“The Grief Eater”

By Bianca M. Caraza

The Grief Eater

I can still see that last glimpse of her face: brows drawn together, mouth slack, tears shimmering in the corners of her eyes in a way that made me almost hungry.

I open my eyes to the final amen of the lengthy rosary and watch the people in the pew ahead of mine. Once they, sniffling already, return to their seats I do the same. Someone in the front slips and the kneeler hits the floor with a loud crash that echoes through the high ceilinged church. Several people wince.

It’s a beautiful church, and I always like to come here. It’s classic— proper stained glass windows depicting resurrections and miracles and drooping saints, there’s a marble altar, and the cloth that hangs off of it is embroidered with little golden vines— none of those goofy felt doves that are supposed to be the Holy Spirit. There are several wreaths off to the right, almost all of them are bundles of white and yellow roses. They look expensive and even from halfway down they’re rich and fragrant, perfuming the whole place up to the points of its high gothic arches.

With the rosary over, the priest begins the mass in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. The casket is before the altar and everyone is standing, I realize just a second too late, and if I weren’t in the back I would have been too obvious. Almost no one else fumbled the timing. Catholic families, go figure.

I haven’t seen her since then. I tried texting. Then calling. But there was never an answer. She probably blocked the number. She never had an instagram, but she even blocked me on venmo. Four years, up in flames.

What do you say when a friend leaves? There’s no break up protocol. You can’t split your finances or your friend group. There’s no custody to navigate.

“In the name of the father…” The priest begins and I carefully make the sign of the cross, careful to move my arm from left to right. I press my eyes closed and take a deep breath, letting the emotions of the room fill me. I like to get a feel for it— the exquisite flavors of sadness which surround me. Grief, of course, is ever present. It’s like a mist that seeps in, that everyone chokes on. That is expected. But it’s not just grief, it’s sorrow, regret for things left unsaid, loss in so many ways— the loss of a father, of a friend, of a mentor— there is even anger simmering under the grief. Perhaps at the deceased, but maybe at fate or God or whatever took him. I’ve never been a mind reader, I could never discern the thoughts behind the feelings, only the particular shades of them. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I can taste them.

The hunger inside me is like a second mouth. An entity all its own that opens like a maw to reveal a wide and cavernous emptiness. It can never get enough to eat. Sometimes when I check my reflection in the mirror, I think I can see it. An emptiness in the back of my eye. Maybe she could see it, too.

The priest wraps up his homily and then there’s more kneeling. This time I am ready and fall quickly to my knees, as though the hunger, now piqued, has me on high alert. It’s eager to blend in, like a cat hiding in the bushes, eyes wide.

It doesn’t hurt them. At least, I don’t think it does. They’re sad anyway, it’s not like I have anything to do with it. And then my hunger is lessened for a while. I’m another part of nature, like those little birds that live on hippos. Except I get everything and they get sadder. There’s a word for that.

When it’s time to receive communion I rise and follow the line of shaking people— some of them are already crying outright. The thing inside me is not my stomach, it’s higher up, just under my lungs or maybe between them, pushing on them. Sometimes I’m so hungry that my vision goes black and it’s hard to breathe.

But it’s not time yet.

When I get to the altar, I cross my arms in front of my chest. I’ve always wondered, a little blasphemously maybe, what it tastes like— what all the fuss is about. It’s tempting for someone like me— eat this bread and never hunger, etc. But I keep my lips tightly shut and give the bow and turn. From up here I can see everyone, though they’re mostly kneeling, hands pressed together, those who are standing are either crying openly, faces shining like pearls in a sea of black, or else clenching their jaws in determination to get through it.

“Were you… using me this whole time?” Her expression was broken open like a shell crushed in one’s palm.

“No, I swear,” I said, but I wasn’t sure. How could I ever be? Do you notice when you’re breathing?

“You’re lying,” she cried. She grabbed my glass of wine off the table and hurled it at me— maybe she’d only meant to throw it near me. She missed and it burst into a dozen shards, wine seeping into the white rug like spilled blood between us.

It’s best at these things to wait until the perfect moment, a kind of tantalizing foreplay. I have developed such an acute sense of timing that I fear when I do have to attend a service in earnest, I will salivate at the first note of an organ.

When the first born steps up to the ambo, there is a collective tightening of chests. It’s a rush of quick tears, a swallowed lump of regret. The whole crowd holds its breath, praying she doesn’t break.

“My dad,” she begins, “was all of the things Father Eric said. He was dedicated to his family, to his work, and to his community here at St. Lawrence. He was the best dad—” and her voice cracks on the last word “—that anyone could have asked for.”

At first there are a few sniffles, then murmurs, and at last a flood of tears. And it’s time.

How to describe it. It’s like opening every tap inside yourself and letting all the water flow over. Except it doesn’t flow out, it draws in. I just have to take it all in, drink my fill. It’s like standing in the surf and trying to drink your fill from the waves.

It’s like breathing. The air is all around you.

I didn’t. I never would have. Never to someone I loved. I review old text messages, scroll through pictures, rolling the images over until the bittersweet taste of those moments are on my tongue. I didn’t, not to her. I am sure. I am almost sure.

When leaving a funeral unnoticed, one must either be the first or last to go. I stay behind until just a few family members linger, holding each other in their grief. The burial will be in the graveyard just outside, an ancient and overgrown thing. Probably, he had a family plot. I make my way out and slither away, through the parking lot and onto the corner. There’s a coffee shop across the street and I light my cigarette and take a deep drag, wondering what I’ll order for lunch.

The cafe door opens and I catch a flash of red hair. It couldn’t be her, I think. But I see her unmistakable fossil bag with the scratch down its side. I recognize the green blouse she’s wearing, knit with pearl buttons. I can almost smell her perfume, almost taste it in the back of my throat.

A thousand things come to me— I’ll yell at her. I’ll hug her. I’ll slap her. I’ll tell her how sorry I am. I’ll tell her she owes me sixty bucks for that concert ticket I bought. I’ll tell her she was wrong about me.

I will the cars to pass so that I can run at her, so that I can say every word welling up. But when the light turns that sickly green, I don’t move. I watch her turn away, growing smaller, the tether between us thinning until it breaks.

Did she look happy? I can’t remember.

I glance back at the church, black and looming, spires slicing through the fog of the day. I turn back and head for the graveyard where I can stand sinking in the mud at the edges of the weeping crowd.

There is always another funeral, another tragedy. And I am always hungry.

Bianca M. Caraza is a graduate student at Mount Saint Mary’s University and English teacher in downtown Los Angeles. She is the former editor in chief of The TKC literary magazine The Troubadour and has been published in The Rush Magazine. She is looking forward to reinventing the gothic genre.