Alone Together

[Stella Witherspoon]

OCC: Outfit – link

Estella Witherspoon*

It was that time again. She went every week like clockwork. Every Tuesday, first thing in the morning, she would go and sit by her husband’s grave and talk to him. Of course, she knew he couldn't hear her anymore. And she knew she would never get an answer back. But somehow, she always felt better after telling him about her week. It made her cry. But who wouldn't cry at the thought of deceased spouse?

She walked mechanically to the headstone she had picked out for him. It read:

“Tyler Witherspoon
Loved dearly by all who knew him”

A tear slipped down her cheek as soon as she saw it. “Hi, Tyler.” Her voice was barely a whisper as she sat down beside his grave, placing some flowers on top of his resting spot. “I wore your favorite again.” Every once in a while, she would wear the outfit she wore on their first official date. It had been a warm summer day. The little turquoise dress she had worn had always been his favorite. He said it really complimented her eyes. “Do you remember our first date, Ty?” Another tear.

“You showed up five minutes late, clothes all astray.” She chuckled at the memory of him running towards her with his shoes untied and his hair all bedraggled. “You claimed you had overslept. But, it was four in the evening. We both knew you had done too much dope the night before.” The smile slipped from her face. That’s how they had bonded. Heroine was what had connected them. Heroine was what killed Tyler. “I’ve been clean since you died, Tyler. I wish you were here to enjoy sobriety with me.” More tears. She knew her makeup was running at this point. She wiped her eyes gently with her supply of tissues.

“Daddy is so proud of me. He never met you. But he says that if I picked you, you must have been one hell of a guy. Of course you were. Even if we hadn't met the way we had. I’m almost positive you were meant to be a part of my life.” Stella sat and tucked her legs beneath her and laid a thin hand on his headstone. “I miss you.” She let out a heavy sigh and brushed her bangs out of her eyes, her grief growing with each minute.

“ I've been working on my novel. I still haven’t come up with a title. And I keep changing the plot. I really am thinking about just writing a cheesy love story. All about you.” Their love had never been very romantic, but for Stella, it had been the deepest love in the whole world. “I love you, Tyler.” She said it again. Glancing down at the track marks on her arm, she became teary up again. “You inspired me. Back then. And your memory inspires me now.”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

It was early in the morning, but Tristan no longer had a normal conception of day and night. He never really had; not since becoming a funeral director. Tristan had been awake since yesterday morning. Last night – what would have been Tristan’s night off – he had been called down to the courthouse. Apparently, Chelsea hadn’t yet gotten her French driver’s license and had been pulled over for speeding in the Lincoln to pick up a decedent. Tristan had to drive her home and be on-call in her stead for the rest of the night. He’d made several trips to the morgue and one to a local nursing home before sun-up. Tristan barely got a chance to say “good morning” to Solange before the interns and first mourners poured in. He elected to handle this service and leave the next one for Solange; Chelsea could man the phones while she took her online driving course and the boys could work in the embalming room and handle any body pickups. They weren’t a well-oiled machine, but they got by. And they got by in such a manner that allowed Tristan some time to mill about the cemetery after the ceremony.

Montmarte Cemetery looked peaceful and picturesque this morning. The sky was clear; the grass green. Tristan had a soft-spot for the Montmarte cemetery. It was the final home of many locals and almost as much Tristan’s workplace as the funeral home itself. As was his custom when here, Tristan walked over to Jacqui’s grave once the service was over. When he was here, Tristan liked to make sure the cemetery staff was taking good care of Solange’s grandmother. To his dismay, some weeds had taken root near the headstone. Tristan frowned and he knelt beside her headstone.

“Good morning,” he quietly said to Jacqui – cheerfully for a man in a suit kneeling at a gravesite. “It’s been a couple weeks. How’ve you been?”

He didn’t expect an answer, but Tristan paused as one would in a conversation and plucked a particularly tricky weed with both hands.

“I wore your favorite again,” a voice said.

