Raindrops hissed against the glass and thunder clapped somewhere in the distance. I set the picture back on the table and fished for a cigarette between my mattress, only to come up empty handed. Damn my mother for confiscating them when I needed one the most.
The funeral was three days later on an equally gloomy and depressing Tuesday. Not that I was complaining. Nice weather would have felt condescending.
I stood stone faced beside Luna, who crossed her arms over her chest and refused to express any emotion as our fathers casket was lowered into the ground. On the other side of us, my mother leaned against Jeff and cried fat crocodile tears into a scrunched up handkerchief. Fiona was not in attendance. Her mother’s death had made her impartial towards funerals.
I shifted on my feet and clenched my fists until my knuckles ached. There was nothing about the ceremony that my father would have liked. He wouldn’t have wanted us standing around in the rain mourning him. But I had come to grips with the fact that funerals were for the living, not for the dead.
Still, the worst part about his death was that it wasn’t unexpected. We all knew this day would come. It was just a matter of when. It was true what they said, after all; when you live on the edge you die on the edge.
At least he didn’t kill anyone else in the process.
A tear snaked its way down my cheek and found shelter on my lips. I licked it away and closed my eyes for a brief moment, feeling Luna squeeze my hand.
When I reopened my eyes, my fathers coffin was snug in the dirt and the pastor my mother had sought out was wrapping up his eulogy. Did alcoholics go to heaven or were they handled the same way suicides were?
I couldn’t be sure.
It wasn’t like our family was ever that religious.
Thunder rumbled and the rain began to fall even harder. Jeff opened the large umbrella in his hands and held it over our heads as people began to pay us their respects and shuffle towards their vehicles.
When everyone but our family was gone, Luna looked over at me with a question lingering behind her bloodshot eyes. She looked far older than her age and we both were drenched. Jeff and my mother had taken the umbrella and were walking up the hill towards our car.
I reached over and pulled her into a tight hug—and we stood that way for what felt like an eternity—the soft thump of our heart beats merging into one as the rain covered us in a cold blanket. When we got home, we dragged the dollhouse out into the backyard with Fiona’s help, drenched it in gasoline, and lit a match.
Chapter 7
—
“ Don’t you talk about him,” I whispered, pushing the bleak memory of my father’s death into the back of my head. I cursed myself for signing that stupid contract. She didn’t know anything about me—not really—and if she didn’t have another contrived book to write about me I wouldn’t have been here.
She sighed and sat back in her chair, her oval face tinged with displeasure. “I just want to know why do you do this,” she said.
“Do what?”
“You know.” She waved her pen at me. “If you would just—”
“Oh god.” I snorted. “Here we go.”
“I’m saying,” she said, flipping my file closed, “off the record here, as your mother, you are letting a good thing slip between your fingers. Stephen is good for you. You are good for each other.”
I hated the satisfied look she got on her face every time she got into one of her spiels. What did she know anyway? For all her otherworldly knowledge about men—she had never even been with one for longer than five years—and that included my father and Jeff.
“Shouldn’t I be the one deciding that?” I retorted. “Besides you’re hardly someone who should be dishing out relationship advice…”
A dejected look flashed across her face and she sat up straighter. “You’re getting defensive. Obviously I’ve struck a chord…”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I just
The funeral was three days later on an equally gloomy and depressing Tuesday. Not that I was complaining. Nice weather would have felt condescending.
I stood stone faced beside Luna, who crossed her arms over her chest and refused to express any emotion as our fathers casket was lowered into the ground. On the other side of us, my mother leaned against Jeff and cried fat crocodile tears into a scrunched up handkerchief. Fiona was not in attendance. Her mother’s death had made her impartial towards funerals.
I shifted on my feet and clenched my fists until my knuckles ached. There was nothing about the ceremony that my father would have liked. He wouldn’t have wanted us standing around in the rain mourning him. But I had come to grips with the fact that funerals were for the living, not for the dead.
Still, the worst part about his death was that it wasn’t unexpected. We all knew this day would come. It was just a matter of when. It was true what they said, after all; when you live on the edge you die on the edge.
At least he didn’t kill anyone else in the process.
A tear snaked its way down my cheek and found shelter on my lips. I licked it away and closed my eyes for a brief moment, feeling Luna squeeze my hand.
When I reopened my eyes, my fathers coffin was snug in the dirt and the pastor my mother had sought out was wrapping up his eulogy. Did alcoholics go to heaven or were they handled the same way suicides were?
I couldn’t be sure.
It wasn’t like our family was ever that religious.
Thunder rumbled and the rain began to fall even harder. Jeff opened the large umbrella in his hands and held it over our heads as people began to pay us their respects and shuffle towards their vehicles.
When everyone but our family was gone, Luna looked over at me with a question lingering behind her bloodshot eyes. She looked far older than her age and we both were drenched. Jeff and my mother had taken the umbrella and were walking up the hill towards our car.
I reached over and pulled her into a tight hug—and we stood that way for what felt like an eternity—the soft thump of our heart beats merging into one as the rain covered us in a cold blanket. When we got home, we dragged the dollhouse out into the backyard with Fiona’s help, drenched it in gasoline, and lit a match.
Chapter 7
—
“ Don’t you talk about him,” I whispered, pushing the bleak memory of my father’s death into the back of my head. I cursed myself for signing that stupid contract. She didn’t know anything about me—not really—and if she didn’t have another contrived book to write about me I wouldn’t have been here.
She sighed and sat back in her chair, her oval face tinged with displeasure. “I just want to know why do you do this,” she said.
“Do what?”
“You know.” She waved her pen at me. “If you would just—”
“Oh god.” I snorted. “Here we go.”
“I’m saying,” she said, flipping my file closed, “off the record here, as your mother, you are letting a good thing slip between your fingers. Stephen is good for you. You are good for each other.”
I hated the satisfied look she got on her face every time she got into one of her spiels. What did she know anyway? For all her otherworldly knowledge about men—she had never even been with one for longer than five years—and that included my father and Jeff.
“Shouldn’t I be the one deciding that?” I retorted. “Besides you’re hardly someone who should be dishing out relationship advice…”
A dejected look flashed across her face and she sat up straighter. “You’re getting defensive. Obviously I’ve struck a chord…”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I just
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