Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
And then . . . not.
“Boy?” she says, a million questions in her voice as I close the door and wander past, going straight to the stairs.
“See you tomorrow, Cathy,” I murmur to thin air in front of me.
“I made a lasagna,” she calls.
“Thank you.” My body feels so heavy. So slow. Shutting down.
“Where’s Ava, boy?”
I don’t answer. Can’t. Entering the bedroom, I slowly cast my eyes around the vast space as I kick my shoes off. Empty. I leave my clothes on and collapse on the bed, grabbing her pillow and snuggling into it. Lonely.
I probably shouldn’t be alone, but the thought of facing anyone? Besides, loneliness isn’t measured by how busy your life is with people. It’s measured by love. I never quite understood how someone can be surrounded by others but feel so incredibly lonely. Their head full of noise, but their life still so empty. And solitude is only heightened when you’ve experienced something that’s enriched your life. Something that makes you smile. Gives you purpose and feel your heart beat strongly.
But it can be taken away.
Gone.
And it doesn’t matter what people say, what they do, what you do yourself to conquer it, there’s only one thing that will.
Peace.
Contentment.
Ava is those things for me, and she knows it.
And yet, she left me after less than one day of marriage.
* * *
I know I look terrible—my skin sallow, my eyes dull, my body heavy. I don’t need John to tell me. I’m empty.
Three funerals in two weeks. Carmichael first—a massive affair, the church packed—but I was the only member of his family there. The rest of the congregation? Friends, lovers, members. All of them admired him. Respected him. It wasn’t a funeral. It was a celebration of life. My parents couldn’t even bring themselves to be there for me.
Rebecca’s was next.
Now Rosie. My girl’s funeral isn’t a celebration of life because she barely had a life.
As I stand at the front of the church staring at my daughter’s little coffin, all I can hear past the sobbing and the priest talking is my own voice constantly asking . . . why?
Why, why, why, why, why?
I feel Sarah’s hand rest on my bicep and swallow, subtly shrugging it off. “Don’t,” I say flatly, knowing Lauren is nearby. Knowing she’ll be focused on me, not on the coffin that has our dead little girl inside.
“Just trying to be here for you,” Sarah says quietly.
I don’t counter, there’s little point. The priest’s stopped talking, and it takes me a moment to realize there’s someone else up in front of the congregation now. Our eyes meet as she pulls out a piece of paper. Hers turning onto Sarah beside me. Crazy eyes. Sarah shouldn’t have come. I told her not to come. She’s a red flag.
I look down at my feet and close my eyes. “My husband and I would like to thank you for coming,” Lauren says. Her husband. It takes me a moment to remember that was me. The divorce completed months ago.
Sarah breathes out her disbelief.
“We feel so blessed for the time we had with our little girl,” Lauren goes on. “She will never be replaced, but one day the pain of losing her will be soothed by another child.”
I jolt.
“Oh my God,” Sarah whispers.
Lauren’s eyes fall onto me. “I know her father feels the same, and I know this loss will only bring us closer together.”
I hear John clear his throat, and I notice Lauren’s parents out of the corner of my eye. Alan looks at me, refusing to show his concern. I shake my head mildly, making sure he knows she’s not speaking for me.
“You need to be careful,” John says quietly as Lauren rambles on, telling the few people here how we’ve got through these first few difficult weeks because of each other. I’ve hugged her, of course, I’m not a fucking monster, but she must have felt my reluctance. She must have noticed the lack of warmth.
John’s right. I need to be careful.
“I love my husband,” Lauren goes on, putting emphasis on that one word. Husband. I’m barely a man. We’re twenty-one years old. Lauren’s talking like we’ve been happily married for years—close, tight, madly in love. A family. “Only he can ease my pain.” She looks at me, her eyes burning my skin.
I can’t listen to this. See this. I step out of the row and go to Rosie’s coffin, placing both palms on the glossy wood, staring at the plaque.
ROSIE AMALIE WARD
1993 – 1996
My heart turns in my chest, my throat clogs. Lauren’s stopped talking, stopped trying to convince the world that we’re solid, in love . . . together. At least, she’s stopped talking. She’ll never stop trying to convince everyone. Scary thing is, I think she’s convinced herself. I swallow as I dip, pushing my lips to the wood. “Goodnight, my baby girl,” I whisper, pushing off and walking out of the church, roughly wiping at my eyes. I see my parents in the back row.