6. The Broken Warrior
six
The Broken Warrior
Dean
Grief could be silent.
In fact, for an entire week, my entire life was silent.
And Emma was the only one talking. Talking to the funeral home, catering, planners, and airline operators. Taking on her duty like the professional that she was. Planning a burial and wake splendid enough for my late mother, under uncle Mark’s guidance, Emma didn’t even ask me to lift a finger. From arranging for VIP transportation and accommodation, to the finest detail of ‘Pearl wanted no flowers withering away at her wake,’ my loyal assistant did everything she could to keep me isolated, grieving in the only way I knew how.
Alone .
I watched from a distance. And under the layers of rage and sorrow—and everything in between—that ripped through me every waking second, I still had a miniscule space within me that could accommodate admiration. It was as though that woman had eight arms, four brains, and a bottomless heart powered by an unwavering sense of responsibility.
For seven days and nights, she worked tirelessly and without complaint, juggling company matters and the arrangements in our private residence. It made me wonder if a million dollars were enough to warrant such dedication.
During the burial, and thanks to a dose of tranquilizers I was too ashamed to admit to needing, I maintained a dignified ceremonial fa?ade. I shook the hands that extended to greet me and took the hugs as they came. My trusty companion stood by my side, whispering the names and occupations of each and every guest who came to pay their respects as they approached.
When the service was over, I had an hour before the guests would start herding in for the wake. Upon our return to the house, and without a word, I retired to my study and closed the door. I knew that I was, once again, rendering myself exposed and defenseless against the dark thoughts that soon resumed their position at the forefront of my mind.
I shouldn’t have fallen asleep that evening, leaving mom alone. Even though my presence next to her might have not prevented her death, I could have been holding her hand when the reaper came to claim his next victim.
Was she awake?
Was she scared?
Did she try to call out my name?
Before I could make a pathetic attempt at making myself feel better by summoning some self-serving answers, I heard a knock on the door. Automatically, I said, “Come in, Emma.”
The door cracked open, and the house manager peeked in with an apologetic look on her face. “I’m sorry, Mr. Allen. But Mrs. Allen is on the phone with the caterer.”
Sitting up in my seat, I wiped my nose and cleared my throat. “Come in, Helen. What is it? ”
Her lips curved into a kind smile as she took a step inside, closing the door behind her. “I’m sorry, sir. I know this is a difficult time for you—for all of us, really.”
“What is it?”
“Oh—I… I know how happy Mrs. Allen was with you and Emma… and everything.”
“Yes. She was.”
“For what it’s worth, I wanted to tell you something from the heart. You know how your mother and I had grown close in the past four years.”
“Yes?”
“It’s more of a confession, and I hope you forgive me.”
My patience was running thin. “Helen, really… whatever it is, just… spit it out, please.”
“During your short engagement, I tried to warn Mrs. Allen, suspecting that Emma had… ulterior motives.” She paused, shame dripping from her every pore. “But seeing how she barely sleeps now, doing everything she can… God, I—the other night, I caught her crying almost hysterically out on the terrace at one o’clock in the morning. When I asked if there was anything I could do, she begged me to take good care of you when she wasn’t around. She was so sincere; I’m so ashamed. I—I just wanted to clear my conscience to you, because I never had the chance to do that with Mrs. Allen—I mean, your mother. I was wrong—I was so terribly wrong about her. I hope you can forgive me.”
Slowly nodding, I looked away, letting a faint smile show. “It’s alright, Helen. You were only looking out for us. If anything, I appreciate your suspicion. In all fairness, it was the logical thing to think at the time. It all happened so fast, and I realize that most people didn’t have the chance to digest it.” Looking up, I saw her eyes brighten. “How are things downstairs?”
Her grin carried a mix of relief and fascination. “Oh, Mrs. Allen—your mother—won’t be disappointed. Neither would you. Emma—I mean, Mrs. Allen—” she stuttered.
“You can refer to her as Emma, Helen. That is her name,” I reassured her.
Sighing with relief, she said, “She’s gone above and beyond, sir. You’ll see.”
“Thank you, Helen. Please, I’m going to need a moment before I go downstairs.”
“O—” She rushed toward the door, opening it. “Of course. Excuse me.”
It was no surprise that Emma had managed to pull together a beautiful and elegant wake where I didn’t stop hearing her praises sung everywhere I turned. Those who didn’t get the chance to attend the wedding would start by expressing their condolences before congratulating me on an ‘incredible bride’.
Of course, the older men found it humorous to refer to her calm yet invigorating beauty, while younger ones felt the need to point out that any bride in her place would have thrown money at the planners and let them handle it.
The sinister manner in which young, single women regarded her wasn’t lost on me, even under the influence of self-medication and rivers of liquor. My friends noticed, too, especially Chad, who remarked that I should hire a bodyguard for my bride, because, as Chad jokingly put it; “ Given the opportunity, they’ll eat her alive like zombies .”
