Vacant Heart

Chapter Forty-Four

It's raining.

When the service started, there was still some sun. I'm beginning to think we've brought this downpour upon us ourselves, content in misery today. Maybe it's just me. Maybe my grief is strong enough to bring on the storm.

Samantha holds the umbrella over my head, one hand firmly in my own, a constant presence of strength. I have no tears to shed, just a weighted sadness hovering over my body.

I mostly don't want to be here. Standing here in mud and tension, I wonder why people ever perform funerals. The flowers on the wreath look wilted. The coffin seems less shiny than when it arrived earlier.

The attendee's heads are bent, studying the ground rather than the coffin waiting to be lowered into the hole. All but one.

In a sea of black, I spot him.

Aidan Hughes. He's standing on the opposite side of me, a black umbrella hovering above his head. I'm unable to look away, shocked to find him here. No doubt Samantha called. It's been months, and the sight of him brings me immense relief.

When the service ends, I'm surrounded by a crowd of apologetic people. Some people I know, some I don't. Matthew hands me flowers, which seems an odd gift to receive, but a kind gesture nonetheless. People from work have made dish after dish, intent on providing me food for the next month, as if they're convinced I'm going to curl in and give up on myself any minute.

I take the time to speak to them all, all the time waiting for him to appear.

But he doesn't. To my everlasting shock, by the time the crowd has cleared around me, the only people left are the ones to lower my mother into the ground, making me wonder if he was only a mirage, a mere hallucination to keep me from going mad. I remain behind with Samantha while her husband hauls the kids to the memorial service on his own, wanting to remain until they've covered the grave.

She wraps her arm around my shoulders, rubbing my skin softly. Her cheek warms my shoulder. "Did you get a look at Matthew's hair? I mean the dye's still fresh."

Somehow she does it. I laugh.

                                                 ***

"We should put some of this food out," I say, hands on my hips, surveying the table covered in tupperware. I'm doing anything to avoid facing the guests, and it shows. Samantha has been following me at my heels all night.

I've refused to face anyone. I did that at the funeral. Why should I be forced to converse now?

This is all backwards.

"I really want a cigarette," I state, randomly, my body yearning for something to take the edge off of today.

"You quit."

"I know."

She looks at me pointedly, peeling off aluminum foil from some of the dishes. "Grieve any other way you want, but I catch you with one of those nasty things and I'll smack it right out of your hand." She grabs one of the dishes carefully. "You sure you want me to put everything out?"

"Yeah."

"And you'll come out...right?"

I nod, trying to remove any memories I have of my mother in this very room from my thoughts. "Yeah, in a minute."

"Okay."

I immediately head for the back entrance of the house, which is easy to get to from the kitchen undetected. There a stairs leading into a small fenced-in yard. It's overgrown, unlike the neatly trimmed front yard. There's an unfinished shed my father was in the process of building before he realized he wasn't staying. An unfinished garden my mother had set to do months ago, before her health severely declined to the need of confinement. Her weak immune system was no match for the world. I bend down with finality, picking up the bin of gardening tools and switch on the back porch light, so I'm able to see as I start down the steps in my heels and best black dress.