Page 8 of What Remains of Grace

The lemon loaf recipe was written twice, once in Grandma’s fading cursive, once beneath it in Grace’s neater print, with a note in the margin: Try one less egg—lighter texture.

Jenna ran her finger along the margin, tracing the ink as if it were skin. The ache that rose up felt both unbearable and holy.

She closed the notebook carefully, setting it back where she found it. Grace had left a map here, a record of who she was and how she loved.

It was small, ordinary, and domestic, but it was also suddenly unbearable. Scribbled grocery lists. Notes in the margins. Half-finished thoughts. Jenna found herself staring at the pages with the awful feeling that these tiny traces might somehow be all that was left of her sister now.

She knew the days ahead would come fast now: the calls, the arrangements, and the people. The casseroles, the condolences, and the phrases no one really meant: I can’t imagine what you’re going through. She’d have to see everyone again: family, neighbors, and people who would tilt their heads and say, You poor thing.

She’d have to be the one who handled things now. Jenna had always been the type to fix problems, to take charge, except when it came to people. That was Grace’s territory.

The thought pressed on her chest, heavy and uncertain. Now there was no one to pass it to. No one to soften it. Just the next thing, and the next.

She didn’t feel strong, but she knew what needed to be done, and moving forward was the only thing she knew how to do.

Jenna closed her eyes, whispered a prayer she didn’t have words for, and let the moment pass before opening them again.

3

The Last Dress

By the time Jenna pulled into the parking lot of the funeral chapel, the sun was high and merciless, burning through the windshield. Her bag sat in the passenger seat, with her rental car keys, phone charger, and the brand-new Anytime Fitness membership card she’d shoved in there after her shower.

She hadn’t gone to the gym because she wanted to pump iron or start fresh. She’d stopped because she couldn’t face her family, or anyone really, with yesterday’s mascara streaked down her cheeks and the smell of bread and soap still clinging to her clothes.

So she’d driven down Pinellas Avenue just after dawn, spotted the purple-and-white sign, and walked inside. The man at the front desk had barely even looked up from his computer when she asked how soon she could use the facilities.

“Instant access,” he’d said, handing her a key card and a smile that didn’t belong in her world right now.

Now, that key card was buried in her purse, pressed between tissues and receipts. She doubted she’d ever use it again, but she couldn’t bring herself to throw it away.

The shower had helped. Though the hot water, clean clothes, and the smell of coconut shampoo from the dispensers, hadn’t made her feel any more human. It just stripped off the evidence of the night.

She sat for a moment in the car, hands gripping the steering wheel, staring at the chapel’s white columns and manicured hedges. People would start arriving soon: family, flowers, and decisions waiting for her signature.

She’d been moving since the call, airport lines, the drive, the cleaning, the crying, and now, finally, she’d run out of motion. The stillness hurt worse than anything.

Jenna exhaled and reached for her bag, shoving the rental keys and that stupid membership card deeper inside as if hiding them would make all of this less absurd.

Then, she opened the door, and the heat rolled in, thick and familiar, carrying the scent of salt. Somewhere in the distance, a gull called, out of place and perfect.

She squared her shoulders, stepped out of the car, and walked toward the chapel doors.

* * *

The air inside was cool and smelled vaguely of lilies and lemon polish. That smell tugged at a memory before she could stop it.

Grandma Hart’s funeral had smelled the same with lilies everywhere, and vases packed so tightly they looked sculpted from porcelain. Grace had arranged every stem herself, stubborn about it even with red-rimmed eyes. She’d said Grandma deserved beauty, even if it made her hands bleed.

Emmie had been two then, squirming in a black lace dress while Grace tried to keep her subdued. Manny had sat beside her, one steady hand resting on Grace’s knee, whispering something only she could hear. He was twenty-two and looked older that day with his sleeves rolled up, and grief weighing him down but never spilling over. When the service ended, he carried Emmie out in one arm and helped Grace to her feet with the other.

Jenna watched them from the front row, thinking that somehow they already looked like the future. Grace with her calm composure, Manny with his sure hands, and Emmie’s head resting against his shoulder were the picture of something solid. Back then, no one knew how little time they had.

The swell of organ music pulled Jenna back into the chapel. It drifted softly from a speaker somewhere in the corner, the kind that was supposed to soothe, but only reminded her how much silence was hiding underneath.

A few people turned when she walked in. Family faces she hadn’t seen in years, familiar but blurred by time. Her aunt Marilyn Whitaker stood near the front, talking tacitly with the funeral director. When she saw Jenna, her expression softened with relief and exhaustion all at once.

“Oh, honey, you made it.” She pulled Jenna into a hug that lingered a little too long, like she was afraid to let go. “You look tired.”