I nodded without speaking. I wasn’t looking for love. I had Plans.
3
Anne
“What are you doing?” mymother demanded.
I straightened from the sink, pushing my oozing hair out of my eyes. “Coloring my hair.”
“Your hair and everything else.”
My gaze flitted around the bathroom, taking in for the first time the red dye spattering the white tiled floor and staining the porcelain sink. “I’ll clean up,” I promised.
My mother shook her head. “There’s no time. We’ll be late to the wake. Honestly, Anne, I wish you’d think before you start something.”
I did think. I thought all the time. Just not, apparently, about the right things at the right time. Finding the box of red-hot hair color under the bathroom sink—left over from my teens—had seemed like a sign from the universe or a message from my dad.Be brave. Be bold. Be happy.NotMake a mess re-creating a crime scene in your mother’s bathroom.
My hair was still damp when we arrived at the parish hall basement. The cold struck through to my scalp. The air was thick with the smell of drying coats, beeswax, and bad coffee. My parents’ neighbors and friends milled around, saying the kinds of things people apparently said in the face of death. “Hewas a great guy.” “We’re going to miss him.” My father wasn’t much of a churchgoer, but everybody loved him. Photographs (Dad, twinkling from under the brim of his Detroit Lions cap; Dad, uncomfortable in a suit on his wedding day; Dad, posing with me and a fish as big as I was) covered the long folding table, surrounded by plates of brownies, lemon bars, and chocolate chip cookies—the ladies of the Altar Guild paying tribute to his memory with baked goods.Burnt offerings.
I glanced hastily away from the wooden box that held Dad’s cremated remains, a bubble of hysterical laughter rising in my throat.
Anne of Green Gables was an orphan, I reminded myself. So was Heidi. Jane Eyre. Most of the Disney princesses.
But in real life, being an orphan—well, half an orphan—sucked. I missed my dad so much, his quiet, solid presence, his unquestioning support. There was an empty space where he should be, in the room. In my heart. Without him, I felt untethered, a balloon drifting in the void.
“Annie, darling.” I was enveloped in strong, soft arms and a cloud of patchouli. Zoe Heller, who had married my old English teacher and now worked for Mom. I looked hopefully around for her wife. Mrs.Powell had challenged and encouraged me, proofread my college applications and written recommendation letters.
“Anne.” My former teacher smiled kindly. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
I gulped. But before I could frame a reply, another neighbor spoke up.
“We haven’t seen you around here in a while,” Mrs.Johnson said. Half judgment, half statement of fact.
As if I would miss my father’s wake. “Um, no. Thank you for coming,” I said, using the phrase I’d found online (“best reply to condolences,” according to Google).
Zoe squeezed me again. “It must be such a comfort to dear Maddie, having you home.”
Over her shoulder, I watched my mother drop a half-empty Styrofoam cup into a black plastic trash bag. She didn’t seem in need of my comfort. She’d consistently rejected it, in fact. But maybe keeping busy was how she dealt with grief. How she dealt with everything.
“…a terrible loss for you,” Mrs.Johnson was saying. “God must have needed a carpenter in heaven.”
“He has Jesus.”
Her eyes widened. Crap. I recognized that look, the kind I’d been receiving all my life. Mrs.Powell pressed her lips together. A hot flush swept my face.
I disentangled from Zoe. “Excuse me,” I mumbled, and escaped to the bathroom.
I did my business and then lingered, texting Chris, hiding out from the looks and the whispers. “It must be such a comfort to dear Maddie, having you home.” Ha.
I ran warm water over my hands, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Against my bright red hair, my face was starkly white. My supposedly waterproof mascara had collected in sad black smudges under my eyes, making me look more a manic raccoon than the person I’d tried so hard to become—a responsible high school teacher, a fully functioning adult.
“You can do this,” I told my reflection bracingly. “Get back out there. Fake it.” Which sounded ominously like the sort of dating advice my college roommate used to give me our freshman year.
I wiped my eyes and dried my hands on my black skirt and went out to help my mother bus the refreshment table. At least if I were clearing cups, keeping the urns filled with coffee and hot water, I wouldn’t have to listen to any more meaningless words of sympathy.
Someone was already with her. My eyes narrowed. Joe Miller. Of course.
He was dressed as if he’d come straight from work, in jeans and scuffed boots. At some point, he’d ditched the faded Red Wings cap and the jacket, so that his thick brown hair fell over his forehead. His shoulders were a lot broader than they’d been at fifteen. As I watched, he said something to my mother that made the hard line of her mouth soften in a smile. Jealousy stabbed me, sharp and shameful.
