It had taken me two days to shower.
Three to clean the house.
Four to leave it, realizing Gramps wasn’t coming.
I’d have to go to him.
With every passing street sign to the funeral home, I noticed every breath I took. White clouds of moisture expelled in every exhale. The cold bit my skin, an icy kiss of a winter’s warning. A promise the new season would still come. Time still moved on and wasn’t controlled by the loss of the world’s oldest asshole or the abandonment of a lover. All around me, the skies were a harsh gray, the passé town locked in the colors of somber ash. I could smell nothing as my face was numb.
I pulled into the parking lot. In the graveyard, to the left of the Blackwell mausoleum, Beck was picking up pieces of broken tombstones and tossing them into a wheel barrel. Tarnished leaves crumbled under my boots as I walked toward him, ready to confront him and ask him questions. I’d never talked to Beck before, but out of the three other Hollow Heathens, Beck Parish seemed the least intimidating.
Maybe it was something about his eyes …
“Do you need help?” I asked, my gaze darting back and forth to his bent back and the clutter of stone around us.
Beck’s eyes flicked up at me, then down to the stone he was about to pick up. “Nope,” he said, cradling the rock in his hands before tossing it into the wheelbarrow with athump!
He brushed his hands together and hung them off his hips under his jacket, looking at me as if he was giving me permission to speak or leave. The blue in his eyes was fathoms deep, from the ocean’s surface to the floor of the sea—a thousand hues of blue running on a current of emotion. Lost in them, before I could breathe, I drowned. Every time. Unlike Julian’s, whose eyes were shields and swords, Beck’s showed me everything, telling me everything. All things except the things I wanted to know.
“How’s Julian? Did they take him? Is he okay?”
Beck shook his head, darted his gaze around us before leaning back over to pick up another stone. “I shouldn’t be talking to you—”
“I know,” I rushed out. “But, please, it’s been days, and I don’t know anything. It’s killing me. Just let me know he’s okay.”
“Julian’s okay.”
“Are you just saying that because I told you to say that, or is he really okay?”
Beck stood tall and squared his shoulders. “The Order showed mercy, considering the circumstances with what happened to Benny, thanks to Agatha and Goody. I was there, able to recount Benny’s last moments,” he paused, wiped his brow, “And, no, Julian’s not okay. Julian’s a fucking wreck.” He tore his eyes from me, bent down and grabbed another stone, tossed it into the wheelbarrow. “He’s just trying to do right by everyone. Because that’s who Julian is.”
But he was okay. They didn’t take him, and I dragged in a full breath and closed my eyes, let it go slowly.
Jonah wasn’t at his desk when I entered the funeral home. The farther I walked toward the morgue, the colder the air turned. Julian had mentioned while I was in and out of consciousness that Gramps was here after I’d talked about him in my sleep, that Jonah would take good care of him.
A chilling breath traveled against the base of my neck, sending my pulse racing when my hand pushed open the cold silver door to the morgue. The steadytick-tock-ticksound of the chrome clock hanging on the white cement walls slapped the floor, the ceiling.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Back and forth. An unnerving timepiece.
I rubbed at my neck, trying to quiet my anxiety. There was more than air in this room with me. Here lay all my sleeping beauties. My Gramps, too. Nerves thundered, questioning if I was ready.
Questioning if anyone would ever be ready.
Rows of holding lockers lined the far wall. I stood before it, scanning for Gramps’ name yet unsure if Jonah would have marked it. I took a step back, then my eyes drifted to the right, feeling a pull toward the locker at the far end. I closed my eyes, and a new gust of nerves raked through my spine, settling as if it belonged there. As if I were used to losing people as I should be. But I wasn’t.
Before I could bolt, I wrapped my fingers on the lever and pulled back the door. Freezing temperatures from inside brushed my face. The cot easily rolled out, and a thin white sheet laid over his body. No one should have to do this alone. No one should have to do this at all.
I filled my lungs and pulled back the sheet, and as soon as my gaze settled over his frail, pale face, my senses became useless. My fingers shook, finding the edge of the cot to steady my legs. I found myself nodding, trying to force myself to accept he was gone, but I couldn’t, then my head was shaking.
“I’m sorry,” I cried, leaning over. My tears fell, landed on the sheet, darkening as it bled. My nose dripped, but I couldn’t remove my grasp from the cot to wipe it. “Give me one more day,god, please, give me one more day with him. I need more time,” I sputtered through it, tears and snot mixing and my eyes blurring. “You can’t leave me, Gramps. You can’t leave me! Why did you have to fucking leave me? Why won’t you come see me?!”
I threw my head back, looked to the fluorescent lights. I wanted to hear his voice, but I would never hear it again. And I couldn’t feel him. He wasn’t here! I couldn’t say goodbye, and it hurtsobad!
“Come back to me, Gramps! I fucking need you, you asshole! You never told me about my mother. You never told me a damn thing, and you were wrong! You said knowing the truth was crippling! But not knowing who I am is crippling!”
Hyperventilating, I let go of the rod to grip my side to find a solid breath. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I’m like this,” I could barely get out, talking nonsense but couldn’t form thoughts the way they should form. Someone forgot some parts when they put me together. “I don’t want to say goodbye!”
I was afraid to open my mouth again. I didn’t know what would bubble up. Blaming him when I didn’t mean it. Cursing him. Another heart-aching cry. A scream. Or some monstrous combination of both. My legs gave out, and before I collapsed to the floor, a pair of familiar arms caught me, pulled me up into his chest.
