“Ah—Emily, of course.” Jim’s son reaches out and shakes my hand warmly. I see why Rose called him a “total looker.” Even though he’s older, he has a really handsome smile and a swoop of wiry hair. “My father’s told me about you. I’m Herman.”
“Nice to meet you. Sorry to interrupt,” I add. “I was going to do some laundry, but I can come back later if now’s not a good time.”
Herman’s expression changes. “Ah. Well. I’m afraid that won’t be necessary.”
I blink. “No?”
His smile softens, and he gestures for me to sit down on Jim’s wicker chair. I ease into it, feeling my heartbeat change.
“I’m afraid my father passed away last night,” Herman says. “I just found him an hour ago. He must have passed during his sleep.”
I stare at him, hearing nothing but the slow, steady thump of my heart in my ears.
“Passed away,” I say numbly.
“I’m afraid so.”
“I—” I turn my eyes to Jim’s neighbor’s fields, seeing nothing. “I’m so sorry—”
Herman shakes his head gently. “This was how he wanted to go. And he’s missed my mother terribly.” His eyes are sad, but his lips curve up softly. “It was his time.”
I sink back into my chair, feeling—
I don’t even know what I’m feeling.
“Is he still—here?” I croak.
Herman nods. “The coroners should be here any minute. Did you want to see him?”
I stare at him.DoI want to see him?
“Yes.” I stand. “Yes, of course.”
I walk through the house somewhat woodenly, feeling like I’m moving on autopilot. Herman doesn’t follow me, which I’m distantly grateful for. I need to do this alone.
Oh, god. I can’t do this alone.
I can’t do this atall. I’ve never seen a dead person before. I’m not ready, I can’t do it.
My feet come to a stop outside of Jim’s bedroom door. It’s slightly ajar. I can see the familiar mahogany dresser where I used to put his folded clothes.
A horrible grief is swelling up within me, stealing the air from my lungs and forcing a huge, hot lump into my throat. But my body moves without my permission—my hand pushes open the door, my numb feet carry me inside.
And then all the grief falls away in a whoosh as I see Jim lying there on the bed.
Ah.
There he is.
I don’t know how to explain it, but looking at the relaxed lines of Jim’s face and the strange, unearthly smoothness of his skin, I don’t feel sad anymore. Or rather, I don’t feel sad for him. I feel sad for myself, because I’m going to miss him so damn much.
But Herman was right.
It was his time.
I move closer to the bed and sit down on the edge of it. The old mattress creaks under my weight. The bedcovers are pulled upto his chest—he’s wearing the soft flannel pajamas that he would never let me wash—and his hands are resting loosely at his sides. I slide my hand into his. His skin is cool and dry, his fingers loose and unmoving under mine.
Tears are slipping down my cheeks, but they aren’t of grief, exactly. There’s a sharp, almost painful sort of happiness in them.
