Chapter 5 - The Funeral Director's Choice
The hallway went quiet after she left. Not silent — I could still hear the low hum from the main room, chairs shifting, someone coughing. But the pressure changed.
The two guards stayed on either side of me. They weren't holding as tight now. One had let go entirely and stood with his hands clasped in front of him. The other kept a light hand near my elbow, like he wasn't sure if he was supposed to guide me or block me.
I wiped under my eyes with the back of my hand. My breathing was still uneven. I tried to slow it down.
A man came down the hall toward us. Late forties, gray at the temples, black suit that wasn't quite as sharp as the guards'. He had a small pin on his lapel with the funeral home name on it. He carried a clipboard, but he wasn't looking at it.
He stopped a few feet away and looked at me, then at the guards.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm Daniel, the director here. I need to figure out how to move forward."
Neither guard answered right away. The taller one glanced toward the main room doors.
Daniel lowered his voice. "We have a full room in there. The program stopped in the middle. I can't leave them sitting like that much longer. I need to restart the tribute."
"We were told to hold here," the taller guard said.
"I understand that," Daniel said. "But who am I listening to right now? Because from where I stood, everybody heard the same thing off that screen."
The shorter guard exhaled through his nose. He looked at the floor, then back up.
"We got an order to take her out," he said. "Then the video said if we did, we lose the funding. Whatever that means. That's a conflict. I'm not touching that until somebody clears it."
My elbow was cold where his hand had been. I tucked my arms in close.
Daniel nodded slowly. He turned to me. "Are you all right to stand? Do you need water? A chair?"
I shook my head. "I'm okay."
He studied my face for a second. Not pitying, just measuring. "Do you want to go back in?"
That was the first time anyone had asked me that plainly. My throat tightened.
"I don't want to make a scene," I said. "I just — I want to sit in the back. Quiet. I won't say anything. I'll just sit through it."
The taller guard shifted his weight. "We can't have her walk in alone after what just happened."
"You wouldn't," Daniel said. "I'd walk with her. After we finish the video segment. We take a short pause, let people stand, get water, then we resume and seat late arrivals then. That's normal. Nobody would even look twice."
He said it like he was working it out as he spoke, like logistics could solve what the rest of it couldn't.
The shorter guard frowned. "And if she" — he stopped, glanced at me — "if the other party objects?"
Daniel held up his clipboard a little. "This is my building during a service. My job is to finish the service safely and respectfully. I can't have staff dragging a grieving family member out in the middle of it while guests are watching. That's not safe and that's not respectful."
I felt my shoulders drop a fraction. Someone saying family member out loud steadied me more than I expected.
He looked back at me. "If you sit in the back row, can you stay there until the end? No moving up? No approaching anyone?"
"Yes," I said. "I can do that."
"And you don't need to talk to anyone on the way in. Just follow me. We go in after the intermission, when the lights are low."
I nodded. I could feel the tears drying tight on my cheeks. I didn't wipe again because my hands were shaking.
The taller guard looked at his partner. "We escort after the video ends. We stay near the back. No contact unless she asks or there's a problem."
The shorter one hesitated, then nodded. "After the video ends."
Daniel wrote something quick on his clipboard. "Good. I'll announce a five-minute pause for the equipment. Then I'll come get you myself."
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He started back toward the main room, then paused. "Stay here where it's warm. I'll be quick."
The guards stayed with me. The hand near my elbow didn't return. We stood there listening to the muffled sound of his shoes going back down the carpet, and the low murmur of the room waiting for someone to tell them what happened next.
