The Funeral Singer Read Online Free Page A

held it gently in both of hers. If she noticed how clammy it was, she didn’t let on. “I wanted to thank you,” she said. Her voice cracked slightly and her eyes grew misty. “You have such a lovely voice, and ‘Amazing Grace’ is one of my favorite hymns. Michael always liked that one, too.”
    “Michael?”
    Mrs. Nolan cocked her head. “Yes. My grandson?”
    “Oh, right.” Of course. Mick. The ringing grew louder. I was going to screw this up. Royally.
    Mom led me to a chair, eased me down into it, and turned to go. “I’ll be right back,” she assured us, closing the door behind her.
    “Did you know him?” Mrs. Nolan asked as she sat down next to me.
    I gripped the arm of my chair. “Um, no. I mean, I knew who he was, of course, but I’d never met him.”
    “Ah, well, he was a wonderful boy. I’ll bet you never knew this about him: He loved to garden.” This was surreal. Mrs. Nolan was acting as though we were two friends sipping iced lattes at Starbucks. At least it meant she was unaware of the freak-out session going on inside me.
    I nodded slowly. “Garden? Really? That’s nice.” Not brilliant conversation, but it was all I could manage. If Mom didn’t take too long, maybe I’d get through this without doing too much damage.
    “Yes,” Mrs. Nolan answered. “Garden. Ever since he was a little boy. It started out as a fascination with the snails that invaded my pumpkin patch one year, but eventually, Michael really took to it. For eight years in a row he entered the county fair for the largest squash. Won lots of red and yellow ribbons, and finally took blue a few years ago.” She beamed at the memory.
    I’d never even realized Fairfax had county fairs. I always thought those were a Midwestern thing. I tried to imagine Mick, with all his tattoos and piercings, listening to gospel hymns and weeding gardens and accepting a blue ribbon for Biggest Squash.
    “Of course, he’d gotten into some trouble in the last couple of years.” Mrs. Nolan continued, her voice falling to a near whisper. “You probably know all about that. Those horrible tabloids. I don’t understand why they couldn’t leave him alone. He was a kid. He needed help.”
    Mick’s trips in and out of rehab were well documented when “Medium Well” hit the charts. The press hadn’t run anything recently, but that must have been because The Grime had fallen off their radar, not because Mick was clean.
    Mrs. Nolan sat silently. I had the feeling she wanted me to say something, but what? I was horrible at this, nothing like Mom or Dad. At least my breathing had returned to normal, and the ringing in my ears was so faint I barely noticed it now. I loosened my grip on the arms of the chair.
    Finally, Mrs. Nolan spoke again. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know that the Mick Nolan you read about in those trashy papers wasn’t the Michael we knew. He was a beautiful boy, with a beautiful heart. If only … I never understood … those damned drugs … ” Her voice cracked and faded, and she closed her eyes.
    Oh, no. Just when I thought we were going to get through this. I grabbed a tissue off my mother’s desk and handed it to her.
    Mom and Dad always talked about the five stages of grief. They said the funeral was supposed to help people get through the first stage, denial—to see with their own eyes that the person was dead and buried. But I’d heard enough eulogies to know that while funerals could help people accept the fact that their loved ones had died, they couldn’t always help them accept the way they’d lived.
    “I wish I’d known Mick,” I said finally. “Sounds like he was an awesome guy.”
    Mrs. Nolan patted my knee. “Thank you.” She took a deep breath and gave me a thin, wavering smile as she dabbed at her eyes. We sat again in silence, until at last the office door swung open and my mother breezed in carrying a manila folder.
    “You’re back.” I stood slowly, grabbing the back of the chair for