This room, this chair, this man-size body that still trembles like it did when he was a child. He didn’t do a very good job of protecting Mia, he thinks now, or the others for that matter. How many times did Mia get hit after that night? Theresa and Barb, Vanessa and Jess? His mother? All of them, over and over and over again. And how many of those times was he cowering in a corner, behind a chair, even under a bed when the fists were flying?
How many of those times was he harboring rages of his own? Slamming doors, punching walls. His anger has always felt like some sort of evil science experiment, oozing out of containment into the corners of his life and exploding without warning. He remembers as if it had happened five minutes ago the first time he put a fist through the wall in his bedroom. The shock of that moment, of realizing that despite all his efforts he was growing into a man, and an angry one.
A man like his father. Not the man his sisters wanted—needed—him to be, but a violent man, capable of atrocity.
The gun in his hands. The recoil. The wet tearing sound of a bullet entering flesh.
God. He should not be here, should not have accepted Maisey’s trust. The last thing she needs in her life is a man like him.
But it’s too late to run. One thing he has always done throughout his adult life is keep his promises. And so he stays where he is, keeping watch, as the long slow minutes tick away. He’s still there, watchful and wide awake, when the morning light seeps in around the curtains.
Maisey stirs as the light touches her face. He wants to block it, to shelter her from what this day holds, but he sees the memory of grief move across her face as her eyes open.
“You’re still here,” she says, her voice husky with sleep.
“I promised,” he answers. Their eyes meet and hold, and the unbearable, beautiful intimacy of the night before is still right there between them.
Despite all the promises he made to his better self during the night, he’s about to cross the room and kiss her, when the sound of an opening door and light footsteps in the hallway freeze him in his tracks.
Elle wanders in, yawning, and flops down on the couch beside Maisey. Tony’s mind scrambles for words to answer the question that’s surely forming in her mind, but she doesn’t ask questions. “Hey, Tony,” she says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world that he spent the night. “You want some cereal? Grandpa’s got Froot Loops.”
“I think Tony might want a real breakfast.”
“I can make eggs,” Elle says. “Mom burns everything.”
Elle’s presence has brought Tony back to his senses. He takes a breath and a simultaneous step toward the door. “Thanks for the offer, but I should go. I have things to do before the funeral. I’ll call Mia to come and get me.”
“The least I can do is drive you home,” Maisey protests. “Don’t bother Mia. She’s probably still sleeping.”
Which is true enough. Mia is not an early riser. Of course, any one of his sisters will come get him if he asks, but then there would be explanations and innuendos and conversations he doesn’t want to get into.
“Are you sure?” he asks. “You’ve got a big day.”
“I’m sure. Give me a minute to get ready.”
She yawns and stretches, then shuffles out of the room, loose-jointed with lingering sleep. Tony can’t help watching the way she moves, can’t stop imagining the feel of her drowsy body molding against his, of allowing himself to deliberately bury his hands in her tangled hair, pressing his lips against her neck . . .
“You could ask her out,” Elle says. “I wouldn’t mind.”
Tony opens his mouth to utter some sort of denial, but no words come out.
“I’m not stupid,” she goes on. “I see the way you look at each other.”
He clears his throat. “This is hardly a time to think about dating—”
“Why?”
“It’s your grandma’s funeral today, remember? I think your mother has enough to worry about. What is that look supposed to mean?”
The child sits cross-legged on the couch, resting her chin on both fists and eyeing him with an expression that is entirely too knowing. He decides not to wait for her answer. “I’ll be outside on the porch.”
“You’re coming to the funeral, right?” Elle calls after him. “And bringing Mia?”
“We’ll be there.”
He breathes a sigh of relief when the door bangs shut between them. His whole careful system of controls, checks, and measures is unraveling at an alarming pace, and Elle has just sped up the process.
What if? he asks himself. What if I did ask her out? Later. After the funeral.
You’re forgetting who you are, his memory answers. You’d better find a way to remember.
Leah’s Journal
I’d promised myself I would leave him, but as it turned out, the leaving wasn’t easy. I had two tiny unborn babies to consider. I was a high school dropout. My only skills were a smart mouth and a stubborn streak.
I missed a visit to my doctor, waiting for my bruises to heal. At the next visit, he put me on bed rest. Through the long, boring weeks from then until the babies were born, Boots pretty much left me alone. He said he was busy making money for us. If so, I never saw a penny of it. His mother would come over and help. She wasn’t much for cleaning, but at least she washed the dishes and did the laundry.
She didn’t talk much, but one day when I was lying on the couch, feeling sorry for myself, lonely and tired enough that the tears got away from me, she put her hand on my forehead for just an instant. It was a hard hand, callused and rough, but the gentleness eased me. Her words did not.
“Poor child. You’re good and in for it now, I suppose.”
I didn’t ask her what she meant. I think I didn’t want to know.
Chapter Twenty-One
I have never been to a funeral.
It’s not that there haven’t been deaths in my life; it’s just that for one reason or another I’ve never actually attended the service that marked them. Dad’s only sister, Aunt Del, succumbed to cancer when I was ten. One of my classmates died tragically just before high school graduation, the casualty of four-wheeling on rough terrain. Various acquaintances of Mom’s church family also “went to sleep in Jesus,” as she always said.
As a child, this phrase confused me hopelessly, especially since at least one of the deceased died at the wheel of his pickup truck. When Mom, busy discussing arrangements with the other church ladies, brushed off my questions, my imagination did its usual thing. I still carry in my mind today a picture of Mr. Peterson praying while driving, eyes closed out of respect to God, and accidentally drifting off to sleep. This is a state of consciousness with which I was well versed, something that happened fairly frequently to me during long church prayers.
So I had a clear image of Mr. Peterson falling asleep in Jesus, but my imagination failed at the magnitude of this event called a funeral. I wanted to go, that one time, having some sort of idea that maybe Jesus would be at the funeral and I could actually see him. Mom nixed that idea.
“Funerals are not for children,” she said. It was her case-closed tone of voice, the one I never even tried to argue with. So I stayed home with a sitter while my parents went to say good-bye to Mr. Peterson. When Aunt Del died, my parents flew to Orlando and left me with a friend. At the time of my classmate’s funeral, an event I would surely have attended, we were out of town on a family vacation.
So I’ve seen funerals on TV, read books, but it’s my first time in attendance, and certainly my first time as a direct relative of the deceased. I don’t know how to behave, and a dull anxiety mixes with my grief and fatigue.
My brain refuses to function, and by the time I get Dad put together and Elle rounded up, we arrive at the church a full ten minutes past the time appointed by Edna Carlton.
She is waiting for us in the parking lot, flanked by Nancy and Alison, who has discarded her ball cap and blue jeans in favor of a shapeless black dress. Nancy, on the other hand, is decked out in funeral fashion attire: a slim, perfectly fitted pencil skirt and black jacket over an ivory silk blouse. Her silver hair shines in the sunlight. Mrs. Carlton, between them, wears a timeless black dress and a hat with a net veil that has been in existence longer than I have.
I turn off the engine and remove the keys, but not one of us makes a move to get out of the car.