“Parker left.”
It only took two words for Richard’s mouth to drop. I filled him in on everything, and the more I said, the more he gasped. “Are you kidding? Is Mari okay?”
I shook my head; of course she wasn’t.
“We should get inside,” he said, reaching for my hand, but I declined.
“I have to call Lyric. I’ve been trying to for hours, but she hasn’t answered. I’m just going to keep trying for a while. Do you think you can go check on her and see if she needs anything?”
He nodded. “Of course.”
I reached out and wiped some yellow paint from his cheek before leaning in to kiss him. “I’m sorry about the gallery.”
Richard grimaced and shrugged. “It’s okay. As long as you’re okay with dating a turd who’s not good enough for his work to be showcased, then I’m okay with it.”
I’d been with Richard for three years now, and I couldn’t imagine being with anyone other than him. I just hated how the world hadn’t given him a chance to shine yet; he was worthy of success.
But, until it came, I’d stand by his side, being his biggest cheerleader.
As he went inside, I dialed Lyric’s number one more time.
“Hello?”
“Lyric, finally.” I sighed, sitting up straighter as I heard my sister’s voice for the first time in a long time. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
“Well, not everyone can be Mrs. Doubtfire and work part-time at a coffee shop, Lucy,” she said, her sarcasm loud and clear.
“I actually only nanny now. I quit the coffee shop.”
“Shocking,” she replied. “Listen, do you need something, or were you just bored and decided to call me repeatedly?”
Her tone was the same one I’d known for most of my life—complete disappointment in my entire existence. Lyric had a way of putting up with Mari’s quirks, especially since Mari had finally settled down with Parker. Lyric was, after all, the one who introduced the couple to one another. When it came to my relationship with my eldest sister, it was the complete opposite. I often thought she hated me because I reminded her too much of our mother.
As time went by, I realized she hated me because I was nothing more than myself.
“Yeah, no. It’s Mari.”
“Is she okay?” she asked, her voice drenched with fake concern. I could hear her still typing away on her computer, working late into the night. “She’s not…?”
“Dead?” I huffed. “No, she’s not, but Parker left today.”
“Left? What do you mean?”
“He just left. He packed his bags, said he couldn’t deal with watching her die, and drove away. He left her alone.”
“Oh my God. That’s insane.”
“Yeah, I agree.”
There was a long moment of silence and me listening to her type before she spoke again. “Well, did you piss him off or something?”
I stopped rocking in the chair. “What?”
“Come on, Lucy. Since you moved in to help, I’m sure you haven’t been the easiest person to live with. You’re a lot to handle.” She somehow managed to do what she always did when I was involved in any situation—she made me the villain. She put me at fault for a coward walking out on his wife.
I swallowed hard and ignored her comment. “I just wanted you to know, that’s all.”
“Is Parker okay?”
What? “I think what you meant to say was ‘Is Mari okay,’ and no, she’s not. She’s dealing with cancer, her husband just left her, and she hardly has a penny to her name, let alone the strength to keep going.”
“Ah, there it is,” Lyric murmured.
“There what is?”
“You’re calling me for money. How much do you need?”
My stomach knotted at her words and a taste of disgust spread on my tongue. She thought I’d called her because I wanted money? “I called you because your sister is hurting and feels alone, and I thought you might want to come see her and make sure she’s okay. I don’t want your money, Lyric. I want you to start acting like a freaking sister.”
Another moment of silence passed, along with more typing.
“Look, I’m swamped at work. I have these cases coming up for the firm, and I can’t be pulled away from them right now. There’s no way I’d be able to get by her place until maybe next week or the week after.”
Lyric lived downtown—a short twenty-minute drive away—but still, she was convinced it was too far away.
“Never mind, okay? Just pretend I never called.” My eyes watered over, shocked by the coldness of someone I’d once looked up to in my life. DNA told me she was my sister, but the words she spoke conveyed that she was nothing more than a stranger.
“Stop it, Lucy. Stop with the passive aggressive approach. I’ll drop a check in the mail tomorrow, all right?”
“Don’t, seriously. We don’t need your money, and we don’t need your support. I don’t even know why I called you. Just mark it down as a low point of mine. Goodbye, Lyric. Good luck with your cases.”
“Yeah, okay. And, Lucy?”
“Yeah?”
“You might want to get that coffee job back as soon as possible.”
After a while, I stood up from the rocking chair and walked to the guest room where I’d been staying. I shut the bedroom door, held my hand around my necklace, and shut my eyes. “Air above me, earth below me, fire within me, water surround me…” I took deep breaths and kept repeating the words Mama had taught me. Whenever she’d lose her balance in life and feel far from grounded, she’d repeat that chant, finding her inner strength.
Even though I repeated the words, I felt like a failure.
My shoulders drooped and my tears began to fall as I spoke to the only woman who had ever truly understood me. “Mama, I’m scared, and I hate it. I hate that I’m afraid, because that means I’m somewhat thinking what Parker was thinking. A part of me feels like she won’t make it, and I just feel terrified each day.”
