The Invisible Girl

For Marnie.

I opened the metal wardrobe in my and Sissy’s bedroom, in search of the perfect outfit. The apartment’s dry air caused a pop of static electricity as I touched the doorknob, and I yelped in surprise.

The wardrobe was part of the hodgepodge of furniture inside our tiny furnished apartment. It really didn’t take up that much room, but I still hated it, even though now the three of us had more space to spread out.

I scrutinized my meager selection, sliding each piece past my eyes and wincing at the sound of cheap wire coat hangers scraping against the iron bar. Nothing looked right.

I had never dressed for a parent’s funeral before.

Mama was busy doing other things, leaving me to fend for myself. In all fairness, she never helped me with outfits, but on this frigid January morning, I needed guidance. Today we would bury Daddy, and Mama would also celebrate her eighteenth wedding anniversary. To say she was laid low was a horrendous understatement. Mama was as much of a ghost as Daddy was now, hazily outlined by the smoke from the Vantage Light 100 she sat inhaling at the kitchen table, the place where Daddy had drunk his last cup of coffee 72 hours earlier.

In the weeks before Christmas, a lady from church had given us a trash bag full of hand-me-downs. Her daughter was thinner than me but also taller, so I managed to squeeze into a few pieces since I was short. Among them was a pretty, snow-white dress. The dress was printed with a faint jacquard pattern and featured a drop waist with a sophisticated bow. I had fished it out of the bag excitedly, but my excitement turned to disappointment once I tried to zip it up.

The dress had barely fit, the bow riding low under my chubby stomach and causing unflattering lumps in the fabric. Still, it had remained in my wardrobe, beautiful but untouched, yet another motivation to lose weight. I’d been on a perpetual diet since fourth grade. Being a fat kid was tough.

All efforts to reshape my chubby body, like trying to copy Paula Abdul’s choreography for exercise and insisting on Special K cereal for breakfast, had ceased since the death of my father. My new goal, and the only one I had, was to survive the day.

I wanted to purge the grief from my body, but the feeling had settled into every one of my muscles, rubbed in deep like the skin burns jerky boys gave each other at school. I realized the best I could do was destroy as much of the evidence of this appalling event as possible.

I would wear this pretty dress, even though it made me look ugly, and then I would entomb it in the garbage can after the funeral. Once it had been removed from the vicinity, I’d never have to look at it again. I didn’t want to be reminded of either my physical flaws or my spiritual one – a new, vast feeling of separation from God, who was now totally useless to me as a loving or protective Creator. My safety net was gone forever, along with any desire to improve.

It seemed not only poetic but downright sensible to match the ugly feelings I had inside with ugliness on the outside, so I stepped into the dress and tugged the zipper into place. From the kitchen, Mama asked if Sissy and I were ready.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I told her, putting on my coat in an effort to speed things up.

Mammaw pulled into our driveway in her big, copper-colored Cadillac. She was going to drive us to Woodlawn Cemetery. Mama hadn’t driven for years because she’d once had a seizure behind the wheel. Daddy had been adamant that she not drive, in fear of her safety, but his opinion no longer mattered. Now, the idea of Mama leaning on a man was laughable. Having to rely on bumming rides and city buses when we had a perfectly good car in the driveway wouldn’t do.

Someone was going to have to start driving again, and it was going to have to be Mama.

I pulled open the Caddy’s heavy door and pushed the passenger seat forward so Sissy and I could climb in the back. Mammaw, elegantly perfumed and rouged even in the grim throes of heartache, said nothing.

How I longed for a hug or a tender word, but neither my mother nor my grandmother seemed equipped today. Sissy and I were the youngest victims, no less devastated even though we’d known Daddy for only a short time. I didn’t know how else to demand comfort except to scream at the top of my lungs, but I was afraid someone would slap me for it. This was not a fear I usually had, but the rotten contagion of grief had left my caregivers zombified in its wake, and I no longer knew what to expect.

Woodlawn was barely five minutes from our house, but we drove to the funeral home first for the procession. We pulled into Berry’s, and I saw a sea of cars. I felt a sorrowful satisfaction in the large number that had turned out to say a final goodbye.

The funeral home man attached a small blue magnetic flag on the hood of the Cadillac, and we set off in a caravan on the way back to Woodlawn. I was disappointed the procession wouldn’t take us onto Chapman Highway, where the most people were. I needed everyone in South Knoxville to know that the best daddy in the world was gone, and he was never coming back.

Our caravan wound up the narrow streets of the cemetery, finally coming to a stop at the base of the hill where my papaw had been buried sixteen years earlier. The sky was overcast; the temperature barely above freezing. I had unbuttoned my coat in the car but quickly pulled it shut once I was outside, not only to protect myself from the weather but to hide the lumps caused by my tight dress.

