He blows out a long and deep breath through pursed lips. “I miss him.”
I lift my eyes to his. He’s talking about my dad, and it threatens to break me down again. Instead, I draw myself up to my full height. “He really loved you.”
“Yeah, well, I really loved him.”
This cuts a lot deeper than I expected. I whisper, “I’m sorry we didn’t have more time.”
“Me, too.” He nods at me once, with a certain finality that makes me ache, and turns toward his car parked across the street.
He doesn’t say goodbye.
He doesn’t have to.
I go back to Gretchen, and the lights, and the people who are celebrating the life my father lived.
Chapter 49
Gretchen’s arrival puts everything on hold for a day—cleaning my room, hanging up my dress, clearing the mess from the party. Even grieving. I’m here, she’s here. We’re together. And for a full twenty-four hours, I am suspended in a state of blissful denial.
But then, the evening after the funeral, my Papa doesn’t come home from work. He doesn’t slip off his shoes in the middle of the walkway and shout out, “WHO WANTS TO HUG ME FIRST?” He doesn’t go out back to kiss Mama while she waters the plants. He doesn’t grab a bowl of cereal and watch the most recent football game he recorded, or kiss my cheek, or make a joke about how Gretchen left our family for her own family and how rude. Papa loves Gretchen.
(Scratch that: Papa loved Gretchen.) I lose it when I walk into my room and see that someone has placed Crime and Punishment atop my clean laundry pile on my bed. The book’s spine is useless now, and its front cover bends awkwardly back, the top left corner ripped. It is exactly how I left it last week, when I set it down for the night, when Papa died.
I feel like screaming, but when I open my mouth, no sound escapes. My silent cry becomes me. I grab the book, but I don’t know what to do with it because my head feels like it’s splitting and my heart no longer exists inside my chest. Before I can stop myself, I chuck the book across the room, where it smashes against my mirror. One edge of the glass cracks in a web where it was hit, and the book thumps to the floor, unharmed.
I try screaming again, but all that escapes is a whimper, barely audible. My chest is about to explode. I lose feeling in my legs for a single moment, but it’s just enough for my knees to buckle. I don’t fight it; I slide to the floor, curling into myself.
Gretchen’s hand is on my shoulder seconds later. She says something soothing to me, fingers drifting through my hair. I don’t relax—I can’t—but her presence is solid and warm.
“Bee,” she whispers.
I catch enough breath to gasp, “Don’t say it’s okay. Don’t tell me it’s okay.”
She buries her head in my shoulder, arms twining around my shoulders, across my chest, clasping on the other side. “It’s not okay, Bee, I’d never say that. But you know what? One day, it will be okay again. It will.”
And I cry again because I can’t imagine an okay world where my father doesn’t exist.
That night, I leave Gretchen in my bed once she’s asleep and climb into my parents’ (mom’s) mostly empty king-size. Her pillow is soaked with tears, and her cheeks are pale from not eating, not sleeping. She takes up a single corner, too short to fit the length. Rolled onto her side, it’s like she could disappear if she wanted to. I tuck myself beneath her blanket, and her eyes crack open.
“Bee?” she whispers, yawning.
“Hi,” I whisper back. My voice cracks. “I can’t sleep…”
She reaches out and cradles my head against her chest as soon as she sees my tears. “Neither can I.”
“I don’t know how he can just…not be here.” I wipe my face free of tears, but more fall and replace them.
She only shudders, as if trying to contain herself around me. (I don’t know how to tell her she can cry.) “I don’t know what to do with that book. That damn book.” She knows what I mean. The urge to scream or run or rip something in two comes back. I hold her tighter. “I can never get rid of it, but I don’t ever want to see it again.”
She shakes her head; her tears wet my forehead. “Put it away for now. It’s okay if you don’t want to see it.”
A voice interrupts at the last word, causing us both to jump. “Bee,” Millie whines quietly. “I wanted to sleep with Mommy.”
My mom scoots us both over and pats the spot on her other side. “Come here, M&M.”
My sister jumps into the bed, shaking it considerably, and rests her head on my mom’s other shoulder, looking across at me. “Don’t be a hog,” she says to me.
I try to laugh, but it comes out as a half-sob. “You sleep in here every night.”
“So?” she says—and bursts into tears.
“Seriously?” Astrid asks, entering the room.
We all give pathetic laughs that don’t sound much like us, but at least we’re laughing. “Get in, Ass-trid,” I say, moving closer to Mama.
Astrid makes herself comfortable spooning me, although she scrunches up her nose in distaste. “I want to be next to Mom.”
I wiggle. “Everyone wants to sleep by Mom, but we got here first.”
My mom actually laughs this time—now that’s what she sounds like when she’s happy. Then she kisses my forehead, and Millie’s, and reaches across to kiss Astrid’s. “I love my girls,” she whispers, almost too quiet to hear. “We can switch around tomorrow night so Astrid can have a turn.”
I curl up, bending my knees so our legs entwine, and close my eyes. I like that there’s a tomorrow night. I know I’ll be here, searching for comfort, finding it sandwiched between sisters and mother.
After that night, I feel like I can’t stop crying, not even just for two minutes to brush my teeth or take a shower. The crying doesn’t budge for a good forty-eight hours. It takes over my life. The only solace is at night, when Gretchen is sleeping, and I run to my mom’s bedroom, trying to be the first to get a spot next to her.
The rest of the time is madness. I can’t do anything or touch anything or look at anything without seeing Papa, somehow. I keep finding old things of his in the house, receipts and discarded hats, a single shoe missing its pair (stuffed under the couch). Today, Day Five After the Funeral, I find a t-shirt of Papa’s that I forgot I’d borrowed, stacked with all my clean clothes on my bed.
It’s only three in the afternoon, but since Astrid is on Mom-duty and Millicent is on watering-plants-duty, I have nothing on the agenda. (Gretchen mentioned she was heading out; I don’t remember where because I was crying when she told me.) I strip out of my clothes and throw the shirt on; it comes just to my thighs and is two sizes too big—just comfortable enough for bed. Forsaking everything, I kick my pile of clothes to the ground and curl up under the covers, hugging one of my pillows to my chest.