The last of the mourners drifted away, leaving just Dante and me by the fresh grave. The cemetery workers stood at a respectful distance, waiting to finish their job once we left.
"Ready to head home?" Dante asked softly.
And suddenly, I realized, I no longer had a home that wasn’t his to go back to. My father was gone.
That’s when I started to breath harder, the pain and panic crushing at my lungs. The lump in my throat grew larger until I couldn’t contain it anymore, and the tears started pouring down my face.
“I loved him, I know it doesn’t make sense, but I did,” I curled into myself, my arms wrapped tight around myself as I stared at the casket. “He…Children are meant to love their fathers. I…I loved him.”
"Oh, Alisa,” Dante whispered softly, tracing soft patterns on my back. “Of course you loved him.”
"But I hated him, too. Is that wrong?" My voice cracked.
Dante's fingers found mine, and he threaded our hands together, squeezing tight. "No, Alisa. It's not wrong."
I turned away from the grave and let Dante lead me back to the car.
***
Days blurred together after that. I couldn't tell you if it was three days or ten. I just stopped living, in a way. Stopped moving, stopped caring, stopped being. I refused to let the maids open the blinds in my room.
I didn't shower. Didn't change out of silk pajamas I'd put on after the funeral. Sometimes I slept. Sometimes I stared at the ceiling, just numb.
My meals were brought in for me, but I only ate when coaxed by the maids or Dante. I barely noticed what I ate. Couldn’t tell an apple from a cucumber. Just chewed, went through the motions.
Dante checked in on me often, but I never noticed if it was on routine or at random. The first few times, he tried to make conversation and get me to talk about my feelings, but I couldn’t reach for them.
I told him I was tired and needed nothing more than to be left alone.
But, he never did.
After that, he simply whispered he was there for me, no matter what, and sat quietly by the window till hours passed. Sometimes, he read. Sometimes, he brought in his computer. Sometimes, he forced me to eat that sandwich or drink that lemonade.
Always, he looked worried.
I wanted to tell him to go away, especially when he tried to get me to eat, but I didn't have the energy for even that. So I did what he asked just to get the movement behind me.
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice gentle. "A little more."
This became our ritual. He soon moved on to open the windows slightly, letting fresh air creep in, not listening to my complaints.
One night, I woke to find him asleep in that chair. His head was tilted at an uncomfortable angle, his legs stretched out in front of him. He looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes.
And that’s when the guilt and gratitude twisted in my chest. He shouldn't be here, suffering through my grief with me. He should be running his business, handling whatever fallout came from my father's death. The Pavlovs weren't going to stop hunting me just because my father was dead.
Yet there he was. Staying. Watching over me. For the first time in hours, I stepped out of bed to walk over to him and throw the spare blanket over his body.
Just as I did, he woke, his eyes snapping to mine immediately. He gave me a smile, a proud little one that cracked my heart in two. I felt like I didn’t deserve it.
"You shouldn't sleep in that chair. It looks uncomfortable," I said.
"It’s not that bad…" he insisted, and turned to his other side, going straight back to sleep.
"Go to bed, Dante," I insisted. "I'll be fine."
He threw a cranky look over his shoulder. "Geez. Let a man sleep, will you? And go back to bed, before you bite my head off.”
For the first time in days, I smiled.
