Quote:

 

I know this probably isn't my best work, and I feel like I've made several obvious mistakes, but here it is:


Marilyn April Lancaster


Ms. Marilyn “Mary” Lancaster, 34, passed away at the Berlin Grove Community Medical Center on Friday night, June 8th, 2008. She was born on October 23rd, 1974 in Berlin Grove to Jacob and Marsha Lancaster. Ms. Lancaster married Paul Michaels on August 1st, 1997.

Ms. Lancaster graduated from Berlin Grove High in 1993. She never attended college, but enjoyed playing tennis and horse-back riding. horse riding --you can't ride on a horse's head, so you don't need the 'back'. Ms. Lancaster never left her hometown except for her annual summer vacation to Florida. She was not a member of any church and was a known atheist.

Ms. Lancaster was arrested on January 15th, 2008, on charges of grand theft autoHuh? Isn't that a shooting-game? and petty theft. She was sentenced to thirty-six months in prison. Several months later, Ms. Lancaster was diagnosed with pneumonia after refusing to be taken to the hospital. Doctors believe that she was put at high risk because of her diabetes. She was rushed to Berlin Grove Community Medical Center but later died.

Ms. Lancaster is survived by her daughter, Jerri Lancaster, and her cousins, Julie, Betsy, and Wilma Lancaster.
She was preceded in death by her parents, Jacob and Marsha, her in-laws, David and Maribel Michaels, and-- [em dash here to show the abrupt stop]

This was okay for an obituary but I htink you could expand on it a little. I don't know if you've ever read an obituary, but they're usually written by someone who knew the deceased, and would be a little more personal than this. Maybe give a few details about Ms. Lancaster's childhood and career, maybe something more about what she enjoyed?

I stop reading and put the newspaper down on the table. My foster parents put their hands on my shoulders. I don’t shake them off. My head swims with names. I want to close my eyes and forget.

I touch my name on the paper. The ink is dry, like my eyes. I wait for the tears to come. They don’t.

I’m a bitter person.

“I’m sorry,” my foster dad, Jack, says quietly.

I don’t know what to say. It’s okay?

It’s not okay. My mouth opens and closes.

Mia, my foster mom, squeezes my shoulder tighter and leans down and gives me a half-hug. I’m not a hugger. I don’t mind.

I croak, “They’re wrong. She didn’t like horse-back riding.cut? She rode on a horse when she was five and fell off and broke her finger.” I want to smile, I want to say that everything is okay, but it’s not. The muscles in my mouth tighten.

Mia smiles for me and reaches to pull the blinds open. I push the newspaper away and look up, blinking in the sunlight.

Outside is a normal suburban neighborhood. An emptycomma black road winds through a neat row of houses, then twists to the immediate left of our house and disappears. A few toys litter the yards; a green scooter, a soccer ball, a swingset in the backyardhow can you see the backyard? Surely it's behind the house? across from us. The sun is rising behind the houses across from us, drying the dew fromon the grass.Maybe expand on these descriptions a little? There are still no tears.

I want to slap myself, yell. I wonder what Mia and Jack are thinking. I wonder why I care.

Jack watches me carefully. That’s one thing I like about him; he knows what to do at certain times. He doesn’t get up and make his morning tea just because he isn’t related to ‘Ms. Marilyn Lancaster’. He doesn’t make any move to console me. I like it.Why?
“It’s okay if you’re not upset,” he says when Mia goes to bustle around in the kitchen. “I wouldn’t be.” That's a bit contradictory to how he's mentioned as undertsnading and then he sayd that . . .

When he says this, I feel the tears spring into my eyes. “I don’t know.” What exactly I don’t know, I’m not sure of. I don’t know why she did the things they said in the newspaper. I don’t know what will happen to me.

Jack reaches over and pats my hand. His blue eyes don’t twinkle; they don’t look sad. “It’s going to be all right.”
I know it will. Maybe.

Jack picks up the newspaper and flips to the sport section. Not idly. Not rudely.

I hear Mia pulling pots and pans and measuring cups out of the cupboard, and I know that she is making her thick, cinnamon pancakes. They won’t be ready for a while.

I take this as my cue to go up to my room. I don’t know if they expect me to have a good cry, or to watch TV like nothing has ever happened. I don’t care.

I pass the kitchen on my way upstairs. It’s small, and the longest wall facing the left of the house is taken up my by a connected granite counter, oven, and a dishwasher. The lights in the kitchen are dim right now, but I see Mia’s short figure opening a bag of pancake mix and I hurry up the stairs. They creak under my weight. describe the sound more? What else can you hear? The house is silent and cool up here. A narrow hallway leads off of the landing. There are no lights on, but it doesn’t bother me.
I feel around in the dark and find the wall. Sliding my hand along its smooth painted surface, I walk down the hall until I come to a door. I press my ear to it. I don’t know why. What did I expect?

Silence.

I pause for a second. My room is always quiet. This hallway is always dark.

Breathing in the cool air, my hand gropes around in the dark until I grasp a metal doorknob.

Silence.

I pull open the door.