“Come here, sweetie,” she says. “Please sit.”
Lottie’s uneven breathing sounds like snoring. Some of the pauses are longer than normal, so long I think it might be her last, until another abrupt croaking snore bubbles out and unnerves me further.
“She’s not in any pain,” my mom says. “They started the morphine drip this morning because…” She trails off, looking away.
I’ve never seen my mother cry, and I hold my breath, waiting to see if today would be my first. But then she looks back at me, eyes clear, and says, “It was time, sweetheart. She doesn’t feel a thing right now, but she might be in this state for a few days before fully passing.”
“Wait, so,” I start. “She won’t… wake up again? This is it?”
My mom simply presses her lips together, dipping her head in a gentle nod. The tiny movement rips my heart in two. My conversation with her last night was the last one I’ll ever have, I realize with startling force.
I feel horrible for crying again, but I can’t control the way my shoulders collapse inward. I fall into my mom’s arms, making a guttural sound I don’t recognize as my own, and clutch her to myself as tightly as possible without hurting her. I have never been more grateful that she is still here.
She pets my hair over and over again as she whispers, “It’s okay, sweetie. Let it out. It’s okay.” She holds me until my breathing calms, and when it does, I poke my head up from her shoulder, wipe my tears, and build up the courage to look down at Lottie’s face. Her mouth is pitched open at an unnatural angle, and a bowl of water with a sponge sits next to her for my mom to moisturize it every now and then.
Despite the chest-rattling and snoring sounds, she looks serene. Peaceful. I didn’t make a conscious choice to move toward her. I only realize I’m situating myself under the sheets with her as it’s happening. My sock-clad feet brush against her calves as I slide down beside her, laying on my side and draping my arm across her chest. I cry into her shoulder, feeling selfish doing it. She is dying, and here I am, sobbing all over her. I take her hand and fit it into mine. Her stiff fingers move as I lead them, and they stay put in mine like we’re holding hands. Just like we used to. The sight of them interlaced makes me sob harder into her shoulder.
“I love you, Lottie,” I whisper into her ear. “I love you so, so much. You’ve always been a second mother to me. I love your calm presence and your sweet smile. How you laugh when I tell you about dumb book plots. Everything about you mademe feel so loved. Makes me feel so, so loved,” I correct, voice breaking. “Thank you for letting my mom and me live in your house all these years. For becoming a home yourself. You’ve always held us up. But you don’t have to anymore.” My voice is garbled as I choke out the words. “You can let go now, Lottie. You can rest now. Thank you for everything. Go. Be at peace. I will see you there soon.” I kiss her hand, and my tears flow down our intertwined fingers. My vision is blurred by them, so I close my eyes, rest my head. Laying my head beside hers is the last memory I will ever make with her. I fall asleep, and when I wake up, it’s to an entirely different world.
Chapter 8
The funeral arrives with a suddenness that feels rehearsed. Why does the funeral attendant seem so casual holding the door open for me? Does he hold doors open for people like me to walk into the worst day of their lives every day? Did the guests receive the funeral invitation like they were receiving a coupon in the mail? Did they dress in all black and practice the grimace they’d give me when they saw me walk in?
A woman in her late fifties stares at me as I walk into the funeral home. She offers me a look she should have practiced in the mirror a few more times. The lines creasing her mouth point so far down, it feels like she’s doing a bad impersonationof a sad clown hired for a kid’s party. I find it hilarious and have to wipe the smirk off my face lest someone catch me having an inappropriate reaction to this horrific day.
I force myself to remember why I’m here. It’s the day my second mother happens to be the one lying in the casket.
There’s a spot for me at the very front, so with effort, I try not to chuckle as I walk down the aisle, and more strangers offer me bad impressions of clown faces.
Perhaps, somehow, in some strange stress response, my mind is coping by making jokes about the situation. Protecting me by creating a sort of hazy denial bubble to float in. Incredulity, more accurately. But I don’t think Lottie’s friends would understand that on the day of their grieving, so I try my best to make my pressed lips look like an attempt at holding back tears rather than hysteria.
I take my spot on the crushed velvet pew and smooth down the skirt of my favorite black dress. I’ve never imagined I’d need to wear it to an event like this. My mom gives me a pained smile beside me, then faces forward for the start of the service. The hilarity of the event dies down—poor choice of words, I know—when Lottie’s friends start to give speeches. They tell inappropriate story after inappropriate story about her glory days, drinking to the point of embarrassment, and hooking up with boys at their high school. It angers me to a degree I can’t recognize.
My great-aunt Lottie was not the rambunctious socialite they are making her out to be. She was patient, an ever-constant, nonwavering source of love. Her disposition was careful, her movements steady and composed.
She had the most unique sense of quiet confidence I have ever witnessed. She didn’t need to speak; she could just be present in a room, and it was enough to put me at ease. Her favorite activity was watering her plants, for crying out loud.Whoever they’re speaking about at the podium is not someone I knew. But the gregarious sounds of laughter tear through the room regardless. When everyone is finally laughing at the funeral, I no longer am.
I look to the back of the room to start planning my escape when my eyes catch on a tall figure standing in the doorway. My breath skips like a dusty record. I hate that I know exactly who it is by the stance alone. Declan’s gaze snags on mine as readily as a three-pronged ring catching a thread in a lace dress. He bores into my eyes with a kindness that pisses me off. It somehow communicates a multitude of thoughts through the fifty feet of space, rows of chairs, and laughing bodies between us. The type of look that is only possible through years of shared history. And somehow, infuriatingly so, he has the uncanny ability to look at me with genuine care without the stomach-roiling pity that usually comes with it. Who told him about the funeral?
I stand up abruptly, apologizing to my mom for knocking her knee, before bowing my head as I stalk toward the exit.
I plan on keeping my head down as I brush past Declan on my way to the bathroom. I should know by now plans like that never work when it comes to him. He can predict when I’m about to run. He’s seen it happen before. With five feet remaining before I plan on speeding past him, he disappears behind the door.
Where is he going?
I clear the door he was just leaning on and turn the corner to find the restrooms. And there he is, standing in front of them.
Of course, he guessed my next move.
“Blair,” he says, voice barely above a breathless whisper.
“Excuse me,” I demand, trying to move past him.
He places his hand on my shoulder, so light it feels ticklish through my sleeve.
“Come on. I know you don’t have to use it,” he says.
I rear my head back. “And how do you know that?”
