The Beginning of After

punch that knocked the wind out of my lungs. I looked at Suzie Sirico the way, in a movie, someone looks at the person who just stabbed them, that moment of surprise before the pain kicks in and the blood starts gushing.
    I heard the back door open, then close. Elliot and Selina came running into the room, their tails pointing straight up into the air, ready to get warm and dry and curled up for the night.
    I made a noise like a whimper, but loud. It felt like it came not from me but something half-human, crouched at the base of my spine.
    I was in bed when Nana got there, sometime before dawn. Mrs. Dill had given me two of the pills she always had on hand for her panic attacks. The medication was having fun with me, making me believe one thing was real, then another. In my mind, I was talking to someone at the Athens Theater ticket counter, begging them to let me in even though the movie had already started. “But everyone I know is in there!” I was yelling.
    I felt my grandmother put her hand on my head, smoothing my eyebrow with her thumb. “I’m here, Laurel,” she was saying.
    Now the popcorn machine behind the ticket counter smelled like Chanel No. 5.
    The hallway outside my bedroom door was buzzing slightly with echoed voices from the living room. Somebody blew their nose.
    Back inside my head, I wasn’t trying to get into the movie anymore. I’d given up and moved on, wandering down the street toward a supermarket, suddenly starving.

Chapter Three

    P retty much everyone came to the funeral, which was held on a day so beautiful, normally everyone would be walking around saying cliché stuff like, “Spring has sprung!” The air smelled fresh and sweet, and the slight breeze was the kind that tickles a little.
    Our whole neighborhood showed up. Relatives I hadn’t seen in years, and my parents’ friends from college, and people from my dad’s office. Toby’s friends and his whole soccer team came with their parents, and all his teachers. Two of them had been my teachers too, just a few years back. Some kids from school who I was friendly with and their families, plus dozens of people I either didn’t know or couldn’t remember the names of. It was standing room only in the funeral home.
    Nana and I sat up front, where almost nobody could see us, and she held my hand tight while people spoke. I knew I was supposed to listen and nod and cry like everyone else, but I was busy composing a letter in my head:
Dear Mom and Dad and Toby,
There are a lot of people here. That’s good, right? Doesn’t everyone always wonder who would show up to their funeral? So now you know. If you’re watching. I’d like to think you’re watching, but just in case you’re not, here are the highlights:
Dad’s college friends Tom and Lena reading a poem they wrote together.
Toby’s music teacher, Ms. McAndrew, singing “Amazing Grace.” Did somebody not tell her this was a Jewish funeral? But it did sound pretty.
Mom, your friend Tanya reading an Emily Dickinson poem. Was that really your favorite one like she said?
It was cool of the rabbi to do the service, since we never bothered to join the synagogue—I guess when there’s only one rabbi in town, that’s how it goes. He talked about community kindness and mitzvahs. I wish I could be more specific, because apparently what he said made a lot of people cry, but when he was speaking I was watching two squirrels in a tree outside the window.
Nana cried out loud twice. I had to give her some Kleenex because she used up her handkerchief. I didn’t have anything black, so I borrowed one of your dresses, Mom. It was a little big in the bust, but otherwise I think it looked nice.
Love,
Laurel

    At the burial, Nana sprinkled dirt into the graves with her hands shaking, walking gingerly around them like a garden she’d just planted. The rabbi offered me the shovel, but I shook my head no.
    That was when I saw David.
    He was hanging back, hovering near some stranger’s headstone, wearing a black blazer over a black T-shirt and black jeans. People kept turning around to look at him and whisper. Almost gawking, like some rock star had made an appearance at my family’s funeral. But he didn’t look back at them. He just watched the three caskets intently and ignored anyone who was alive.
    Earlier, I’d heard someone say that they were leaving the tent up and just moving it down the hill a bit, because Mrs. Kaufman’s funeral was the next day.
    When it was time for