought was a near silent entry had probably woken everyone from their sleep. I had shoved the brown loafers under my coat like a kid trying to sneak a lost animal into the house; or a small time criminal trying to hide their current loot; tomato, tomato.

I put myself together and headed downstairs for coffee and chatting with my mom and Mimi. I had no intention of telling either of them what had gone on last night; there was no reason to worry them. As it was they would be concerned enough with my time of arrival and the noticeable combination of cocktails.

Coming downstairs it was as if everyone had suddenly taken a seat on a carton of eggs and didn’t want to move for fear of winding up with yolk on their ass. I forced a smile with my good morning to assure them all that I was still alive and functioning. I could see them relax back into their chairs and the invisible egg cartons began to fade. I poured a cup of coffee and took my seat at the table. My mom began to go over the details of the day with me, after all she had taken my seat at the planning of the funeral so I was a bit removed from what today would actually “look like.”

Mom explained that there was going to be a brief time prior to the public calling hours that immediate family would be allowed to sit with the casket. I thought this a bit odd being as we weren’t having an actual viewing, but I welcomed the idea of being able to ease into the room without everyone and their mother watching. If I was going to spend four hours in a room with a box holding my father’s body, I was going to need some transition time. My mom must have been able to read the emotions on my face, as mothers can, because she ended her statement with “of course I will be there with you the whole time.” The sound of those words made my invisible egg carton fade as well.

She said I had a little bit of time to myself before we had to begin preparing to leave. The calling hours were mid day because it was a weekend and my early morning arrival home had caused me to sleep well into the 11:00 hour. Mimi was making her infamous “dump cake” and some appetizers for guests that would come to the house afterwords. I decided it was best to keep my mind and body busy and so I offered to help.

I wasted away the rest of the afternoon blissfully watching Mimi in the kitchen and helping where I could. It wasn’t as if I could take one dish and she take another because there wasn’t a recipe for anything she was doing. The ingredients and process steps were stored in her mind and she always added things by the “pinch” or “splash.” Frustrating if you actually wanted to make something of hers but amazing to witness the chemistry of it all. I was so enthralled in watching her create that it felt like no had time had passed and she was already shooing me from the kitchen to start getting ready.

Mimi had lent me her waterproof mascara so that I had some chance of not turning into a zombie from the sight of black lines streaking down both sides of my face; she was always thinking. I applied the rest of my makeup in a robotic fashion, going through the motions but not really invested in what I was doing. What was it going to matter anyways? Who was actually going to expect me to look good tonight? I was aiming for merely presentable and even that was a stretch. I slid into my satin top and black nylons. As I reached for the zipper on my black pencil skirt I heard a tiny rip. Son of a bitch, I only had one outfit in which to receive my dead father in and now it had a rip. How was that even possible when I had consumed very little food and chosen the path of liquid diet for the last few days? I removed the skirt, replaced it with sweats and headed downstairs to ask for help. There was something about standing in the living room all done up with my nylons under my sweats, holding my ripped skirt that was so “kick you when your down.”  But Mimi was a force to be reckoned with when armed with her sewing kit and I was back into my skirt in no time. I wasn’t sure if I should be relieved or distressed about the solution to my problem as it now meant I was physically ready to head to the funeral home. I put on my heels and pea coat and stood at the door with Mom at my side. Mimi squeezed me hard and promised she would be there as soon as the public viewing began. I was definitely lucky to have such familial support for this evening.

Arriving at the funeral home Mom chose a spot close to the door. No need to face this evening with wet feat on top of everything else. We sat for a minute with the car idling, no one having anything to say. Finally I released and confessed “I am scared.” Three simple words that carried so much weight. “I know you are Fib, but you are tough and you will get through this just fine, you always do.” Mom always had more confidence in me than I ever did for myself.

I reluctantly followed her into the funeral home. (I would have been dragging my feet if I wasn’t so concerned with the snow falling into my shoes) Nothing sucked more than trying to step around the snow and having little sprinkles fall into your heels where they would melt and eventually cause puddles to form in the crevices of your feet. The funeral director greeted us at the door and directed us to the room that had been set aside for my father. A small sign was present at the door in script writing that read “Viewing for Jeffrey M. Smith.” Reading the sign was like being punched in the gut; this was really happening. I talked myself into each movement by reminding myself that it was just a room, a room with a box. I wasn’t going to see him, he wasn’t even really going to be there. It was just a nicely decorated room with a box. These descriptors helped me to relax a bit and remove some of the building emotion from the moment. My mom held her hand on the door and gave me a questioning look. I nodded in response, a nonverbal signal letting her know I was as ready as I was going to be. She opened the door to the room and stepped inside, I followed so closely behind her that she didn’t have time to stop me, although she tried. She spun around and tried to usher me back out from where we had come, her sense of urgency not hidden behind her trying gentle shoves. All it took was just one glance over her shoulder for me to realize why she was so adamant about my retreat. My eyes moved from my mother’s gaze, past her shoulder and landed on the casket; the open casket. What the fuck? My eyes could no un-see the image that was now bore into my brain, the sight of my very first dead body, and it was my father. The room began to spin and black started to could my vision. I reached out for anything to steady my footing and collapsed into my mothers outstretched arms. She propped me up, keeping a wall between my line of vision and the casket. I could no longer see it as just a ‘box” because he was there.

My mom helped me to the restroom and put a cool, damp paper towel on my neck. Her apologies were prevalent, but sounded muffled against the deafening pounding of my head.  It was clear that this was not what they had decided when they met at the funeral home. I agreed to stay in the restroom until she could rectify the situation. To be a fly on the wall when she went to address my paternal grandmother and aunt. You see, my mom had adopted the patience and virtue of the Dali Lama in her most recent years, but lets face it, she was reformed from her prior years of displaying outward rage; and sometimes we all fall off the wagon.  Especially when you decided with my paternal family to have a closed casket not only because that is what my father had wanted but also for the sanity of his daughters, and then you deliver the unsettling surprise of an open viewing.

I sat in the restroom trying to gain back the confidence I had spent all day building up inside, but each time I closed my eyes to breathe I saw the image of my father’s body behind my eyelids. It didn’t look like him, so much so that I spent a few minutes thinking it might not have even been him. I glanced at my watch; shit. There was only fifteen minutes until the public viewing and I was a hot fucking mess. I pulled myself to a standing position with a strong grip on the counter and leaned into the mirror to check. Mental note, thank Mimi for the waterproof mascara without which I would have started my night as a zombie.

My Mom interrupted my quality control check to let me know that they had closed the casket. If I wanted to have a few minutes alone with Dad I could now, but I had to decide quickly because she had also noticed the time. I followed her out to repeat the same grueling process of entering the room once again; this time there better not be any damn surprises. It was now official, I had come to hate both flowers and surprises.