Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
With her careful perch by the fireplace, sandwiched between her mom and brother, Lia was an encapsulated sea, oceans stuck in a body. Only moments from bursting. One moment was really all it took. The space between one heartbeat and the next.
Or the last.
Papa’s antiquated home was full of old and unfamiliar faces, but all wore black. Only one face was missing. It’d been a week, and her father had just sent a bouquet of lilies. It squatted on the coffee table like a noxious mushroom, oozing toxin in the form of sympathies.
The sickening sweetness burned Lia’s nose, despite turning her cheek at the display.
Keep it together. Be strong for them.
Ashy depths were rising, pulling like tar. Her skin itched with it, too tight to hold the rising flood filling the space between her bones. No matter how hard she pushed, it kept coming.
She wanted to scoff—like anyone could stop the sea from rising. But she had to.
Breathe. Paddle. Swim. Thank them for condolences.
Papa’s face stared out from an easel by the door—his professional author’s headshot. Black and white. His hair combed, glasses perched low on his large nose. Smile wide, engaging. Warm.
He wouldn’t smile anymore.
Take a breath. Tread water. Think of something. Anything.
According to the internet, drowning was a type of suffocation through the submersion of the mouth and nose in a liquid. Most instances of fatal drowning occurred alone or in situations where others present were either unaware of the victim’s situation or unable to offer help.
While Lia’s search history may be questionable—to be fair, she was a writer—the fact of the matter stood. It wasn’t necessarily the water that killed. It was the overwhelming volume within a capacity never designed to hold it.
Grief was like that.
The human heart was never meant to withstand it. But there it was, consuming every inch of her. She could hardly breathe, an aching and mind-numbing pain washing over her like a rising tide on the beach.
He was her mentor, her best friend. The glue that kept them together, who helped her understand and connect with her mom. Staring at his portrait, Lia could almost hear him.
Run toward the roar, little lion.
Whenever she was afraid or withdrawn, Papa would always tell her to embrace the lion within. That the lion would roar in the face of any danger, any obstacle. And that she should run head-first into that roar to surpass anything that tried to keep her down.
But he was gone; the glue dissolving under grief’s tidal wave.
Looking over at Mom and Marcus, Lia watched numbly as they greeted more guests.
She noted the tight set of her mom’s shoulders, the slouched back of her brother.
How he kept looking at the lilies—then to the door.
Lia glanced at the fireplace. Was October too soon for a fire in Seattle? Flowers made excellent kindling.
She picked at a loose piece of skin on her pinky. A small bead of blood bloomed. Marcus shifted beside her. He hadn’t seen it, right? She fisted her hands, but the anxiety retreated only to her leg, a small bounce.
Marcus put his hand on her knee.
Her chest cracked. Forcing herself still, Lia wrapped an arm around Marcus’s shoulders.
No one could see her flail. Sniffing inconspicuously, Lia dug deeper.
If their papa wasn’t here to be the glue, she had to be.
She needed to get her grieving family ashore.
Toss them a life raft. Even though she felt like that poor guy from Titanic, someone else shoving her down in order to stay afloat.
You’ll be alone in your room soon. Just paddle a little more.
Voices bled together. People spoke to her.
Yes, he was a great man.
Yes, he will be dearly missed.
What if she had stayed? Brought Marcus over for dinner? Maybe—
She couldn’t go there. She couldn’t let that thought, that imagining, torture her. It would drown her. Though she was barely treading water, she couldn’t succumb, not yet.
“Do the police have any leads?” some nondescript cousin asked her mom, patting her shoulder. “Kids these days, always texting and driving.”
We don’t even know it was a kid. But Lia bit her tongue. Hard. Saying it wouldn’t be helpful.
Mom stiffened. “The police are doing all they can.”
Not like vehicular manslaughter was high on their list of priorities, even though it happened right outside the house. Apparently, Papa had been on his way somewhere, another one of his social calls. Except this time, he wasn’t looking at the road when he headed out. On foot. Late in the evening.
