6. Res
6
Res
I f I’m going to get through today, I’m not going to do it sober. looking directly into the faces of a bunch of men and women who likely knew exactly what my brother did to me and didn’t tell me. Who knew my parents didn’t tell me. Who allowed a predator to find safe haven in their church and therefore victimize other children who have yet to come forward.
But even after downing quite a bit of the scotch that my father used to stash in his office, I’m still not drunk enough to forget Jaxson’s words to me as he pinned me to my bed by the neck.
He said he doesn’t have a plan. That he doesn’t know what to do. That he didn’t plan for any of this. That he didn’t plan for me . That he didn’t plan for me to be the hitch in all his ambitions and the reason he might lose it all. That he’s scared .
He didn’t say it in as many words, and he’ll never admit to it—doesn’t know how to admit it—but the one thing I’m positive of is that he’s scared. And now that I know he’s scared, I realize that I’ve greatly misjudged and mischaracterized him yet again. Just like I did the first time we met .
One thing I know about Jaxson is that he relishes being the one in control and hates when he’s not. It was something about him that I realized early on, and a weapon I constantly used against him when I was powerless against him. With me, it gave him a thrill. Because even when I managed to snatch control from him, he was still in control, and there was nothing really at stake.
With his father, this is real, and there’s everything he’s ever wanted at stake. That’s not something he’s used to. That’s something he doesn’t know how to deal with. So he copes by pretending to still be in control. Because being out of control is a weakness. A weakness he’s never been able to afford. A weakness that wouldn’t have gotten him as far up in the Sovereignty, where becoming the Oracle was a feasible ambition.
In the Sovereignty, him seeming unflappable about all this would be something to admire. To me, it just looks like he doesn’t care.
But he does care. In his own twisted way. And maybe if I had stayed in Chicago a little longer instead of storming off, I would have noticed that. I would have noticed him stressing over how he was going to maneuver around his father this time. I would have known that he was scared he might have to give up his life’s dream, no matter how much of a twisted nightmare it is for some, for me. Or give me up for his life’s dream.
That’s one hell of a position to be in—something I can sympathize with. The push and pull between what I wanted and what the people I thought I cared for and thought cared for me wanted. And even then, I didn’t choose, and maybe would have never chosen, if I hadn’t seen that the people I cared for cared more for their cult and beliefs than they cared about me.
The question about all this, though, is not what Jaxson is going to do about it, but what I am going to do about it now that I realize all this.
I don’t have time to contemplate it. The transport for the funeral is almost here, and I’m forced to join Abigail and Jaxson, who are waiting for me downstairs.
“You’re drunk,” Jaxson points out without looking at me as soon as I’m standing next to him.
“I’m not going to be able to survive this farce sober,” I reply.
Jaxson says nothing, despite the fact that I know how he feels about alcohol.
I look to Abigail, who’s rubbing her belly absently over the spot where the baby that’s the only thing connecting us together anymore resides. She doesn’t have to be here. Some would say she shouldn’t, since her husband is the one being blamed for all this. But besides that baby, I’m the only family she has left. Not only that, but like Jaxson, I misjudged her too. Until she showed up on my doorstep with nowhere else to turn after finding out her husband was a child abuser on Christmas.
“Thank you for being here,” I say to her.
She looks at me, startled, as she asks, “Where else would I be?”
“You and I both know you have bigger issues.”
Abigail laughs without mirth and says, “Yeah. I suppose I could be sitting in your boyfriend’s big empty mansion planning what to do with your brother’s body. ”
“No funeral?” I ask.
“No.”
“I’m sure Loving Eden would be happy to pay for it and show up to pay their respects, despite it all,” I say, not even joking.
Loving Eden and its members would absolutely be willing to foot the cost of burying him since the insurance company won’t pay out because of the circumstances of my brother’s death. They’d get up on the pulpit and extol him for his good works and excuse his abuse away as losing his way, getting a little misguided, but still being a good servant of God. Like David who killed a woman’s husband. Or, more aptly, like Lot who slept with his daughters. Or whatever problematic biblical figure they can think of. And anyone who thought differently would be deemed a devil or agent of Satan. Because Christ said not to judge.
“He doesn’t deserve anyone’s respects,” Abigail says in a bitter tone.
“So what are you going to do, cremate him?”
“Probably. Though if there weren’t so many laws about disposing of dead bodies, I’d leave him in the middle of a field and let the buzzards have him. Or cut his body into pieces and have a bonfire to burn his body one piece at a time,” Abigail adds.
Let it never be said that being raised in the church curbs your sense of violence.
“Wouldn’t that be cathartic?” I mutter.
“We could divide his penis between the two of us and throw it in together,” Abigail offers .
“I wish,” I mutter.
