6. Hailey
“Miss?”
My head jerks around, and I blink at the driver. He’s a thick man with a heavy mustache, rosy cheeks, and dark curly hair that’s shorn into a gentleman’s cut. Sunlight pours through the windshield and glints off the gray at his temples. I hadn’t heard the whir of the divider as it shimmied down.
“We’ve…uh…arrived.”
“Yes, thank you.” Of course, I know. I’d been staring out the window at the stone chapel since the car stopped in front of it nearly five minutes ago. I’ve taken note of the frost clinging to the blades of bright green grass along the manicured grounds. I’ve counted the leaded glass panes in the windows. I’ve sketched the bell tower’s spire in my mind three times over with all its intricate detail.
When I don’t move, his head cocks. “You sure you don’t want me to get that door for you?”
“I’m sure.” I nod.
“It’s part of the gig.” He shrugs. “Plus, I’d be happy to do it.”
I grab the door handle, taking the not-so-subtle hint to get out of the car. “I’ve got it.”
The cool morning air seeps into the cocoon I’m hesitant to leave. It skates up my tights and ruffles the end of the A-line blazer dress I’ve chosen for the occasion. Its color matches my mood. Dark as night. The temperature outside matches my heart. Nearly frozen.
“I’ll pick you up in one hour.”
I don’t bother responding more than to gently close the door behind me. The car pulls away before I take a step. Can’t blame him. My feet refuse to move toward the arched doorway. I draw a deep breath into my lungs and relish the cold burn.
My clutch vibrates.
Since I’m stalling anyway, I fish out my phone. I know who it is. I knew before the call came through. Guilt is a heavy weight to bear.
“Hi, Nat,” I answer.
“Hay Bale, I just want you to know I love you more than the sun and the moon and the best photographers and the best designers combined.”
“I know you do.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be there with you.” Her sigh is long and labored. The seconds stretch in silence. “You know how I get at funerals,” she adds.
I know how she got at the last funeral she went to more than fifteen years ago. I know she hasn't been to one since. I know she didn’t have to fly to Paris for work this week. I also know she’s doing the best she can for me and herself.
“When I get back, let’s have a girls’ day. We’ll do brunch and go to Aire for the rest of the afternoon. Massages. Facials. Followed by a nice soak. Then we can go to the shelter and serve dinner.”
A taxi pulls up behind me. I step out of the walkway and turn toward the gently sloping hill. I doubt the occupant will be headed this way. The cemetery gobbles a vast swath of The Bronx. Hundreds visit it every day. Some to spend time with lost loved ones, but most use it like a museum. A fun thing to fill half a day. I wish I was one of them.
“The Veterans Residence,” I remind. “And you hate going to Long Island.”
“Yes, I do,” she agrees. “Still, I’ll go with you.”
Will I even want to go now? Matt won’t be there.
My eyesight blurs, turning the trees, sky, and grass into a watercolor painting.
“I also made a small donation to The Veterans Residence in Matthew’s name.”
My heart squeezes. “Nat.” I flutter my lashes wildly.
“It’s okay. It will be, at least. Talk to you later, my love.”
“Bye, Nat. Safe travels.” I put away my phone and dab the corners of my eyes.
When I turn around and face The Woolworth Chapel once more, Astor stands opposite me at the end of the walkway. Her proud shoulders are covered in a black sweater dress that hugs her slim body and flares at the chunky ankle booties that lend her at least five inches she doesn’t need, but loves. She looks at me through thick lashes. Her dark lips pull into a sad smile.
Surprisingly, my pink ones mirror the gesture.
We don’t speak. Just stand for a while and let the leaves fall around us. Finally, I nod. She eases to the path leading to the chapel and holds out her hand. I walk forward and curl my cold fingers around hers. Porcelain white skin against stunning ebony. She squeezes mine tight and leads me to the door.
“Thank you,” I whisper, feeling a little stronger in her powerful presence.
