The first thing I noticed were the cookies.  They sat on the table, all different shapes and sizes, a rainbow of colors, sprinkles, frostings, and flavors.  Just the look of them made me tremble, knowing that if I even brought one close to my mouth, I would hurl. Even the smell of the sugar caused my stomach to do a full dismount off the balance beam.

    Without even looking up, I could sense that there were too many people crowded into that little church entryway, all trying to either take a cookie or bypass the table altogether.  I scrunched my shoulders in, trying to make myself as small as possible, trying not to bump into any of these people who were too happy. Masks of forced smiles were everywhere. The low buzz of conversation barely reached me, as the ringing that filled my own ears and the pounding of my own head drowned out anything else.

    The sign at the door read, “celebration of life”.  All I saw was “funeral”.

    There was no limit to the things that Mrs. Heather Nash could do.  Being the best elementary school principal there ever was. Dancing during assemblies to get the students excited about standardized testing.  Buying her teachers breakfast in the morning. Sneaking more trips to the free teacher store than were necessary with her secretary. Hiding garden decorations in the school to scare the janitor.

    I remember Heather’s daughter Erica telling me that story during one of our many sleepovers together.  We might have been lying down in her room somewhere, our red hair making halos around our heads. She said that one time when her mother was shopping with her secretary, Heather saw a gigantic stone turtle that one would see in a grandmother’s garden.  I can hear Erica’s voice in my head, fast and animated.

    “Well, my mom knew that our janitor was terrified of frogs.  So she bought it.”

    “But your mom is so nice, what did she do with it?”

    “She leaves it in different places around the school so the janitor will find it.” Erica’s laugh sounds just like her mother’s, just a slightly lower pitch.  “Every morning she’ll find it back in her office and every night she’ll put it somewhere else.”

    Going to the movies with Erica and her mom was always an adventure.  We would get the largest possible popcorn bucket, and attempt to share it between the three of us, but in the dark of the theater, half the time we would spill it and start a laughing fit that would get us death stares.  After every movie, Erica and I would have to explain to Heather what happened because half of the movie she would be in the bathroom.

Her endeavors as a mother and a band mom were no less exciting.  Buying too many pianos for her son, Cooper. Helping her Erica with schoolwork and social stresses.  I remember clearly the sweet smell of pancakes on a Saturday morning in the Nash’s house after spending a night with Erica.  Heather would keep making them either until Erica and I were full or it was time for lunch.

As a band mom, she provided all the food, love, and many times transportation that a high school marching band member could ever ask for.  I can’t even remember how many times she put on my plume, helped me find my gloves, or gave me lunch in a brown paper sack.

I remember how, on the way to band competitions, she would count heads and hand out snacks and go through everybody’s uniform to make sure it was there.  If I concentrate, I can still hear her voice calling “Martha! I have your trumpet and garment bag!” She always knew what the plan was, and kept rattling it in your ear until you knew it too.  

She was my second mother.

I remember the last time I saw Mrs. Heather Nash, although I never in a million years would have thought that it was the last time.  We were cleaning up after our holiday band concert last December, the heavy lights from the rafters making me sweat. She was hustling all up and down the stage, her sunshine colored hair flying back and forth, and I could hear her calling instructions to everyone, her voice rising over everyone else’s in the auditorium.

    “Martha, will you please help me with these poinsettias?” Poinsettias left over from this year’s fundraiser scattered the stage, making a rainbow of white, silver, red, and green.

    “Sure.” My throat was dry after playing my trumpet all evening, and I almost choked on my own words.

“Just take the wrappings and put them back around the pots, honey.  Just schoop them back up.” I looked up at her, and her face was deadpan; she had no idea how funny she just sounded.

    “Schoop?” I asked, trying to contain my giggles, making my stomach muscles burn.  

    “Yes, let’s go schoop up some poinsettias!  You’re slacking already!” Her laugh echoed through the auditorium, bouncing off the acoustic panels and reaching my ears.  It was the last time I heard that laugh.

    I schooped up poinsettias for about 10 minutes, then said goodbye to everyone and went home.

    About a week later or so, I got a call from Erica at 10:36 in the morning on a Saturday.  I thought it was odd that she was calling me this early; normally we are both fast asleep at 10:36 on a Saturday.

    As soon as I said hello, I knew something was wrong.  The silence between us was too long, and I thought for a second the connection had been lost.

    “Hello?” I said again, my stomach starting to hurt.

    “Martha.” Just that.  Her voice sounded strained, as if a hippo was sitting on her chest.  “You know how my mom had that knee surgery, right?”

    “Yeah.” Blood rushing to my head, and suddenly a hippo is sitting on me as well.

    “There were complications.” Pause.  Erica’s labored breathing reaches my ears.

    “Yeah.” Pulse rushing, vision blurring.

    “She-” Ugly silence.  “She didn’t make it.” That’s when she broke.  I stared at my pillow, trying to block out everything else in the universe.  But there were Erica’s sobs, the smell of grief detectable through the phone, my dry lips, wet eyes, and pretty soon, the taste of my tears on my tongue.  We broke together that Saturday morning at 10:36.

I found myself staring at the cookies again, this time contemplating eating one.  I could hear Heather’s voice in my ear, “Don’t be shy, take as many as you want!” She always made the best cupcakes and cookies.

    I glanced up, happening to catch Erica’s eye across the room.  She’s surrounded by family in a giant hug, but still manages to shoot me a trademark Nash smile.

I turn back to the plate of cookies, taking the one that I know Heather would have eaten; the store bought gut-bomb with pink frosting as thick as my pinky.

    The sign at the door reads, “celebration of life”.