My mother’s funeral is held on the following Wednesday. A small church service with catering supplied by the venue. The pastor leading the service doesn’t say a single word except what I provided to her; luckily Ratty overcomes his nerves to deliver a rambling eulogy, well-punctuated with nodding smiles, that got far closer to the essence of Mum’s life.
“You want something to eat?” Caylon asks as we congregate outside, the words spoken just as my stomach grumbles, prompting a laugh that turns a few heads, the sound inconsistent with the general melancholy. “One for you and one for the baby?”
“Yeah. I should come inside with you.”
He brushes my hair back, tucking a few ambitious strands behind my ear. For all his protests that he likes it short, the number of times he tugs on the ends as though trying to make it grow out faster makes me lean in the opposite direction.
“You don’t have to unless you want to. There’s a nice bench around the side of the hall.” He picks up my hand and kisses the back of it, smiling. “We could sneak around there and have our own commemoration.”
It sounds so much better than going back indoors and making polite conversation with people who are—for the most part—strangers, that I agree with a nod of relief.
“I’ll meet you there in a minute with enough sandwiches for all of us.”
I do my best impression of being nobody important and sidle around the corner of the hall, the shadows instantly lowering the day’s temperature by about five degrees. The shade extends out over a long patch of grass, some still pale with frost from the wintry morning.
I shiver and turn the next corner into brilliant sunshine. The bench is between the two large windows on this side, safely out of view for the inhabitants lingering inside.
My stomach lurches as I sit and I breathe in and out through my nose for a few seconds, waiting to see if it’s going to settle or if the nausea will take a stronger hold.
By the time it recedes, Caylon appears around the corner, a plate piled with half a dozen sandwiches in one hand, a can of orange fizzy in the other. “Fruit juice,” he announces, angling his body so I can take it. “Best thing for morning sickness, I’ve been told.”
“By nobody,” I say with a laugh, setting the plate on the bench between us and immediately getting to work.
Considering how nauseated Caylon’s first batch of medication made him, he should probably keep any remedies for himself. His first appointment with the psychiatrist was held alone. The second with me and his mum Effie in attendance. Talking about symptoms I’d witnessed made me feel like a narc, but I battled through.
In the future, Caylon mightn’t be as amenable to treatment. If I can’t stomach discussing his symptoms now, I won’t be prepared when he does consider it a betrayal.
I manage two sandwiches and half the can before I have to grapple with my stomach again. Caylon takes the rest from my hand and sculls it quickly, making a face when he finishes it and crumples it against the seat next to him.
He’s working on the last sandwich when he suddenly asks, “Do you know what scares me most about having a family?”
“Being eighteen and completely unprepared?”
He nudges me gently with his elbow, aiming for my arm rather than my side even though the pressure is hardly enough to dislodge my little lima bean. “Speak for yourself, old lady. I’ve still got a few months before my birthday.”
He polishes off the rest of his sandwich, making me wait in retaliation for the small joke. When he finishes chewing, I glance at him expectantly, but he proceeds to lick every one of his fingers clean.
“Get on with it, you monster,” I growl, pushing him in the thigh. It’s one of his safe areas since most his torso and his face are still out of bounds. “You shouldn’t torture me on the day of my mother’s funeral.”
“Woah. Way to bring the mood down.” He tucks me under his arm and sits back, closing his eyes as the sun hits his face.
Although the bruising is still developing, adding new colours like they’re plot twists thrown in to bulk out the ending, the swelling has disappeared. I can stand him being multicoloured a lot more easily than I could him being misshapen.
“I can feel you ogling me, you know.” He opens one eye, smiling as he captures me staring into his face with my customary longing. “How’re you coping?”
“I’ll be a lot better once you finish answering your own damn question.”
“It might be a bit heavy to add to today. Remind me tomorrow.”
Instead, I straddle him, lifting his arms until he laughs, then winces. “Tell me all your secrets right now or I’ll tickle you.”
“Threats.” He easily gets out of my hold and wraps his arms around my waist, drawing me closer until it looks like he’s about to motorboat me through my demure funeral dress. His forehead presses against my upper chest, his warm breath spinning across the top of my breasts, making them tingle until they ache.
A state they spend half the mornings in these days.
“What I’m most scared about is passing on my disease to another generation. I don’t want to spend my kid’s childhood looking out for signs and symptoms and making life miserable for all of us.”
“Then, and stop me if you’ve heard this before, perhaps just… don’t do that?”
