My desperation.
I don’t remember making the call. I don’t remember watching my mother tear down the hill. I don’t remember the lights, the sirens, the people pushing me out of the way as I clung to my father. I remember only one thing—Tony Bennett singing a love song, his voice in perfect pitch with the strings and trumpet, pulling my father along into a memory. The thought of him. The very thought of him. I collapsed under its weighted lures and drowned in a lake of despair.
***
I sat in the corner, cradling a plate of untouched food on my lap, staring at my mother. I hadn’t taken my eyes off her since Dad died. I wanted her movements, her conversations with others, to tell me something—reveal to me that she felt the same agonizing pain I did. That she loved my father with everything she had, even if she wasn’t the best at showing it.
She moved through the motions—accepting sympathy, refilling serving plates, hugging family members and nodding with them. I imagine they agreed on what a great man my father was, how he loved his family, how he worked so hard to provide a good life for us. All those generic statements—things said at every funeral that made me feel like they were dishonoring his memory, making him just like every other father and husband when he was so much more than that. He was my father.
“You want something to drink?” Reece asked.
I shook my head.
“Honey, I haven’t seen you drink anything all day,” Reece said.
“I’m fine.”
He picked up the plate from my lap and hovered over me.
“I’m going to stay here tonight,” I said suddenly.
“Oh?”
“I need . . . to do some things,” I said. It was cryptic, and he had every right to pry, but he refrained instead and simply nodded.
Nicki approached me, her eyes swollen and tear-stained. She looked so young—like twelve-year-old Nicki during puberty. Her face was splotched over with several shades of red and pink. Her usually perfect hair and outfit looked tattered: tattered, oily blond hair and tattered sleeveless black dress. I never saw Nicki as a person to mourn. I couldn’t even imagine it, so when she stood in front of me just now, all I could do was stare. Stare at the imperfection and feel a sense of relief.
She has a heart after all.
“Have you eaten?” she asked.
“No,” I replied.
“I can’t eat either.”
I nodded.
“Will you stay tonight?” she asked.
“Yes. Will you?”
“Yes. Brad is staying, too,” Nicki said. “He didn’t want to leave me alone.”
“You’re not alone. You’re here with Mom and me,” I pointed out.
“I guess he doesn’t want the three of us to be alone,” Nicki clarified.
“What does he think we’ll do?”
“I think he just wants to be here to comfort us.”
“I can stay, too,” Reece offered. I knew he wanted to, but I could not let him witness what I planned to do. I didn’t even want Nicki to witness it, but she was blood, so it wouldn’t be as shocking.
“It’s okay,” I replied. “I’m fine here alone. You’ve gotta go home to Poppy anyway.”
I was so happy to have a legitimate excuse to send him away. And as I watched him pull out of the driveway hours later—hours after the last of the mourners left my mother and me alone—I waved at him and even smiled a little. I wanted him to believe I was all right.
But I was not all right. And my mother was about to know it.
She stood by the sink washing the last of the serving dishes. She still wore her black dress, and somewhere, she’d found a black apron. I’d never seen my mother wear a black apron in all my life. Did she buy it specifically for this occasion?
I cleared my throat. She turned her head a fraction, glimpsing me in her peripheral vision.
“Oh good, Bailey. You can help. Come dry these plates over here,” she said.
I approached her cautiously. I don’t know why I thought I was sneaking up on a spider. Perhaps it was her all black. Even made her brown hair look black, and I knew I was witnessing a transformation: from mother to black widow.
I picked up the tea towel and began wiping the plates, stacking them carefully on the counter. These were her special occasion serving dishes, and I wanted them in a neat, tidy stack before hurling them across the room. Should I decide I needed to.
“Where are Brad and Nicki?” I asked.
“Upstairs. Nicki needed to lie down,” Mom replied.
“Or avoid helping clean up the kitchen,” I joked.
Mom turned to me. “Is that funny?”
I stared at her blankly. She resumed her work. I resumed mine.
“Why did you decide to stay over?” Mom asked after a moment. There was an edge in her voice. “And why isn’t Reece with you?”
“We have a dog. He needed to go home.”
“Well, he could have brought the dog over,” Mom said.
“He could have,” I said, “but I didn’t want him around all this.”
“Around all what?” Mom snapped. “Around all what, Bailey?”
“The dysfunction that is our family,” I replied. “I mean, ever since the night you gave him the advice—”
“Why are you even bringing that up right now?” Mom asked. She slapped the dishcloth in the sink. “I called you and apologized!”
“Yeah, because Dad made you,” I retorted.
“Excuse me?”
“I know he made you. And then he probably went fishing afterward to get away from you.”
Mom jabbed her finger at me. “You watch it. I’m still your mother. I don’t care how old you are.”
“Why did you stay with him, huh? I mean, was there ever a time you actually liked Dad?” I threw the tea towel on the counter. “‘Cause all I saw was you nagging and correcting and belittling. And it’s like you took joy in it.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Mom whispered.
“How about Nicki’s big news surprise night, huh? You couldn’t wait to show up Dad. You couldn’t wait to share the news that you were the one Brad asked to marry Nicki. You were the one who gave your blessing. You made him look like a fucking fool!”