There was something so heartbreaking about watching your best friend fall apart. Even though I knew death was simply the next chapter in her beautiful memoir, it didn’t make it any easier for me to grasp. In the back of my mind, I knew each hug could be the last, knew each word could be goodbye.
“I feel guilty, because for every good thought I have, five negative ones pass through. I have fifteen coin jars filled in my closet that Mari doesn’t even know exist. I’m tired, Mama. I’m exhausted, and then I feel guilty for almost falling apart. I have to stay strong, because she doesn’t need anyone falling apart around her. I know you taught us girls not to hate, but I just hate Parker. God forbid, but if these are Mari’s last days, I hate that he tainted them. Her final days shouldn’t be filled with the memory of her husband walking out on her.”
It wasn’t fair that Parker could pack his bags and just escape to a new life without my sister. He might find love again someday, but what about Mari? He’d be the love of her life, and that hurt me more than she’d ever know. I knew my sister like the back of my hand, knew how gentle her heart was. She felt every hurt ten times more than most people. Her heart resided on her sleeve, and she allowed everyone to listen to its beautiful heartbeats—even those who were undeserving of hearing the sounds. She prayed they loved her heart’s sounds, too. She always wanted to feel loved, and I hated that Parker made her feel like a failure. She’d leave the world feeling as if she had somehow failed her marriage, all in the name of love.
Love.
The emotion that made people both soar and crash. The feeling that lit humans up and burned their hearts. The beginning and ending of every journey.
As the days, months, and years passed by, Mari and I heard less and less from both Parker and Lyric. The pity check-ins grew less frequent, and the guilt-driven checks stopped coming through the mail. When the divorce papers landed in the mailbox, Mari cried for weeks. I stood strong for her in the light, and teared up for her heart in the shadows.
/> It wasn’t fair how the world took Mari’s health and then had the nerve to come back to make sure her heart was shattered into a trillion pieces too. With every inhale, she cursed her body for betraying her and ruining the life she’d built. With every exhale, she prayed for her husband to return home.
I never told her, but with every inhale, I begged for her healing, and with every exhale, I prayed for her husband to never come back.
2017
Two days before, I’d bought flowers for someone who wasn’t my wife. Since the purchase, I hadn’t left my office. Papers were scattered all around—notecards, Post-It notes, crumpled pieces of paper with pointless scribbles and words crossed out. On my desk sat five bottles of whisky and an unopened box of cigars.
My eyes burned from exhaustion, but I couldn’t shut them as I stared blankly in front of me at my computer screen, typing words I’d later delete.
I never bought my wife flowers.
I never gave her chocolates on Valentine’s, I found stuffed animals ridiculous, and I didn’t have a clue what her favorite color was.
She didn’t have a clue what mine was either, but I knew her favorite politician. I knew her views on global warming, she knew my views on religion, and we both knew our views on children: we never wanted them.
Those things were what we agreed mattered the most; those things were our glue. We were both driven by career and had little time for one another, let alone family.
I wasn’t romantic, and Jane didn’t mind because she wasn’t either. We weren’t often seen holding hands or exchanging kisses in public. We weren’t into snuggling or social media expressions of love, but that didn’t mean our love wasn’t real. We cared in our own way. We were a logical couple who understood what it meant to be in love, to be committed to one another, yet we never truly dived into the romantic aspects of a relationship.
Our love was driven by a mutual respect, by structure. Each big decision we made was always thoroughly thought out and often involved diagrams and charts. The day I asked her to by my wife, we made fifteen pie and flow charts to make sure we were making the right decision.
Romantic?
Maybe not.
Logical?
Absolutely.
Which was why her current invasion of my deadline was concerning. She never interrupted me while I was working, and for her to barge in while I was on a deadline was beyond bizarre.
I had ninety-five thousand more to go.
Ninety-five thousand words to go before the manuscript went to the editor in two weeks. Ninety-five thousand words equated to an average of six thousand seven hundred eighty-six words a day. That meant the next two weeks of my life would be spent in front of my computer, hardly pulling myself away for a breath of fresh air.
My fingers were on speed, typing and typing as fast as they could. The purplish bags under my eyes displayed my exhaustion, and my back ached from not leaving my chair for hours. Yet, when I sat in front of my computer with my drugged-up fingers and zombie eyes, I felt more like myself than any other time in my life.
“Graham,” Jane said, breaking me from my world of horror and bringing me into hers. “We should get going.”
She stood in the doorway of my office. Her hair was curly, which was bizarre seeing as how her hair was always straight. Each day she awoke hours before me to tame the curly blond mop upon her head. I could count on my right hand the number of times I’d seen her with her natural curls. Along with the wild hair, her makeup was smudged, left on from the night before.
I’d only seen my wife cry two times since we’d been together: one time when she’d learned she was pregnant seven months ago, and another when some bad news came in four days ago.
“Shouldn’t you straighten your hair?” I asked.
“I’m not straightening my hair today.”
“You always straighten your hair.”
“I haven’t straightened my hair in four days.” She frowned, but I didn’t make a comment about her disappointment. I didn’t want to deal with her emotions that afternoon. For the past four days, she’d been a wreck, the opposite of the woman I married, and I wasn’t one to deal with people’s emotions.
