issy Ryan’s funeral was held on a Wednesday morning at the Episcopal church in downtown New Bern. The church could seat nearly five hundred people, but it wasn’t large enough. People were standing and some had crowded around the outside doors, paying their respects from the nearest spot they could.  I remember that it had begun to rain that morning. It wasn’t a hard rain, but it was steady, the kind of late summer rain that cools the earth and breaks the humidity. Mist floated just above the ground, ethereal and ghostlike; small puddles formed in the street. I watched as a parade of black umbrellas, held by people dressed in black, slowly moved forward, as if the mourners were walking in the snow.

I saw Miles Ryan sitting erect in the front row of the church. He was holding Jonah’s hand. Jonah was only five at the time, old enough to understand that his mother had died, but not quite old enough to understand that he would never see her again. He looked more confused than sad. His father sat tight-lipped and pale as one person after another came up to him, offering a hand or a hug.  Though he seemed to have difficulty looking directly at people, he neither cried nor shook. I turned away and made my way to the back of the church. I said nothing to him.

I’ll never forget the smell, the odor of old wood and burning candles, as I sat in the back row. Someone played softly on a guitar near the altar. A lady sat beside me, followed a moment later by her husband. In her hand she held a wad of tissues, which she used to dab at the corners of her eyes. Her husband rested his hand on her knee, his mouth set in a straight line. Unlike the vestibule, where people were still coming in, in the church it was silent, except for the sounds of people sniffling. No one spoke; no one seemed to know what to say.  It was then that I felt as if I were going to vomit.

I fought back my nausea, feeling the sweat bead on my forehead. My hands felt clammy and useless. I didn’t want to be there. I hadn’t wanted to come. More than anything, I wanted to get up and leave.

I stayed.

Once the service started, I found it difficult to concentrate. If you ask me today what the reverend said, or what Missy’s brother said in his eulogy, I couldn’t tell you. I remember, however, that the words didn’t comfort me. All I could think about was that Missy Ryan shouldn’t have died.  After the service, there was a long procession to Cedar Grove Cemetery; it was escorted by what I assumed was every sheriff and police officer in the county. I waited until most everyone started their cars, then finally pulled into the line, following the car directly in front of me. Headlights were turned on. Like a robot, I turned mine on, too.

As we drove, the rain began to fall harder. My wipers pushed the rain from side to side.

The cemetery was only a few minutes away.

People parked, umbrellas opened, people sloshed through puddles again, converging from every direction. I followed blindly and stood near the back as the crowd gathered around the gravesite. I saw Miles and Jonah again; they stood with their heads bowed, the rain drenching them. The pallbearers brought the coffin to the grave, surrounded by hundreds of bouquets.  I thought again that I didn’t want to be there. I shouldn’t have come. I don’t belong here.

But I did.

Driven by compulsion, I’d had no choice. I needed to see Miles, needed to see Jonah.

Even then, I knew that our lives would be forever intertwined.

I had to be there, you see.

I was, after all, the one who’d been driving the car.