Page 77 of Death of the Author

“Where’s Mom?” Zelu said, looking toward her siblings, who were gathering beside her.

“Are you all right?” Chinyere asked. Her face was wet with fresh tear tracks. Uzo burst into sobs again; both Tolu and Msizi moved to hold her. Amarachi stood stiffly, looking behind her like she couldn’t handle facing the coffin. Bola was staring at the casket, shell-shocked.

“I... nooo...” Zelu glanced at the white casket again and whimpered.

It was like a domino effect. Uzo, who was looking at Zelu, whimpered, too. Tolu sniffled and hissed, “Fuck.” Bola grabbed his shoulder.

“Oh God, where’s Mom?” Bola asked, looking around, starting to lose it, too.

Even Amarachi began to crack.

“You guys, we have to hold it together,” Chinyere said. But then she began to break down, too, tears running from her eyes.

Zelu lost her concentration and then her balance. She grabbed at Msizi’s sleeve.

“Msizi, get Zelu out,” Chinyere suddenly ordered. “No falling today. Go take a breath and come back, Zelu. Okay? You can sit when you come back?”

No falling today, Zelu repeated in her mind. She couldn’t even be angry at the dismissal; she grasped for dear life at her sister’s words.

“I’m so sorry.” The first guest had come up to them to pay his respects, a man in a crisp navy-blue business suit. “Your father mentored me just before he retired. I wouldn’t have my job if it weren’t for him.”

“Thank you,” Chinyere said, stepping up to him.

“Come,” Msizi said, putting an arm around Zelu’s waist. His soft but firm touch gave her strength. With her exos, it was a tricky thing, but Msizi always somehow knew when to leave her be (which was most of the time) and when to grab and hold her tightly (during rare times like this).

“Can you handle her?” Tolu asked.

Msizi gently pulled Zelu toward the double doors. “Yeah.”

They moved quickly and were soon back in the lobby. With everyone now in the viewing room, the reception area was empty. The funeral assistant, a woman wearing a black-and-brown pantsuit, was standing by the door. “Is there a private room?” Msizi asked her. “This is one of the daughters. She needs a bit of—”

“Of course, right this way,” she said, leading them back down the same hall.

This room was smaller than the last, but just as elegantly furnished. Zelu sat on the couch and stretched her exos before her. Then the image of her father’s pulled-down, sad face flashed in her mind. Like he’d smelled something bad. His lips had been too pink, too. He’dneverhad any pink in his lips. She whimpered again, her head aching, a tinny sound in her ears. She didn’t have her AirPods.

“You want me to get Jackie?” Msizi asked.

“Take too long,” she wheezed.

She felt him lift her chin. He rested his hands on her cheeks. “Zelu,” he said firmly. His hands pressed against the sides of her face. She opened her eyes. The light in the room was so bright. His face was right in front of her, nothing else. “Breathe. Inhale.”

She inhaled.

“Exhale.”

She exhaled.

“Again.”

She did.

“Keep breathing. Focus on that. Inhale. Exhale.”

With each breath, something in her loosened. The lights looked less harsh. She relaxed.

“Zelu, listen to me. Today is a dark day. A dark, dark day.” He pulled her face closer to his. “When you write your stories, you look into yourself and see into things. Be the writer today. Use that ability. You are the observer and the observed. You are the documentarian and the subject. You are the author and the reader. This is how you create. This is something you know how to do. Now let it be here foryou. Do you understand?”

She digested his words. After a moment, she felt relief.