Her face looks different somehow, sadder, more thoughtful, and I immediately feel guilty. At least I’m alive, sitting here on a warm summer’s morning, drinking coffee. I have a loving fiancé and in less than five months’ time, I’m going to have a baby. Alice never got the chance to do any of these things. That’s what Catherine must be thinking right now. She could even be a little broody herself. Thirty-five is a difficult age for a woman without a partner.

Either way, I need to stop feeling sorry for myself and count my blessings.

40

THEN: AFTER

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 2007

It’s the day of Alice’s memorial service. When the bell goes at the end of the afternoon, we all troop into the hall instead of going home. I’ve been on tenterhooks all day. I just want it to be over. The funeral was bad enough. I don’t really see why we need to go through it all again, but Mrs. Peacock says that it’s a chance for everyone at school to say a proper goodbye—all the children and teachers who couldn’t go to the funeral but who nevertheless want to pay their respects.

Music is playing softly as our class take their seats. I’m half expecting to see the white coffin on the stage, although of course it’s not there. The coffin has been buried. Alice has been buried. There is a large picture of her, though. It’s propped up on a chair and it makes it seem like she’s still here. Still watching us all. Watching me. I don’t want to look at her face, her happy, smiling eyes, but I can’t tear my gaze away. It’s as if she’s looking directly at me.

White helium balloons with Alice’s name on them have been tied to the back of the chair with long white ribbons. Every time one of the doors to the hall opens and air wafts in, they bob about and I can’t decide whether balloons are a good thing or not. It’s almost like it’s her birthday, but then, as Mr. Davis says when he starts speaking, we’re not just here to mourn the loss of Alice, but to celebrate her life. So maybe the balloons are okay, after all.