Mindlessly, I powered through the social niceties until the very last guest left the house. I turned to Emma to see that she still stood in her high heels, helping the staff clean up. As if she had felt my gaze on her, she looked up at me, frozen with a tray of empty glasses. “Do you need anything?” she asked with a smile.
How could she still smile after the kind of day she’d had?
Quickly looking away, I shook my head. “No, thanks. I think you should rest now. Helen can supervise.”
“I’m not tired. You look drained, though. Why don’t you go upstairs? I had Helen prepare a hot bath for you.”
Surprised that she still managed to ensure my comfort with everything else on her overflowing plate, I looked into her eyes with volumes of gratitude I wished she could absorb. “I really appreciate everything you’ve done.”
“Come on.” Stepping closer, her eyes nervously roamed around. “Don’t say things like that.”
I understood that she didn’t want anyone to hear something they shouldn’t. After all, what she was doing was the expectation of a mourning man’s wife. Nodding, I whispered, “Thank you.”
“Good night.”
“Yeah. Good night.”
Upstairs, I stepped into the bathroom, greeted with the ever so soothing aroma of lavender. As I proceeded to shed my clothes one article at a time, I took a good look around me. Candles, incense, and a downplayed version of Chopin’s ‘Nocturne’.
Slipping into the welcoming warmth of the water, I leaned back, throwing out my arms over the edges as I closed my eyes.
Attempting to relax proved to be a challenge, since a few minutes in, I could only see flashbacks of the moment when my mother’s soul had abandoned this world. All those strangers. That chaos. The deafening noise of the machines. Nothing about it had felt peaceful, and with trembling lips, I prayed that she had already been gone before all of that had happened. My only wish now was that she was already far away from the hands and eyes of everyone in the room that night. That she didn’t hear the panic in their voices, or the pain in mine.
But as it turned out, the universe wasn’t done with throwing unwanted company my way. Before I could will the distressing visions away, I heard Emma’s whisper, “Mr. Allen?”
My jaws clenched. “It’s Dean, Emma. We’ve been over this.”
“May I come in?”
I opened my eyes, glaring up at the ceiling while I beckoned her over with my hand. Quickly realizing how patronizing that must have looked, I quickly said, “Of course. What is it?”
“How’s the headache?” I heard her voice approach behind me, until it felt as though her head was right behind mine. “I saw you take some pills downstairs.”
“It’s been there for so long; I no longer notice it now.”
I heard the click of a bottle and the soft pop of shampoo being squeezed into her palm. “May I?” Her fingertips gently landed on the top of my head and pressed a little, a heaven-sent touch.
“Okay,” I whispered.
“Close your eyes,” she said as I felt her fingers spread the shampoo all round, each one of them pressing an inch of my scalp that felt tender to the touch. “I don’t want it to burn.”
I did as she asked, letting out a long, silent sigh. Gradually, Emma began to increase the pressure she applied, massaging my whole head. In between those cathartic intervals, I would feel her twirl a couple of locks around her fingers, kneading and brushing through them like a wide, painless comb.
A minute later, the headache was gone. I knew a big part of that could have been attributed to the sensation—the stimulation of blood flow that distracted me from the pain .
But…
“Have you always washed the hair of men in distress?” I asked, partly as a joke, and partly because I wanted to know.
“It’s my first time.” I heard the smile in her voice. “I’m just improvising from memory. It’s how my hairdresser does it at the salon.” She paused, rubbing a straight line from the bottom of my head upward. “Does it feel good?”
“It does,” I admitted. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Uninvited and certainly unwanted, my mother’s words to Emma sprung into my mind, shoving everything else aside.
“He’s a gentle soul that’s also powerful, like a warrior. Sure, he’s a little bit brooding, and sometimes gets lost in his philosophy books, psychological fiction and in his own thoughts. But he always comes back… but you must already know that.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat.
Oh, sweet Pearl. Little did you know.
Emma didn’t know anything about me, nor did I want her to. She didn’t deserve to go through any of this, yet here she was, working hand over fist to comfort her overbearing boss. Perhaps I was too immature to handle my emotions the way adults did. Maybe I was too attached to my mother. It was also possible that my heart was beating so fast and strong now, because every action Emma took reminded me of a devoted, loving partner.
As my guardian angel picked up the showerhead, she started carefully rinsing my hair, using her hand as a shield over my forehead so the lather wouldn’t burn my eyes.
Luckily, though, the human form was less than perfect, and trickling threads of water snuck through the fine spaces between her skin and mine, washing over my face .
It was lucky, indeed, because my tears no longer had a dam to stop them. Emma’s touch and my broken heart had rendered me feeble.
I’m sorry, mother. While you were in heaven, I had to risk letting another woman see me cry.
Yet, thanks to her imperfections and mine, she just might have missed it.