Tristan sat down on the ground, hard, and looked at Jacqui’s grave in surprise. In the row ahead, he saw a young woman in a turquoise dress kneeling before another gravestone. Tristan quelled a laugh. Of course there was a young woman a row away; Jacqui passed away a year ago. She certainly wasn’t speaking. And even if she had, it would have been an odd thing for his girlfriend’s grandmother to say. Tristan shot Jacqui’s grave an amused look and he sat beside her.

“Sorry, that was dumb,” he whispered to her. In life, Jacqui would have chuckled and rolled her eyes at Tristan. She had been much like Solange in that respect; always ready to roll her eyes at him and laugh good-naturedly when Tristan goofed up. He set back to work at clearing the weeds.

“Do you remember our first date, Ty?” the woman in the other row said.

Tristan could imagine Jacqui scolding him not to eavesdrop. But she wasn’t here. Not really anyways. And Tristan was so used to seeing other people’s grief that it no longer felt like eavesdropping. He leaned back a little, listening to the living woman across the way.

“You showed up five minutes late, clothes all astray,” the woman said for her loved one’s benefit. The image made Tristan smile a little. “You claimed you had overslept. But, it was four in the evening. We both knew you had done too much dope the night before. I’ve been clean since you died, Tyler. I wish you were here to enjoy sobriety with me.”

Now it felt like eavesdropping. Tristan reached out and grasped Jacqui’s gravestone. The smile was gone from his face.

Does she come here often? he wanted to ask Jacqui. How often do you have to hear this?

It wasn’t as callous a thought as it seemed.

Jacqui had watched her daughter decline because of drugs – cocaine – and had lost her to it. She’d almost lost Solange to cocaine, too. Tristan hadn’t thought about that conversation with Solange in a long time. He tried not to. They’d turned his living room into a confessional of sorts some weeks ago. They had a knack for divulging heart-rendering secrets to one another as if secret sharing was a game, even though they both knew better.

“I started doing cocaine and going bad places to get it,” Solange told him. “It was torture for my grandmother because it was like watching my mother on repeat. She was terrified I was going to end up dead of an overdose just like her.”

If Jacqui was still here, still with her physical body, she had likely heard the young woman across from her talk about the same struggles that had torn her family up. It was grossly unfair because if Jacqui was forced to hear these sorts of chats in the afterlife, Hell had accidentally admitted a woman who should have been sent straight through the pearly gates. Tristan wondered if Solange had ever heard the young woman; it would have killed her. Did she avoid mourning here at the same times?

Tristan didn’t usually allow himself to get overly sympathetic with people in the graveyard who weren’t his clients. It was usually a removed sort of sympathy anyhow, unconnected to his real life. They all had stories – every last one of them – and if Tristan invested in the lives and deaths of others too much, he wouldn’t be invested in his own life anymore. He knew from experience. He’d been that way for most of his adult life. Only in the last year or so had he really been tethered to something – someone – in this life. And as the young woman across the way spilled forth romantic sentiments to her “Tyler”, Tristan found himself nodding along. Just this once, though, it was okay. Because it was a one-time thing. And it was only because she’d gotten the wheels in his head turning.

Yes, try as he might to stare at Jacqui’s grave, to pull weeds, to get up and leave, Tristan found himself enthralled. The young woman had to have been only a few years younger than him. Maybe Solange’s age. No younger than the interns, that was for certain. And her speech stood in stark contrast to grieving widows and girlfriends twice or three times her age. It was so clear, so purposeful. Not wailing and flailing all over the place. It was weird. Admirable, but weird.

“Daddy is so proud of me,” the woman continued. “He never met you. But he says that if I picked you, you must have been one hell of a guy. Of course you were. Even if we hadn't met the way we had. I’m almost positive you were meant to be a part of my life. I miss you.”

There was silence. Tristan unfurled his legs, which had grown stiff. There were more weeds to pull and he knelt to get back to work. He probably looked a bit ridiculous, pulling weeds in a suit. It wasn’t like he didn’t do the exact same thing at work, though. He couldn’t count how many times he’d been stuck doing maintenance in a suit. The woman’s story was over as far as he was concerned; since she wasn’t a client, it wasn’t his business anyways. Tristan pulled another two weeds before the stranger spoke again.