What Jane needed to do was pull herself together.
I went back to staring at my computer screen, and my fingers started moving quickly once more.
“Graham,” she grumbled, waddling over to me with her very pregnant stomach. “We have to get going.”
“I have to finish my manuscript.”
“You haven’t stopped writing for the past four days. You hardly make it to bed before three in the morning, and then you’re up by six. You need a break. Plus, we can’t be late.”
I cleared my throat and kept typing. “I decided I’m going to have to miss out on this silly engagement. Sorry, Jane.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her jaw slacken. “Silly engagement? Graham…it’s your father’s funeral.”
“You say that as if it should mean something to me.”
“It does mean something to you.”
“Don’t tell me what does and doesn’t mean something to me. It’s belittling.”
“You’re tired,” she said.
There you go again, telling me about myself. “I’ll sleep when I’m eighty, or when I’m my father. I’m sure he’s sleeping well tonight.”
She cringed. I didn’t care.
“You’ve been drinking?” she asked, concerned.
“In all the years of us being together, when have you ever known me to drink?”
She studied the bottles of alcohol surrounding me and let out a small breath. “I know, sorry. It’s just…you added more bottles to your desk.”
“It’s a tribute to my dear father. May he rot in hell.”
“Don’t speak so ill of the dead,” Jane said before hiccupping and placing her hands on her stomach. “God, I hate that feeling.” She took my hands away from my keyboard and placed them on her stomach. “It’s like she’s kicking me in every internal organ I have. I cannot stand it.”
“How motherly of you,” I mocked, my hands still on her.
“I never wanted children.” She breathed out, hiccupping once more. “Ever.”
“And yet, here we are,” I replied. I wasn’t certain Jane had fully come to terms with the fact that in two short months, she’d be giving birth to an actual human being who would need her love and attention twenty-four hours a day.
If there was anyone who gave love less than I did, it was my wife.
“God,” she murmured, closing her eyes. “It just feels weird today.”
“Maybe we should go to the hospital,” I offered.
“Nice try. You’re going to your father’s funeral.”
Damn.
“We still need to find a nanny,” she said. “The firm gave me a few weeks off for maternity leave, but I won’t need all of the time if we find a decent nanny. I’d love a little old Mexican lady, preferably one with a green card.”
My eyebrows furrowed, disturbed. “You do know saying that is not only disgusting and racist, but also saying it to your half-Mexican husband is pretty distasteful, right?”
“You’re hardly Mexican, Graham. You don’t even speak a lick of Spanish.”
“Which makes me non-Mexican—duly noted, thank you,” I said coldly. At times my wife was the person I hated the most. While we agreed on many things, sometimes the words that left her mouth made me rethink every flow chart we’d ever made.
How could someone so beautiful be so ugly at times?
Kick.
Kick.
My chest tightened, my hands still resting around Jane’s stomach.
Those kicks terrified me. If there was anything I knew for certain, it was that I was not father material. My family history led me to believe anything that came from my line of ancestry couldn’t be good.
I just prayed to God that the baby wouldn’t inherit any of my traits—or worse, my father’s.
Jane lea
ned against my desk, shifting my perfectly neat paperwork as my fingers lay still against her stomach. “It’s time to hop in the shower and get dressed. I hung your suit in the bathroom.”
“I told you, I cannot make this engagement. I have a deadline to meet.”
“While you have a deadline to meet, your father has already met his deadline, and now it’s time to send off his manuscript.”
“His manuscript being his casket?”
Jane’s brows furrowed. “No. Don’t be silly. His body is the manuscript; his casket is the book cover.”
“A freaking expensive book cover, too. I can’t believe he picked one that is lined with gold.” I paused and bit my lip. “On second thought, I easily believe that. You know my father.”
“So many people will be there today. His readers, his colleagues.”
Hundreds would show up to celebrate the life of Kent Russell. “It’s going to be a circus,” I groaned. “They’ll mourn for him, in complete and utter sadness, and they’ll sit in disbelief. They’ll start pouring in with their stories, with their pain. ‘Not Kent, it can’t be. He’s the reason I even gave this writing thing a chance. Five years sober because of that man. I cannot believe he’s gone. Kent Theodore Russell, a man, a father, a hero. Nobel Prize winner. Dead.’ The world will mourn.”
“And you?” Jane asked. “What will you do?”
“Me?” I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. “I’ll finish my manuscript.”
“Are you sad he’s gone?” Jane asked, rubbing her stomach.
Her question swam in my mind for a beat before I answered. “No.”
I wanted to miss him.
I wanted to love him.
I wanted to hate him.
I wanted to forget him.
But instead, I felt nothing. It had taken me years to teach myself to feel nothing toward my father, to erase all the pain he’d inflicted on me, on the ones I loved the most. The only way I knew how to shut off the hurt was to lock it away and forget everything he’d ever done to me, to forget everything I’d ever wished him to be.
Once I locked the hurt away, I almost forgot how to feel completely.
Jane didn’t mind my locked-away soul, because she too didn’t feel much either.