“If that’s what you want, I can arrange it,” Jaxson interjects.
He’s more likely just talking to me, but Abigail answers with a laugh, “I wish that were true. I’d take you up on it. But I’d prefer not to get fined or go to jail for incorrectly disposing of a body.”
“I can arrange it,” Jaxson simply repeats with a little emphasis this time.
Abigail looks at Jaxson with her brows furrowed, “Are you serious?”
Before Jaxson can answer that yes, he is most certainly serious , one of the Loving Eden women lets us know the transports are outside.
We ride to the church where the funeral is taking place in silence. Once the “tragedy” of Loving Eden got out to the broader community, the religious community rallied together to help as much as they could. A congregation friendly to Loving Eden donated their church for the services. The funeral home heavily discounted the price for their services. And even before this, three weeks ago when this all first happened, there was no shortage of people dropping by my parent’s house trying to give condolences and drop off food until I turned off my phone and told one of Loving Eden’s church mothers to spread the word that I wasn’t taking any visitors until the funeral. I was grieving, of course, so they were more than understanding.
If I hadn’t gone through all the trouble to deconstruct, and this were any other circumstance, the way they rallied together to help me, even though I haven’t been part of Loving Eden for a decade, would be touching. As it is, all I feel is disgust at the show of support. Because ultimately, it’s not support for me. It’s support for my parents. My parents, who I’m sure word has gotten around, enabled a child abuser.
“I’m not drunk enough for this,” I mutter as we pull up to the church and see a bunch of people standing outside, including fucking reporters of all things because this entire tragedy has become the new national true crime obsession.
I’m not surprised to see Jaxson’s men opening the door and providing cover for me, in particular, and Abigail, inadvertently. I am surprised to see Magdalene there, in black funeral attire with four women dressed in black funeral attire similar to mine, all of similar height to me.
We’re ushered inside too quickly for me to ask what she’s doing there and who these women are, not stopping until we get to the front where I’m expected to view the bodies.
“Go ahead,” Abigail says to me. “I’m going to sit down.”
I nod in response, wishing that I could join her. I wish I could just sit in my disdain with this whole charade and wait for it all to be over. But when I'm the one who committed the murder of my parents and am trying to make sure the blame gets passed, there’s a particular role I’m expected to play until they officially close this case.
I drag Jaxson along with me to view my parents' bodies. I have to give it to the morticians. You’d think my parents just died natural deaths instead of the violent end I ensured they had.
“What’s Magdalene doing here?” I demand.
“The safety and security of the Queen Priestess and the conduits is part of her duties. Seeing that you’ve just been welcomed into the fold, she decided to come personally as an extra show of support,” Jaxson replies.
If I didn’t know him, I’d believe him. Or at least, I’d believe this was all there was to it. As it is, I know the way Jaxson lies. Or, at least, I know the way men like him tend to lie, considering he hasn’t had a reason to lie to me before now. Since we met, he’s been straightforward and honest about every—mostly heinous—thing he’s done. Yes, I tortured and maimed your ex. Yes, I saw that little fling you had and blinded the man for seeing you naked. Yes, I broke into your apartment and stole your cat. Yes, the Sovereignty is a scam and I don’t care because I want power.
But if a man like Jaxson is going to lie? He’s going to do it not by telling complete untruths, but by omission, and there’s clearly something he’s omitting here.
“You’re lying,” I accuse.
“Have I ever lied to you?” he asks.
“Maybe that’s the pretense Magdalene is using to be here and avoid suspicion, but that’s not why she’s here, and we both know it,” I say. “Is she here to watch us? For your father?”
“She’s not.”
I pause, contemplating what else she could be here for. But before I can, the funeral director approaches me and says I really should be getting seated now, and I let myself be led away like the grieving orphan that I now am.
I thought I was prepared to sit through the funeral sermon. But when the sermon begins, I realize that there’s nothing that could have prepared me for sitting through a local pastor extolling my parents the same way I knew David would be extolled if Abigail had chosen to go through the farce of a funeral. The way they would be made out as perfect human beings, that their faults would be made out to be simple, unavoidable mistakes because divinity is unfortunately couched in humanity. And by virtue of being human, we are all flawed, some more than others. A way to address “certain allegations” as the pastor puts it, without addressing them.
I’m supposed to be pretending to grieve, but even I can’t prevent my brow from furrowing, my eyes from narrowing, my lips from turning down into a frown. So I lower my head and look down at my lap, hoping to hide my expression as I try to tune everything out and disassociate. But apparently, I’m not sufficiently traumatized enough to disassociate like I’ve learned since Christmas that I’m apparently prone to.
