34. Nicole

The black long-sleeve top and pair of slacks I'm wearing are two sizes too big because they're not mine, they're Mom's. It feels strange to wear her clothes to her own funeral, but I didn't have any other options. I hold the urn close to my chest. She's inside of it, or at least what's left of her. Michael emerges from the hallway, looking polished and pulled together.

"Nice suit," I say.

He readjusts his cuff links and says, "Thanks."

"How much was it?"

Michael rolls his eyes and smooths the sleeves of his jacket.

As much as I resent him for having so much more than me, it hasn't been all bad having him home again. He buys the good liquor, he's kept the fridge full this week, and he protected me... just like he did when we were kids.

Beth's footsteps click down the hallway, growing louder. She's dressed in a black top, skirt, tights, and a pair of heeled boots that extend to her knee. Her clothes mold to her curves and most of them look new. Even her hair is swooped and clipped up. Her makeup is minimal but it's clear she took her time applying it. I can't remember the last time I saw her put any effort into her appearance. But I wonder if the effort is for Mom or for Lucas.

"You look nice," I say.

She nods and beelines to the bottle of scotch set on the countertop. Beth splashes more than a shot into a coffee cup and slams the whole thing.

Michael looks to me with an expression that says, What's going on with her?

We're both concerned for Beth. She watched Mom die. That couldn't have been easy, and I think a part of her perished with Mom. She seems close to falling apart, splitting right down the middle. I'm already broken, so there's no need for them to worry about me. Shattering a fragment of a fragment means nothing once the structure is gone.

Beth straightens her skirt and glances at Michael and then me. She extends her hands, so I pass the urn to her.

"Ready?" she says, holding it against her chest. Beth's acting as though we're just running an errand rather than attending our mother's funeral service. But maybe it's helping her get through this.

Outside, we walk to the top of the property line where the old farm fence separates our land from the neighbor's cow pasture. The sun is starting its descent, a fireball crashing slowly into the horizon, streaking the sky with hues of orange and pink. I read online that it only takes around five minutes for the sun to set. It's fleeting, and I think that's why Mom had such an appreciation for it. We value the briefest moments most because they're the ones that define us—a first kiss, a sudden death, an accident, a marriage proposal, a high...

"We're gathered here today to..." Beth starts.

I stifle a laugh, but it comes out fast and sudden like a sneeze.

"What?" she snaps.

"That's the start of a wedding ceremony, not a funeral," I say.

"Then you do it," she huffs.

A high-pitched squeak interrupts our bickering. Lucas pushes Susan in a wheelchair across the road, stopping at the top of the steep driveway. One wheel screeches every few feet or so. Lucas waves his hand to signal to us. It's clear he won't be able to get her across the yard.

"We should go over there," Beth says.

All the color in her face has drained, leaving her looking pale and sickly. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" My eyes go to Lucas and Susan, thirty or so yards from us, and then back to Beth. "You don't look well."

She takes a couple of deep breaths. "I'm fine. I'll be fine. Lucas said they won't stay long, so let's just get this over with," Beth says, starting across the yard.

We follow behind.

"Hi, Lucas. Hi, Susan," Michael greets them as we approach. He shakes Lucas's hand. Then he kneels in front of Susan's wheelchair, holding her frail hand.

Susan looks exactly how I thought she would, like someone that life hasn't been fair to. Although she's wearing an oversized down jacket, it's obvious how feeble she is, weighing no more than a hundred pounds. Her sallow skin is etched with wrinkles and her eyes have lost their shine, like the person behind them is half here, half gone... or just wishing to be gone. I still can't believe what our parents did to her, especially my mom, since they were friends. I guess we do what we do to survive.

"Hi, Brian," Susan says, placing her hand on Michael's.

Beth and Lucas exchange a concerned look.

"Mom, that's Michael. Brian and Laura's youngest," Lucas corrects her.

Susan crumples her face in confusion. "Where is Brian then?"

My eyes go to the road, thinking this would be the perfect moment for him to arrive, veering into the driveway in his old black truck. But after our failed attempt to track him down, I've finally realized that I'll never see my dad again. Maybe I'm saying goodbye to him too today.

"He went to the store," Michael says, delivering a quick smile.

Her face flattens and she looks at her spindly wrist as though she's checking the time. "He's been gone a while," she says.

Michael nods and gets to his feet. "Yeah, he has."

"And Laura. Where's the birthday girl?"

Beth clutches the urn a little tighter. Lucas mouths, Sorry, to us and bends down to eye level with his mother. "Mom, we're here for Laura's funeral. She passed away. Do you remember me telling you that?"

Confusion gathers on Susan's face again. She furrows her brow in frustration. "No. That's not true. Laura and I were just talking the other day. She said she knew where Emma was, that she'd show me."

My eyes go wide. Michael coughs and clears his throat. Beth's eyes fill with tears. Her bottom lip trembles, and she sucks it in to bite it.

Did Mom really try to tell Susan what happened? Or is Susan's mind in 1999, back when Emma went missing?

"I'm going to take you home, Mom." Lucas holds eye contact while he slowly gets to his feet.

"Where's your sister at?" Susan asks, ornery now.

"She's out on a bike ride," Lucas says, exchanging a glance with each of us. He whispers, "I'm sorry. She was much better this morning."

"It's all right," I say.

"Don't worry about it," Michael adds.

Lucas reaches for Beth's hand and holds it while Michael and I retreat a few steps to give them a moment. He tells her he'll call later, thanks her for letting him stop by, and then drops her hand.

"Emma better be home before dinner," Susan says as Lucas starts to wheel her back up the driveway

Beth turns toward us, tears streaking her face.

"Do you think Mom really said something to Susan?" I ask.

"I don't know," she says through the tears, her voice cracking.

"What do we do?" I ask.

"Nothing. Even if Mom confessed to Susan, she's too far gone for anyone to believe her," Michael says in a hushed voice.

"But if Mom did tell her, maybe that's what she wanted..." I say.

"Stop," Beth interjects. She looks down at the urn and takes a deep breath, composing herself. "The only thing that I know Mom wanted was for her ashes to be spread around this property." She pulls the lid off, and Michael takes it from her. Her hand disappears inside of the container and emerges with a handful of ashes. Beth tosses them into the wind and says, "No matter what you've done, Mom, I still love you."

I slide my hand into the urn, collecting a scoop of ashes. I don't say anything before scattering them around me. I had planned to say something at Mom's service, but now that I'm here, I think those words are better left unsaid.

Michael hesitates when Beth extends the urn to him. He never liked the idea of cremation, so I'm sure flinging Mom's ashes around is even less appealing to him. She nudges the urn toward him again. Finally, he lets out a heavy sigh and dips his hand into it, holding up a palm full of ash.

"I can't believe this is what we're reduced to when we die—ashes." He turns his hand over. Some of the dust swirls in the air while the rest plummets to the ground.

"Sometimes we're reduced to much less when we're alive," I say.

Beth and Michael exchange a worried look. We walk the property, scattering her ashes and reminiscing on our favorite memories of Mom. The wind carries some of her away. The rest lands on the dewy grass, melding with the earth. By the time we're done, the sun is just a sliver, the horizon nearly swallowing it whole. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, as the sun eventually sets on us all.