“I've been working on my novel,” the woman said. “I still haven’t come up with a title. And I keep changing the plot. I really am thinking about just writing a cheesy love story. All about you. I love you, Tyler. You inspired me. Back then. And your memory inspires me now.”

Tristan looked up. The woman was crying and Tristan wasn’t Tristan-the-sympathetic-and-random-guy-a-couple-gravestones-away. He was Tristan-the-funeral-director again and he walked over to her. Just another grieving widow-slash-girlfriend, who needed a sympathetic someone. Tristan told himself he was not allowed to project his worries and fears – his unexpressed worries and fears – onto strangers in the graveyard. If he had a nickel for every time he could have done that, by now he could retire. And if he had a nickel for every time common sense told him not to interfere, but something else – compassion, instinct, stubbornness – got in the way, he could retire to the Riviera.

“That’s beautiful,” he told the stranger quietly, crouching at her side and offering her one of the many unopened packets of Kleenex that lined the inside of his suit jacket. “If you ever do finish your novel that would be one hell of a dedication.”

[Stella Witherspoon]

OCC: Outfit Link

Estella Witherspoon*

Stella felt her heart lurch as she heard someone approach her. ‘Did someone sit there and listen to me? I must have sounded like a lunatic!’ Anger and frustration quickly replaced her grief. She didn’t look up as a male voice spoke to her. “That’s beautiful, if you ever do finish your novel that would be one hell of a dedication.” At his words, she nodded, steeling herself. Someone had seen a raw part of her. Tyler had been her life. And she would do anything to have him back. Tuesdays are awful days for Stella. She cleared her throat, took his offered tissue and asked “How long had you been standing there?” For all intents and purposes, her voice was icy. She wanted this man to understand that what he had done was wrong.

She looked up from her kneeling position and gave him a cold, dead stare. He was in a suit. She assumed he had come to visit a deceased loved one as well. His brown hair was long, almost as long as hers. He didn’t look like he could be a whole lot older than her twenty-two years. Stella stood, brushing the dirt off of herself, and began dabbing the running makeup from beneath her eyes. With a sniffle, she stood up as tall as she could. She didn’t know what to think of him. He almost looked like he was… happy? Who in the world comes to a graveyard with a smile on their face?

Estella narrowed her eyes, and began fiddling with her wedding ring – she hadn’t gathered up enough courage to take it off yet – wondering just who this man was. Tuesdays were supposed to be days for memories and grieving. Sometimes she gave herself this day to take joy in the love she had with Tyler. Though he was her past, it had only been eight months since she had lost him. It was going to take time. But this man interrupted her. It made her angry. And that was not the emotion she was aiming for.

‘What would you have said, Tyler? What would you have said to this man?’ Of course, if Tyler was here, she wouldn’t be angry at this man for listening to her pour her soul out to Tyler’s grave. Sadness took its place in her heart again, and she broke the eye contact, looking down at her husband’s grave instead. “I only lost him eight months ago.” She whispered in a shaky voice. She knew this man didn’t care. Or maybe he did. Maybe she didn’t care if he cared. But, the only person she talked to about Tyler was her father. And while he was proud of her, and would have liked to meet Tyler, her father wasn’t big on expressing vast amounts of emotion. ‘Maybe it’s time someone knew something about Tyler.’

But what on earth was she thinking?! She didn’t even know this man’s name! But what she had said was already out in the open. All she did was expose the raw part of herself again. With a heavy, grieving sigh, she looked back up at the man who had dropped onto her lap. She was too tired to keep her angry stare anymore. But, that didn’t mean she wasn’t upset he listened in. Who was he?

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

The young woman looked at him. Tristan had gotten kinder, less icy stares from decedents passing through his embalming room. If he’d been off the clock, if he’d been dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, perhaps, or if he had any common sense at all, he would have backed off. But Tristan was used to being the subject of worse ire. During his apprenticeship, a grieving widow had spat in his face. He’d been screamed at by psychotic, extended families. This grieving woman didn’t scare him. Even when she asked, “How long had you been standing there?” Tristan didn’t flinch. She’d accepted his offered Kleenexes. His next trip to the morgue wouldn’t be in a body bag, after all.

