Damn These Tears That Wouldn't Stop

I was still wearing my engagement ring when Ben told me he couldn't marry me. He said it in the lobby of the Bellwether Hotel, under a chandelier made of glass leaves. The lobby smelled like lemon polish and wet wool. Outside, rain slid down the windows in silver lines. Inside, my hand rested on the counter between us, the ring catching the light every time my fingers shook. "You're making this harder than it has to be," he said. I had asked him to repeat himself. Not because I hadn't heard. Because I wanted the sentence to change when it came around again. Ben looked at the ring. He didn't reach for it. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life managing your feelings," he said. There were people on either side of us. A woman in a camel coat waited to check in. A man balanced a paper coffee cup on his suitcase. The hotel clerk kept his eyes on his monitor as if the screen had suddenly become fascinating. I pushed the ring over my knuckle. It caught once. My skin had swollen around it. "Is there someone else?" Ben looked toward the entrance. He had already packed his car. I could see it through the glass, parked in the loading zone with the trunk open. "That isn't the point." It was a point. It was just one he didn't want to touch. For four years, I had known how to keep my face calm when a customer complained at the print shop, how to laugh off a slammed door, how to take a breath before answering a question I didn't like. But my eyes had never learned restraint. They filled without permission and spilled without warning. Ben used to call it my "broken faucet." He said it playfully at first. Later, he said it when I apologized. By the end, he said it when I hadn't started crying yet. I put the ring on the counter. "I'll send you the numbers for the venue deposit," I said. My voice sounded thin and unfamiliar. "Thank you." He picked up the ring and slipped it into his coat pocket. Then he walked out into the rain. I stood still long enough for the woman in the camel coat to glance at me. I smiled at her, which made my face collapse. She looked away. I made it as far as the hotel parking garage before the tears came hard. I pressed my palms against my eyes and tried to breathe through my nose. The more I tried to stop, the worse it got. My chest hitched. My throat closed. A man pushed a luggage cart past me and pretended not to hear. I drove without choosing a destination. I took turns too late and missed the exit back to my apartment. At some point I pulled over beside a low stone wall and found a funeral notice clipped to a community bulletin board. EVELYN PIKE, the notice said. A memorial service was being held at Grace Chapel at two. All who knew Evelyn were welcome. I didn't know Evelyn. I didn't know anyone who knew her. The chapel was close, and I needed a room where nobody would expect me to explain what was wrong. I arrived ten minutes after the service began. The chapel doors stood open, and people were filing in from the rain. I waited until a family with an umbrella passed, then followed them inside. The room was warm and crowded. A woman stood at the front beside a framed photograph of an older woman with short white hair and a bright red scarf. Everyone else wore dark colors. I found a chair at the very back, slipped into it, and tried to make myself small. The speaker was talking about Evelyn's work at the county library. I heard something about summer reading and a little boy who had once hidden under a table. The story was kind. It was also a story about a person I'd never met, and I had no right to be crying over it. I tucked my face into my hands. A sob escaped anyway. The couple in front of me turned around. I lowered my head. I reached into my bag for a tissue, knocked my phone to the floor, and bent to retrieve it. By the time I sat up, the tears were running down my neck. I tried to quiet my breathing. I couldn't. The speaker stopped for half a beat. I heard a chair shift. Then the woman at the front resumed her story, louder than before. I cried through the rest of the service. I cried at the photographs of Evelyn in a garden. I cried when a child placed a yellow paper flower beside the framed portrait. I cried when the woman at the front said, "She made room for people." When the final hymn began, I stood with everyone else and cried harder. I had no idea what the dead woman's voice sounded like. I had no claim to her memory. But her family was grieving, and I was the stranger in the back row making the most noise. After the service, I stayed in my chair while people moved toward the side room for coffee. I waited until the chapel had almost emptied. My cheeks felt raw. I had used every tissue in my bag. A woman in her thirties came down the aisle toward me. She had the same short white hair as the woman in the framed photograph, but her face was tired and her eyes were dry. "Are you all right?" she asked. I stood too quickly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disrupt anything." "Do you know my mother?" "No." I swallowed. "I'm sorry. I saw the notice and needed somewhere to be." The woman looked at me for a long second. Then she took a packet of tissues from her coat pocket and held it out. I started crying again. "Come on," she said softly. "Let's get you some water."