At the church she linked arms with Kim-Ange, whose large presence was always a comfort. Today Kim-Ange’s hair was bright burgundy, but thankfully she was wearing black rather than the orange and purple she favored. Okay, it was a fuzzy-wuzzy coat that made her look like an enormous black bear, but Lissa found it comforting nevertheless and leaned in as they approached the incredibly busy church. You could hear the hubbub a mile away. Traffic had stopped. People were standing crying in the street.

They found a tiny spot on a pew. Nobody ever liked to budge up to Kim-Ange. This bothered Kim-Ange not a bit, and she scooched her sizable bottom along the pew as far as she could and patted the seat beside her.

“Come on, darling.”

Lissa sat down. She was trembling and checked her pocket with the tissues, just to make sure it was all right. She was going through a lot of tissues these days.

There was a lot of noise and hustle and bustle; it seemed half the world was there. But suddenly there was a hush, as the doors at the back of the church opened. It was like a wedding, Lissa thought, her heart racing. Only of course so, so wrong.

The choir stood to the side, their numbers absolutely packed too. On a note, very softly and sweetly they began to gently sing, “Swing low, sweet chariot,” and the pallbearers began a slow, long march down the aisle, carrying a pure white coffin.

Lissa collapsed. She was sobbing so hard she couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t her boy, wasn’t her tragedy. She was drawing attention to herself. This was awful, completely inappropriate. People were looking at her crossly, and she didn’t know what to do, even as she sounded louder than the choir. Someone tutted. Righteous and noisy grief was expected from contemporaries, and family, and young people. Not from a thirty-year-old young professional who didn’t even know the family.

Kim-Ange looked at her, made a decision, and half dragged, half hauled her outside and set her down, quite roughly, on a park bench. There were still mourners trying to get in who watched them with interest.

“Breathe,” said Kim-Ange, and when Lissa didn’t respond, she pushed her head between her knees. “Breathe!”

The brusque tone, oddly, was just what Lissa needed. Being told what to do without having to think about it. The panic attack was intense, but gradually, her heart rate slowed, the blood came to her head, and she started to feel ever so slightly better.