“Long enough,” he said softly. He had a naturally even, deep voice that clients cited as ‘comforting’. It was a warmer sound by far than the young woman’s voice.

She stood and Tristan followed suit. As per usual, he felt towering and uncomfortably tall. He stood over six foot tall – closer to six foot four, when he stood perfectly straight and upright, as he was forced to do in formalwear. For once, though, Tristan’s height was a comfort. He’d caught sight of the woman’s wedding ring; an angry widow could be a force of nature. Stronger than a force of nature, actually.

But this hurricane-waiting-to-happen was quiet when she spoke again. Her voice was a mere whisper that Tristan only just caught: “I only lost him eight months ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Tristan murmured. “The first year is always very raw.”

He refused to say it was the worst. It was for some; for others, grief sucker-punched them down the line, when their friends and families had all moved on and they felt alone in their sorrow. Anniversaries pertaining to the deceased could be just as terrible and overpowering. “Worst” was different for everyone.

"Your husband was a lucky man," he said. "To be that loved, I mean. You clearly still love him deeply."

[Stella Witherspoon]

OCC: Outfit Link

Estella Witherspoon *

Stella listened as the man spoke, answering her question with a quiet, deep voice. “Long enough.” She had always hated that answer. It was so vague. Long enough could have been from the beginning, it could have been when she was talking about drug use, or it could have been two seconds before he approached. Not knowing was something that always bothered her. Like with Tyler, the night he didn’t come home, the not knowing where he was almost killed her. She stayed up all night, checking the clock every five minutes. It was torture. Of course, this was hardly a comparison. Not knowing what this man had heard was more of an annoyance. Stella just nodded at his answer, brushing her bangs from her eyes yet again.

When the suited man stood beside her, it became painfully aware that she was a little woman. He was at least a foot taller than she was. His posture was immaculate, making him appear even taller. Out of discomfort, she pulled out a cigarette, lit it and took a drag. She tried to size him up as discreetly as possible. He still seemed too comfortable in a grave yard for her comfort. “I’m sorry,” he replied “the first year is always very raw.” This stifled her anger some and made her more curious. He must have lost someone. But the way he added “always” led her to believe he’s probably lost more than one person.

Stella cocked her head to the side, blowing cigarette smoke upward. “How often do you lose people?” It came out rather cold, harsh, and rude. But, just because she was curious didn’t make her any less angry. But this would either get a rise out of him or make him laugh. Her grumpy personality attracted Tyler. He always thought it was hilarious when she got snarky with people who asked “dumb” questions. Or people who interrupted her when she spoke. He always said it was the way she interjected when he tried to put his two cents into her business that made him want more out of her. The thought made a smile form ever so slightly across her face.

Stella took his words in and let out a deep breath with a slight nod. “That is an understatement.” Her voice grew soft again, and the drag of her smoke no longer made her feel any lighter. “We had only been married six months before I lost him. I guess you can say we had been in the honeymoon stage when our love was still fresh…” Her voice trailed and she looked back down at his grave. “Merde, I’m a mess.” She cursed and covered her face with her hands. Would this pain ever stop?

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

The woman pulled out a cigarette. Once, a group of old men had smoked cigars in the viewing room and cost Tristan an arm and a leg to fumigate the place. It smacked of disrespect for the dead, mixing rat-poison ashes with cremated remains and soil. But he said nothing. It was her husband’s grave, after all. And as long as the cemetery staff didn’t get on Tristan’s case about it…

“How often do you lose people?”

Tristan smiled a little. He didn’t “lose” people. He knew exactly where each person he’d “lost” was buried. In most instances, he was somehow involved in the funeral process. He sobered almost immediately, though. Life was fragile. He wouldn’t always be able to afford to smile. His relationship with Death was like that between business partners who didn’t fully trust each other. Tristan knew that someday, Death would either kill him or rob him blind.

The woman’s voice was again quiet and serious.

“We had only been married six months before I lost him. I guess you can say we had been in the honeymoon stage when our love was still fresh…” Her voice trailed and she looked back down at his grave. “Merde, I’m a mess.”

“You’re grieving,” Tristan clarified. “Grief is an expression of love.”