There was a big hole in the ground, genteelly surrounded by green astroturf, but its purpose was obvious. Mama was busy talking – finally – to some of our family. I stood beside her for a minute, waiting for instructions that never came. I decided to take Sissy, who had hardly left my side all morning, to find a seat.

Eventually, the service began. Although Daddy was a dedicated Christian, a former pastor, and a loving example of his faith tradition, he had not belonged to a church for years. Instead, he’d used his time on air as a disc jockey for a local Christian AM station to minister to others. A couple of pastors who’d known him over the years volunteered to lead the service, but Mama refused them. Daddy had been a saint and the gentlest soul in our family. Only the people who knew him best were allowed the privilege to eulogize him.

Uncle Mark, one of Daddy’s younger brothers, delivered a touching eulogy, and we prayed. Daddy’s pallbearers were his other five brothers and so many nephews there was barely enough room on either side of the casket to walk him up the hill.

During Uncle Mark’s speech, a chorus of harsh sobs had rung out – sounds amplified and uncushioned by the naked, soggy branches covering us, a counterfeit imitation of the bird songs that would pass through green trees later in the spring.

Our family would never be the same.

After the internment, I remained seated, in a daze. Sissy had gone off to look for Mama, leaving me alone under the temporary awning set up to keep the cold wind at bay. I felt a chill as I contemplated my new reality. I was only eleven, to be sure, but the last few days had taught me I’d have to learn to take care of myself - at least until the shock of Daddy’s death wore off and returned Mama and Mammaw to the land of the living.

I just hoped I’d be ok until then.

I walked back into the throng of people, trying to pick out Mama and Sissy’s auburn hair in the crowd. A figure standing alone caught my eye, slender in a black wool coat. I lifted my eyes to her face, and recognition crashed into me like a lightning bolt.

My sixth-grade Reading and Science teacher, Ms. Prescott, stood before me. Her eyes were sad, undeniably aware of my burden even as she smiled gently.

Ms. Prescott was my favorite teacher at South Middle. Her curriculum had opened up a new world outside of scruffy, humdrum Knoxville. Everything she’d taught about writing and ecology fueled my imagination and innovation, gifting me the belief I could make the planet a better place. She, like Daddy, had recognized that nurturing my sensitivity would turn it into a superpower, instead of a limitation.

Today was also supposed to be my first day back to school after the holidays, but I wouldn’t return until next week. Suddenly, I remembered good friends and lofty dreams and happier times, and my face crumbled in agony.

Ms. Prescott opened her arms, and I ran into them. I buried my head in the crook of her neck and sobbed, emotions flooding my face and wetting the collar of her coat. Her hug enveloped me. I was safe – finally able to rest my trembling limbs and briefly lay my lonely load aside. At that moment, I didn’t have to be brave or display any newfound maturity hastened by my loss. I just had to be a kid.

When I finished crying, she pulled a large manila envelope from her coat’s inner pocket.

“This is from your classmates,” Ms. Prescott said. “They wrote letters for you this morning.” She handed me the envelope, puffy with folded notes inside.

“These are for me?” I asked in wonder. I thought of all the people in my Reading class, even the jerky boys who didn’t even like me, taking the time to write messages of sympathy, and I started to cry again.

Ms. Prescott once again embraced me. “Of course they are. We’re all very sorry for your loss.” I wiped my face with the back of my coat sleeve, trying to stem the flow from my eyes and nose. “Get some good rest, and we’ll see you next week, ok?” she added.

I sniffed, happy to agree to such a reasonable assignment. “Ok.”

I felt it necessary to add something else. I hoped it wasn’t babyish. “I love you,” I said.

“I love you, too,” Ms. Prescott replied. “We’ll see you soon.”

My eyes followed her as she found Mama on the way back to her car. They talked for a minute, then Ms. Prescott waved goodbye.

As usual, I wasn’t sure if what I’d experienced had anything to do with God. Had He sent an earthly helper in my time of need? Or was Ms. Prescott showing up just a lucky coincidence?

These types of indeterminable, ancient questions had plagued me since my earliest days. I knew I’d never have the answers. Only Daddy had ever come close to answering any of them. At least I had survived the burial.

I hovered impatiently around Mama and Mammaw, wanting to get home right away. I needed to read my messages and throw my restrictive dress in the garbage as soon as I could race up the stairs that led to our front door.

But the dress would be the only thing I’d discard. Pressing the envelope close to my heart, I knew I’d keep these letters forever - an everlasting reminder I had not gone unnoticed in the permafrost of grief, but instead was kept warm by their affection, as I waited to bloom once more.