A hiccup sounded from Lia’s right, hardly diffusing the tension.
“If you would excuse me, I think my son and I need something to drink,” her mom said.
The cousin pursed her lips, withdrawing her hand with another nod as a group of three approached the couch. Mom and Marcus had been standing, but now Mom stiffened, her bloodshot eyes a fraction wider.
An elderly man with weathered, sepia skin spoke first. “Cordelia, we are so…sorry.”
“I appreciate that.” She managed a faint smile. “It’s good to see you again.”
“It’s been too long, and I wish it were under better circumstances.” A middle-aged woman wrung her hands. “Julian will be so missed, I still cannot believe he—” Choking on tears, her upturned eyes blinked hard, like she was a grieving daughter herself.
Mom’s face crumpled before she embraced the strange woman.
“Do we know you?” Lia’s brow furrowed. There were plenty of faces she didn’t recognize here—but these people seemed close to her mom, who hadn’t lived here in almost ten years.
Mom righted herself. “I’ve known them for a long time. Friends of Papa’s.”
“From the bingo league!” the second man—a scrawny guy with bottle-thick glasses—interjected, drawing the attention of several others in the parlor. He shifted under the scrutiny, the other man glaring especially hard, causing Lia to lift her brow. Downright squirrelly, that one.
“I didn’t know bingo had a league,” Marcus muttered.
Lia bumped his shoulder in agreement. Who joined a bingo league? And since when did their papa like bingo? The questions jostled in the tide, a buoy to grapple for. Lia turned to her mom. “When did you and Papa pick up bingo?”
“Really, it was more of a writing group. I dabbled a bit when I was pregnant with you.” She looked away with a smile that didn’t fit her face.
Lia’s jaw almost dropped. Mom hated stories. Well, severely disliked them. Definitely had never mentioned writing before.
The corner of the eldest man’s mouth quirked up. “It’s a little-known thing, but Julian was one of the best. At the writing and the bingo.”
“Isn’t it all luck?” Marcus asked. Lia wasn’t buying a word of this, either.
“Not entirely. It’s all in the wrist,” the man continued. “I’m Leonard, though Leo is fine. I’ve known your papa since Cordelia was Lia’s age.”
Lia stared at Leo’s outstretched hand. Bingo, writing groups, lifelong friends? All things she didn’t know. Were they the reason behind her papa’s social calls? His absentmindedness?
Finally, her mom elbowed her side, causing Lia to stumble toward Leo’s hand. It was a firm shake, and he introduced the woman as Mirel and the squirrel—really, his gaze kept darting about and his hands never stopped moving—as Adrian. His tics were worse than her own.
After a few more forced pleasantries, her mom put a hand on Marcus’s shoulder and ushered him to the kitchen.
Lia was left behind with the bingo league, but it was good that Marcus was out of this room.
Maybe she could “accidentally” dump the lilies while they were gone.
She hardly ever stumbled, so maybe she could get the squirrelly guy to bump into the table? No, that wouldn’t be right.
Lia adjusted her glasses and summoned a smile. It cracked like an unbroken book spine. “You knew Papa for a while?”
“He was a great man—heart on fire for the game, you could say!” Adrian practically shouted with a strained chuckle.
What was Papa doing, being friends with this guy? Leo, she could see. But this one was too odd. Maybe Lia should reconsider using him to get rid of the lilies.
Leo shot Adrian a glare before looking back at Lia, his gaze softening. “He spoke of you often. You and Kayce both.”
She stiffened, all flower-foiling plans evaporating. “Kayce?”
“You still write about him, right?”
It was none of his business, but a defensive urge prompted Lia’s tongue. “Papa liked that I never really gave him up.”
Adrian clapped his hands together. “I’m sure you inherited Julian’s talents.”
“Adrian,” Mirel cut in, “this isn’t the time.”
Heat burned Lia’s cheeks, her gaze dropping to the faded ornate rug. Didn’t this guy know this was a funeral? She crossed her arms. Those conversations with her papa had been private—her heart lurched. Her throat tightened.