If grief was messy, then so was love. Tristan chewed on that thought for a moment; it was true. Even in the “honeymoon stage”, love was messy. He wasn’t an expert on love, though. If he claimed to be a love-expert, he knew Solange would laugh. But grief, he knew inside, outside, upside-down. He thought of Gwen and Torben, laying their miscarried daughter to rest. If that wasn’t love, nothing was.

[Stella Witherspoon]

OCC: Outfit Link

Estella Witherspoon*

He didn't answer her question. She wasn't sure if she had actually expected him to. What would she have said if he had said yes? Offered condolences? Probably not. So, maybe it was better he hadn't answered. Stella could see though, that it had lessened his smile quite a bit. Maybe that had been her goal? 'Oh come on, even you aren't that callous. Right?' She took another drag, furrowing her brows at the thought. Had losing her husband turned her into a total b*tch? She hoped not.

“You’re grieving,” he clarified. “Grief is an expression of love.” His statement made her feel a little less like a loon. "You must be a therapist." She said quietly, taking a few more puffs. Maybe that's exactly what he was doing here. Looking for new patients. "If that's the case, I'm not interested in becoming part of the psycho-babble nonsense."  She waited for a moment before adding "But, you do seem to be very good at it."

She lifted her foot, putting out the butt of her cigarette on the bottom of her shoe. Then she pulled a little plastic bag and put the butt in there. She was not a litterbug, and she loved her husband enough not to litter his space, even though he was long since gone. "How long does it last?" She murmured, more to herself than to the mystery man in the suit.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

"You must be a therapist," the woman said. Little puffs of smoke issued from her mouth as she spoke. Tristan thought the assessment was amusing, but not wholly inaccurate. Funeral directors were sometimes called “grief counselors” for a reason. "If that's the case, I'm not interested in becoming part of the psycho-babble nonsense."

“I’m not—“ Tristan began.

"But, you do seem to be very good at it," the woman assured him.

“Thanks,” said Tristan. He wasn’t a therapist. And he really wasn’t looking to psycho-babble at anyone. Babbling, he could do. But he left the “psycho” part to others.

The woman stamped out her cigarette and placed it in a bag. Tristan was glad she didn’t leave the cigarette on the grave; he’d seen people do that. It made more work for the cemetery staff.

"How long does it last?" the woman asked.

“It’s different for everyone,” Tristan said. “I haven’t taken a poll or anything. Some people never fully move on and that’s just as okay as someone who gets on with their life after a week. Grief is never the same twice.”

[Stella Witherspoon]

OOC: Outfit Also, I'm a bit tipsy. Sorry if my words aren't as... wordy as they should be.

Estella Witherspoon*

Estella's graveyard companion thanked her for her compliment. She still felt dead inside. Although the man's interrupted interjection made her ponder some more. So, he wasn't a therapist? What was he exactly? It was apparent that he did this often, or at least for a living. Maybe he was just good at being empathetic. Did she even really care? The answer to that was actually yes. He was standing here consoling her while she grieved for the loss of her husband. Even if she didn't know his name, Stella was somewhat grateful for this man's sudden appearance at Tyler's gravestone.

“It’s different for everyone,” he told her when she asked him about how long grief would last. “I haven’t taken a poll or anything. Some people never fully move on and that’s just as okay as someone who gets on with their life after a week. Grief is never the same twice.”  Stella pondered his answer for a moment before responding. She chose to be only slightly more direct. "Who have you lost? Did you love them?" She didn't even know if she would get an answer. 

Her mind wandered to her novel. Could she include this mysterious stranger? Tall, dark, and mysterious at a graveyard. Surely she could incorporated him somehow. Someone. A side character that plays a big part in the finality of her story. But did she really want to write a novel about grieving for her dead husband? Maybe, just maybe, she would write mostly truth about her life with Tyler. They had adventures to say the least. Maybe she could exaggerate them a bit. Who knows. 

'One day at a time.' She told herself, twisting her ring again.