“Don’t thank me yet.” Her already strong cheekbones are accentuated by the purse of her lips. “You know where we have to go after this.” She whips her head in my direction, and the tight curls of her hair bounce in a halo around her face. Her dark skin is effervescent with a hint of copper eye shadow and blush.
An unexpected warmth settles into the center of my chest. “I do.”
“There’s no getting out of it.” She narrows her nearly onyx irises at me. “He knows we’re in the borough.”
“Because you told him.” I open the door without pause. If I stop now, I’ll never make it inside. Not without Astor dragging me.
Our footsteps echo off the marble floor and high ceiling. Rows of ornate pews sit empty, save for one. The pastor is canted forward, praying, I think. I recognize the blond lob draping just over her shoulder, her signature white collar peeking through, and her black ankle-length cassock from the video chat we had during the middle of the week to plan the service.
Her head jerks up and swings around. A bright smile lights her bubbly face. For a second, all I can wonder is how God scored a true-blue cheerleader for his team.
“Since when did they start making Pastor Barbie,” Astor whispers. “My God! No offense big guy, but damn good job.” She drops my hand and smooths it down her perfectly primped dress, then shifts her Coach purse to her left forearm. “If pastors looked like that when I was little, maybe I’d still go to church.”
“Shush.” I guess I hadn’t registered it on our call. I hadn’t registered a lot this week, and I feel bad for my patients. Still, not as bad as I feel for all my appointments today or, better yet, the lack thereof.
Thoughts of my last interaction with Mr. Judge fill my head. Ignoring his trauma. Crying in front of him. He’s my newest patient. He needs my undivided attention the most. Now, I’m canceling on him.
“You’re quite punctual.” Pastor Pam, cheerleader for God, Barbie of the church stands and hurries over to Astor and me with her petite hand extended.
“I’m obnoxiously early, and you’re kind.” We shake hands, and she introduces herself to Astor.
“It’s one of the things I love about you,” my therapist admits. “I’m never left waiting.”
“It’s a wonderful trait.” Pam beams like a tiny sunshine. I have a sudden urge to flash her my tatted body to bring her down a notch. “The cemetery’s liaison should be here any minute to help set up. We’ll be right on time to start at ten. I’ll just go meet him out front. Please, make yourselves comfortable.”
She takes the beaming rays with her as she goes, and the room cools several degrees.
“For fuck’s sake, we’re at a service for a man who died by suicide. Why does she have to smile like Miss America?” I stomp to the pew two from the front on the left and sit in a huff.
“My professional opinion?” Astor sits in the front row and leaves me room to sit next to her, front and center. “Repressed emotions.” She hooks an elbow on the back of the pew and turns toward me. “Good to see you’re not repressing.”
“Nope.” I roll my eyes and cross my arms like a petulant child.
“So how was your session at Crave last week?”
I purse my lips. “This is hardly the time or place to talk about that.”
Yet my skin tingles with the memory of the strap around my hips and a thick cock in my pussy. My panties heat ten degrees, and my nipples pucker against the heavy fabric of my dress.
Definitely inappropriate.
She shrugs noncommittally. “Fine, tell me why Matt’s service is here at Woodlawn and not on Hart Island.”
Welp, there go the happy thoughts. No tingles now.
My fingers toy with the seam of my dress. I bite my lips together and stare at Astor.
“I know he doesn’t have any family, and he couldn't have afforded this.” She gestures to the opulent space with its columns and gold-arched sanctuary. “You weren’t charging him.”
If I had, he wouldn’t have darkened my office’s doorway.
“You don’t charge me,” I remind her.
“That’s different. He was living at that shelter on good days and was on the streets during the rest.”
Because he refused to live in one of my rental properties.
“He didn’t trust people.” I shrug.
Not even me. Not after what I did. Or, better yet, what I didn’t do.
“He wasn’t taking his medication. He couldn’t even afford them after his discharge.”
Because I couldn’t help him.
