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in a hushed tone all morning. They all have. It’s driving me crazy and making everything seem worse. It’s not like Mum’s hovering above us listening. That stuff’s for people who need something to believe in.
    I don’t want to go. I’m in a pink dress and I’m going to my mother’s funeral. I look in the mirror again and tell myself to stop being such a wimp.
    I still look wonderful.
    I go outside into the blaring sun. It’s so hot the pebbles on the verandah look like they’re boiling.
    Tracy is in the street, stepping into one of the shiny black cars with Chris. She didn’t want to sit with me. Probably worried I’d be a big crybaby. I think I’m getting on her nerves.
    I walk toward the car behind hers. I feel like I’m going to be sick. This kind of car doesn’t belong in our happy little cul-de-sac. A fat man in a black suit gives me that “I’m so sorry” smile and opens the back door for me. I feel like a movie star going to the Academy Awards.
    I’m so shallow.
    It’s terrible that Dad can’t be here.
    Trent is digging in a sandbox at a neighbor’s house while our mother is being buried. How bloody ironic!
    I get my own shiny black luxury funeral car all to myself. I feel so grown-up all of a sudden. I suppose if there’s a time to stop being a kid, this is it. It’s so quiet out here. It’s as though all the birds and trees know we’re going to a funeral. How can they know? How is it that it’s so quiet?
    Frances taps on the window. “Can I ride with you?”
    I know she’s only doing it for my sake, and I do kind of like the idea of traveling by myself, but maybe it’s for the best.
    â€œOkay, that might be good,” I tell her.
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    We’re off.
    The car is going very slowly. Why are they dragging this out? I know it’s out of respect for the dead and all that, but what’s so respectful about taking your time?
    So the car drives on and on. We sit in silence. We have a long way to go. Mum always said she wanted to be buried with her mother, and that cemetery is two hours away. I stare out the window. Mum and Dad were driving along this road when the accident happened. I wonder where it happened precisely. Do I want to know?
    We finally get to the church. It’s a cute little old building made of big chunks of sandstone. I step out onto the grass and walk over to Tracy. She ignores me. It’s hot and still and quiet. I think if she looks at me she’ll cry and not be able to stop. There’s no one standing outside. So we walk into the dark, packed church, Tracy first. I spot the shiny brown coffin at the end of the aisle. It’s just sitting there near the altar like an overgrown coffee table with a flowery wedding cake on top.
    There’s a big, black hole in my chest, and it’s growing with every breath I take. My mother’s in that box. I can’t believe it. It doesn’t make sense. How can she have been walking two weeks ago and now be in a box with ugly flowers on top? I was okay until I saw the coffin, I really was. But this is too much. I now have to sit here in the front row and listen to the minister talk with my mother’s coffin so close by.
    Wouldn’t it be funny if she started knocking on the lid?
    â€œLet me out, let me out. I’m not really dead.”
    â€œOh, whew, Mum, you woke up just in time. The minister was going to start rambling on about God’s will and all that garbage. Jump on out and join the party. Everyone’s here!”
    She doesn’t knock and the minister doesn’t stop.
    The minister talks and talks and keeps looking down at us. I must say it feels pretty special being in the front row. Is that sick of me? Oh well, God can’t punish me now. He’s already done it. He can’t punish me for not listening to the minister either. The minister’s a