[The Exodus]

OOC: Psh, your words are plenty wordy and lovely! BIC:

Tristan Vidal

There was silence for a moment. It occurred to Tristan that he would get back to the funeral home later than anticipated. Eventually, with Tristan’s luck, Solange or one of the interns would turn up in this very cemetery for the next service and see him seemingly shooting the breeze with this young woman. It wasn’t professional, per se, but anyone in his line of work would understand why Tristan was still here. It was a calling, not just a job. And you couldn’t pick when you would be called or by who.

"Who have you lost?” the young woman asked when the silence passed. “Did you love them?"

Tristan looked over at Jacqui’s grave. He’d lost friends, coworkers. No family, not yet. Not that he had much family to lose. He thought of Laurence, who would be sixty this year. If Tristan lost his uncle, it wouldn’t be the same as losing a husband. He thought of the other loves in his life – Solange, Gwen, Torben, Leopold – and the vague prospect of losing any one of them made him queasy. He wasn’t one for “I love yous”. If tomorrow he found himself in this stranger’s shoes – or any of his clients’ shoes – the people he most cared about wouldn’t even know how he felt about them. Tristan massaged away a lump in his throat, loosened his tie. He felt like he’d been caught in a lie, a case of mistaken identity. He hadn’t, of course, since he never claimed to be a mourner.

“I haven’t. I mean … I’ve lost people before. People I’ve cared about. But not loved.” Tristan cleared his throat. “I’m a funeral director.”

[Stella Witherspoon]

OCC: Outfit[/url

Estella Witherspoon*

Stella watched silently as the man in the suit grew uncomfortable at her question. It was a simple question, yes? Maybe it was for her. Maybe it was for others. But, maybe like her father, this man wasn't about displaying emotion. 'I guess I can understand that...' Her thoughts trailed as he loosened his tie and continued to look uncomfortable as he answered her question, looking at a headstone just a row away. 'That must have been where he had been while I was visiting.'

“I haven’t. I mean … I’ve lost people before. People I’ve cared about. But not loved.” He cleared his throat as she furrowed her brow at his odd explanation. And then, his answer hit her like a ton of bricks, making her feel like an idiot."I'm a funeral director." A curse word slipped quietly through her lips because she felt like an idiot. "Well, I guess I can see that. It should have been obvious." The thought made her give a small smile.

"So, what were you doing out here listening to my story then? Shouldn't you be directing some funerals or something?" She looked at Tyler's grave, and then back to the suited man. "We're you the one who took... care? Of Tyler?" The question suddenly plagued her, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to know the answer.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

The woman swore. Tristan supposed he deserved that.

“Well, I guess I can see that. It should have been obvious,” she said, smiling a little.

Tristan didn’t exactly agree with her on that one. He’d been too-often mistaken for other things – less flattering things – since he was only twenty-eight and still wore his hair past his shoulders. But, who else wore a suit, hung out in a cemetery, and comforted total strangers?

"So, what were you doing out here listening to my story then? Shouldn't you be directing some funerals or something?" she asked. "We're you the one who took... care? Of Tyler?"

“I might have been, but I can’t say for certain,” Tristan confessed. He’d taken care of countless families, countless bodies. “I didn’t mean to overhear your conversation with your husband. I just finished a service and was checking up on a friend’s grave –“ he gestured to Jacqui’s grave. “—and… I don’t know. It moved me.”

Most of the widows Tristan encountered were borderline hysterical or else they were stoic somehow. He had a knack for piecing together stories of those he served. Ones about people his own age – or there about – always shocked him though. It didn’t help that there was a quiet sort of rumbling at the back of his brain -- a grateful rumble – that reminded him how lucky he was not to be in this young woman’s shoes. He looked back over at Jacqui’s grave and the benches beyond. A fond, but sober smile touched his lips. Then he looked back over at the young woman. He hadn’t been moved by another’s grief enough to comment or care in so long. Not since Gwen and Torben buried their baby.

He hadn’t been moved by a stranger like this even longer.

[Stella Witherspoon]

OOC: Outfit

Estella Witherspoon*

Stella listened to his response. It was a dumb question for her to have asked. Even if this man had been the one to take care of Tyler after his death, what difference would it have made? All he would have seen was a dead man with track marks on his arm. All this man would have been able to do was cover those and clean him up. As Stella recalled the funeral, she remembered that they put Tyler in a suit. It was so unlike him. He hadn’t even worn a suit at their tiny wedding. It was so casual. They held it at a park, the only witness was his drug dealer.