Jaxson’s hand suddenly covers mine where they're folded in my lap. Except they aren’t folded. They’re slowly balling up into fists, something I hadn’t noticed until Jaxson’s fingers begin to uncurl them. Then, once he has enough space between my fingers and my palms, he slips his hand between mine, allowing me to curl my fingers in anger without them looking like they’re balled into fists.
I nearly leap out of my seat in joy once the sermon is over, but that’s only a third of the day’s events. I have to get through taking the coffins to the cemetery and then the repass back at my parents’ house.
Everyone is solemn and quiet at the cemetery, so it’s not hard for me to hide my disgruntlement with this entire affair.
It’s the repass that tests my patience as people come up to me to give me condolences that I don’t want. They’re all so polite and discreet about the circumstances that led to this. Tell me that they know I’m going through a hard time but that everything happens for a reason and that a God I hadn’t believed in for almost a decade now will get me through it if I’m faithful. To let them know if I need anything, even if it’s just a word of encouragement.
I’d be able to tolerate it more if I thought they were being fake. That they were malevolent in their intent. But they’re all well-meaning and really think they’re doing and saying the right thing, and I despise every second of it.
The only respite in all of this is that Jaxson seems to have a similar sentiment; every now and then making a comment that I’m not sure is serious or just his dry, deadpan sense of humor. Either way, I can’t help choking back a few giggles at his efforts. I may not know what my future with Jaxson is right now, or if there’s any hope of one anymore, but I’m glad he decided that, for whatever reason, it was important enough for him to be here with me.
But by the time an hour or so has passed, not even Jaxson’s efforts are helping my irritation with this entire charade. So when Abigail suddenly darts from the room, I take the excuse to follow her into what used to be my mother’s prayer room.
“Sorry,” Abigail says. “I just… I need a minute.”
“So do I. Checking on you is my excuse.”
“I just…” Abigail paces the length of the room and back before turning to me. “Jaxson.”
“What about him?” I ask .
“When he said… that he can arrange things…”
I frown, not even entirely sure how serious Jaxson’s offer to allow us to do whatever we wanted to David’s body without getting in trouble was.
“I…”
“You don’t have to hide it. Jaxson. He’s… he’s a dangerous man, isn’t he?” Abigail asks.
“What makes you say that?” I respond.
“There’s a certain look in his eyes. Like there’s no length he wouldn’t go to in order to make the world right, especially for you,” she says. “Something like orchestrating the deaths of everyone who ever had a hand in hurting you.”
“You should stop talking,” I warn.
“I’m not saying anything,” Abigail denies, giving me a look that tells me in no uncertain terms that she’s not stupid the way I’ve thought of her until a couple of months ago. “Just… he looks like a guy who would have handled some things for you if David hadn’t done what he did. Quietly, that is. Wouldn’t brag about it.”
Abigail knows. Somehow, she knows, and she hasn’t said anything this entire time.
Not sure what to do with that, I say, “If you weren’t pregnant, I’d offer you some of that good sweet wine my mom has stashed in here that she thought I didn’t know about.”
“Don’t hold back on my account,” Abigail says. “I wish I could be drunk or something right now. ”
Since she doesn’t mind, I go to the cabinet behind all my mother’s knitting yarn and prayer books and find the hidden wine and wine glasses.
After I’ve downed an entire glass of wine, Abigail sighs and says, “I think I’m going to go ahead and leave. I’m sorry. I can't…”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll live vicariously through you.”
Abigail laughs. “I’m sure they’d understand if you disappeared for a little while longer. You’re grieving, after all.”
“Maybe,” I say. Then, before Abigail can leave, I add, “I’ll ask Jaxson. You know… about making certain arrangements.”
“Thank you,” Abigail says with a sigh of relief.
“You deserve some catharsis after all this.”
She gives a final smile and leaves. I finish off another glass of wine, feeling sufficiently buzzed to get through the rest of the repass. But as I’m opening the cabinet to put the wine glass back, something Abigail said strikes me.
You’re grieving, after all.
She’s right. I am grieving. Supposed to be, anyway. And there’s no expected way to do that despite the stupid rules of decorum. Grieving my parents was always going to be messy and complicated, regardless of the way they died. Whether I murdered them with Jaxson’s help or they died of natural causes thirty years from now, who’s to tell me how I’m supposed to feel about that? Who’s to tell me I’m supposed to be a gracious host and the recipient of other people’s grief? They were my parents. It’s my loss. And since they and my brother died, this is my goddamn house too .
I don’t want to mourn my parents’ lives. I don’t want to mourn their absence. I want to be angry. I want to mourn what they took from me. The things they hid from me. The things they forced on me. I want to be angry. I want to be satisfied because I’m better off without them.
If everyone else who knew them wants to memorialize them and mourn, they can do it somewhere else. I want no part.
I abort putting the wine away, taking the whole bottle with me as I storm back out to face my supporting guests.