Waves rose.
That writing session was the last time she saw her papa alive. Which wasn’t this bingo league’s business, either. Writing club. Whatever.
Her silence left a gaping hole, but Adrian seemed intent on filling it.
“We often find the best of friends in a book, don’t you think?
They stay with us forever, through it all.
Especially when we have to do things like move across the country.
Julian mentioned that not many back east have stayed in contact—oof! ”
Leo’s elbow to Adrian’s rib expelled his last word in a gust of air. “Enough.”
Lia wanted the floor to crack open and devour her.
To drown in the sea she’d become. Instead, she bent down and straightened the memorial pamphlets.
Considering how she’d stayed busy, Lia hadn’t really noticed the social quiet.
At least, that’s what she’d told herself—because they were right.
No one had bothered to stay in touch. A few text messages, but ultimately, nothing.
And now that her mom and Marcus needed even more from her, making friends here had dropped to the bottom of her priorities.
Which was fine. She could do this. She had to do this.
The din of conversation faded. Her chest constricted further, lungs compressing as if without a single ounce of air. She clamped her lips shut, fighting the burn. It pressed against the back of her eyes, threatening to spill over. She looked out the bay window. To the street.
Would there still be a stain on the pavement after another week? She tore her gaze away.
The waves crested. Bloomed into an ache between her brows.
She wasn’t fine.
“Excuse me,” Lia managed and hurried for the central staircase.
Murmurs followed, but they were a distant rumble.
She didn’t care. Once at the top of the landing, Lia ran to the end of the hall, yanking open the door for the attic staircase.
The steps creaked, light filtering through windows set between the eaves.
Trunks littered the small space, a side table and armchair relatively clean.
Lia plunged into the faded green fabric as if it could hold her, papers scattering from the armrest.
Grief dragged Lia into murky depths. She gasped, air rushing through her shriveled lungs. Her chest painfully tight, the dam she had built to hold it all in, threatened to crack. The cushions still held her papa’s bergamot scent. An anchor, pushing her back to the surface.
Breathe. Tread water. Hold on.
Lia counted her breaths until the tension in her chest eased, and her eyes burned less.
Not a drop had fallen. No one had seen. She was fine again. Almost.
An ache pulsed along her forehead. Ignoring it, Lia eyed the nearest trunk.
Dust fell from the lid as she pushed it open, revealing paper curled and browned with age.
On top was a crayon drawing: a young boy rode a horse with wings.
A watery smile pulled at her lips. Afternoons in this attic had included scribbling away with her papa, building her kingdom. Another anchor.
Fishing through the trunk, she freed a stack of lined paper with edges frayed from where it’d ripped free from a notebook’s spine.
Lia skimmed the first few lines of a short story she had written when she was roughly thirteen.
A fourteen-year-old Kayce was teaching her how to fly a volatequis, the kingdom’s breed of winged horses.
Well, trying to. But he goaded her petrified self into doing it anyway. Like he always did.
A lump threatened to return to her throat.
Her nail caught on the loose skin of her thumb.
Pulled. She needed to escape, if only for a few moments.
Maybe that would get rid of her headache.
Settling back into the armchair, Lia looked out the window to the cherry tree’s swaying boughs.
Something fluttered in the leaves, a dark shadow, some bird—
Focus. Breathe. Tread water. No optical illusions of creepy birds.
Her eyes grew heavy. She could shut them. Just for a few minutes. Then rejoin Marcus and Mom after finding a trash bag for those lilies. Maybe she’d blame it on Adrian, after all. Least he could do after the embarrassment he’d put her through. Even if he didn’t know it.
Behind her closed lids, each breath was ebbing and flowing, the push and pull of the tide. However, Lia didn’t feel the tar-like sea rising inside. Bergamot faded. Sea salt and pine replaced it, crisp and clean. Nostalgic. Her head pulsed again.
Then, she wasn’t Lia at all.