In his casket, with his face colored, hair neat and tidy, and clear, unseeing eyes, he didn’t look anything like himself. The thought created a lump in her throat. She really shouldn’t have asked him. “I didn’t mean to overhear your conversation with your husband. I just finished a service and was checking up on a friend’s grave –“ she followed his gesturing hands to the grave in a row behind her Tyler’s. “- and I don’t know. It moved me.” Stella turned her gaze back to him. “You seem to be the only one who thinks love can be moving now a days. My father keeps telling me I’ll get over it. Just like he did when my mom died…” She paused. She was getting personal again…

“But, to be honest, I think he fell out of love with her long before she died.” Somehow, she think her father always knew about her mother’s drug habit. Even though he had been bewildered when he found out Stella used them. He couldn’t fathom where she had first gotten into them. But, maybe he just hoped that Mother hadn’t been the one to introduce them to her. But, such was life. Twisted, cruel, and often unforgiving.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Maybe it was how young this widow was that shook Tristan’s core. He’d dealt with widows in their twenties before, but they were rarities. Usually, widows and widowers who passed through the funeral home were middle aged or older. Much older. People his own age threw him. He sometimes tried to put himself in the shoes of his young clients. Out of sympathy, out of concern, out of curiosity. He couldn’t say what motivated him, whether it was purely altruistic or if it was selfish. Probably both.

But it wasn’t just death stories that shook him. Love stories burrowed under his skin. They almost always had, for reasons Tristan couldn’t fully grasp. It wasn’t like he’d been raised in a romantic, loving environment.

“You seem to be the only one who thinks love can be moving nowadays,” the young woman said. “My father keeps telling me I’ll get over it. Just like he did when my mom died…”

Tristan shook his head. Some people. Some people weren’t good with emotions. Some people weren’t good with people. It didn’t mean they were bad, but it didn’t mean they were doing any good, either. What good did this woman’s father think he was doing? Telling her to get over her dead husband – a husband she’d lost less than a year ago -- couldn’t be doing anyone any favors. And doing the same about her mother? Sh*t. This guy took insensitivity to new heights.

Sometimes, Tristan thought guys like that were why he preferred to work with the dead than to work with the living.

“But, to be honest, I think he fell out of love with her long before she died,” the woman said, perhaps picking up on Tristan’s silent horror. He rubbed his mouth and sighed.

“Still, that doesn’t mean he gets to tell you how to grieve,” said Tristan quietly. “You have a right to your grief. To experience it without judgment.”

He had a printout in his office that he gave to some clients to read. It was called “The Mourner’s Bill of Rights”. He wished he had a stash of them in the hearse for this woman to show her father, to get him to step off and let her mourn. Maybe her father meant well. But meaning well and doing good were two very different things.

[Stella Witherspoon]

OOC:Outift

Estella Witherspoon*

Stella’s train of thought began to scatter. She was tired. She was angry. But most of all, she was confused. How is it that this stranger had gotten her to say more about Tyler than her friends had in the months he was gone? ‘It’s his job, Stella. He’s here to comfort those who mourn.’ Her subconscious told her. She sighed, looked at Tyler’s grave, and then back at the funeral director.

“Still, that doesn’t mean he gets to tell you how to grieve,” he told her, “You have a right to your grief. To experience it without judgment.” Of course, he was right. But she could feel her father’s anxiety come off of him in waves when she would pull out a picture of Tyler. Or when he would come into her bedroom to wake her up some mornings and she was clutching her wedding picture. It was awkward for him to be around that. So, it made her feel worse than she had originally.

“I know you’re right.” She assured him. “But, my father is… different. He loves me dearly. I think it makes him nervous to watch me fall apart.” And that’s what it felt like. Every day, she felt like she was falling apart. And it hasn’t gotten a bit easier in the past eight months. She would lay in bed at night and almost hear his soft snoring. It would bring tears and memory to her eyes. It was so raw. She wished there was an easier way to get over it. But, she knew that ONLY time would heal it.