Michelle Morouse, Why am I here?

It’s been thirty years. No one will even recognize me.  Hundreds of people fill the church and vestibule for Paula’s service.  

     This priest isn’t fire and brimstone like Father Cawthorne, a hypertensive who flushed during sermons, scaring Paula when we were twelve, “Father’s going to have a heart attack.” 

     He recalls a mission trip, “The Hondurans loved Paula’s stories. Her irrepressible spirit didn’t get lost in the translation.” Apparently, she made countless trips to the Soup Kitchen downtown, directed the choir, ran bingo nights. He tells a funny story about getting stuck in a snowstorm with Paula.  Eulogies are like horror movies. If you don’t insert some funny scenes, people might laugh at the wrong places. 

     They’ve renovated the church. I stopped attending mass here after Angela Croft’s funeral, back in high school. Paula was driving her brother’s car, with only a learner’s permit the night Angela died. We saw a bicycle up ahead, braids extending from the rider’s helmet all the way to the seat.

      “Hey, looks like Angela,” Paula said. No one else had hair that long. Paula beeped the horn. Angela turned her head, and lost control, the bike skidding in our path, Paula arching up, then to the side of the road.

     “Stop, stop,” I yelled, while Paula could only scream, passing a 7-Eleven, a pharmacy, a grocery store, the community center, until I finally got her to pull into a gas station. She made me place the call. Her Dad was an auxiliary officer. They could have recognized her voice. It was too late when they got there, but from what we learned later, a few minutes wouldn’t have made a difference. There might have been some new scratches on the car, but it was hard to tell. It was a real clunker. Paula made me promise never to tell anyone, and I haven’t, not even my therapist, for some reason. 

     Paula’s friend Barbara sings Ave Maria and, as always, it makes me cry. Barbara was Paula’s golden girl—honor society, flawless soprano, lead in the school play—and Paula never gave her advice. Paula saved all her wisdom for me: “You’re the kind of person who should never use drugs, because you’re a weak person,” “No one wears green,” “Don’t laugh so loud at his jokes,”

     I glom onto Barbara in the luncheon buffet line. Yes, Barbara did become a lawyer. No, she’s no longer married to perfect Richard, “I was married. He wasn’t.” 

     “I’m sorry I lost touch with Paula, with everyone,” I say, “When I went to Boston for grad school, it was just overwhelming. I couldn’t believe it when I heard she’d passed. Way too soon. She, of all people, so full of life. It’s not fair. My sister saw it on the alumni site.” 

     I don’t say that I found Paula on Facebook, even before she announced the cancer diagnosis. Something held me back from reaching out then. Too many years gone by? The way she told endless stories about people, spilling their secrets, scaring me off from confiding mine? She said that she liked that I was “quiet,” that she knew she could tell me things because “it won’t go any further.”

     Barbara introduces me to Paula’s daughter Heather. She’s a genealogist, like me, and we exchange numbers.  She’s quick to smile, even today, like Paula. Someday, I hope to tell her about Paula’s crush on my dad, our slacker approach to Girl Scouts, first rock concert, skinny-dipping in the reservoir, and the Case of the Disappearing Rival Mascot Uniform.