I jump to my feet and grab the pew in front of me for balance and to have something to strangle.
“He should have a family who supported him. He should have a government that honored his service and sacrifice and acknowledged his disorder instead of punishing him for it. He should have taps played at his funeral and a flag given to his wife. He should have a tombstone next to soldiers where every Memorial Day volunteers shove tiny flags into the ground in front of it.”
My hands shake with rage. The thought of him being dumped into a mass grave broke my fucking dead heart.
“He couldn’t have any of those things.” I wipe at the tears slipping down my nose. “He can have a measly scrap of grass and dirt of his own and a headstone that tells anyone who cares to look what a great man Matthew Banett was in his short time on this earth. It’s the least I can do.”
“Nothing you gave him was your least, Hailey.” She produces a tissue from her purse and extends it to me.
I plop down next to her, snatch it, and dab my face. Through gritted teeth, I grind, “I couldn’t save him.” The words stab me in the belly over and over again.
More tears come, soaking the thin tissue. Astor’s hand soothes a trail over my back. “That was never your job.” I nod in bitterness. “Your job was to try. No one tried harder than you. No one gave more than you.”
My skin crawls, and I’d like nothing more than to unzip it and peel it off. To run screaming through the cemetery as a bloody skeleton. How freeing.
This feeling, right here. This is why I avoid attachment at all costs.
Astor pulls me to her bosom and wraps her arms around me. She rocks me as though I’m a baby for what seems like forever. It’s contradictory to my nonattachment policy. This comfort. I know I can be made to pay for it tenfold in the future. I have paid before. The price was high enough to ruin me.
I allow her comfort because I can’t strip my skin. As contradictory as it is, her reassurance dampers the itch.
A loud noise funnels in from the door, and I straighten. My friend grabs my hand, stuffs another tissue in it, and pats it between hers. “If this is your care and compassion when your heart is heavily fortified, I feel nothing but awe and adoration for the person who breaks through your defenses and earns your love.”
“I feel sorry for them.” I laugh without humor and blot my face.
“Why?”
“They’d be loved by a basket case masquerading as a regular woman.”
Astor snatches my snotty, tear-soaked tissues and stuffs them back inside her bag. “Ordinary?” She sneers. “Who wants that when they could have you?”
“Most people.”
We’re saved from our conversation by a bustle at a door close to the altar. The charcoal-gray casket I chose for Matt is wheeled inside. All the air leaves my lungs. Matt is inside there. Dead. Never coming back. I bite my cheek to keep the tears at bay. My damned lip quivers.
Two men in suits escort him to the center of the aisle, just ten feet away. They use their feet to lock the wheels into place, hidden behind heavy fabric skirting the casket. The men go, but I’m stuck in place like the wheels. My eyes are locked on the bare, cold box of death. The men return and obstruct my view for a moment.
“Jeez, Hailey. Did you take out a loan on those flowers?” Astor’s voice overflows with bewilderment.
I have to shake myself and blink several times before her words register.
A massive spray of lilies and white roses covers Matt’s death box while matching stands of arrangements bracket each side. A peace lily plant, much smaller than the rest, sits on the floor between them.
“They had to come with the package. I didn’t pick any flowers.” I like flowers, just not funeral flowers. I couldn’t bring myself to choose any.
“No, doll. Those things probably cost as much as the casket. You’d know about them.”
I look at her as though she’s grown another head. Then I remember two years ago when her uncle died of a sudden heart attack. So many people at the service had to pay extra to keep the doors open two and a half hours longer than planned, allowing well-wishers and mourners their time. The place had been overrun with flowers and donations to the American Heart Association. But for the casket flowers, her dad had to keep the diner open for two months of Sundays to pay for the damn things.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. I don’t care if I paid for them. I don’t care about much right now. I can’t do much except stare at the void in front of me.
Time passes. I don’t know how much.
Pastor Pam, cheerleader for God, Barbie of the church, clears her throat. She looks at her watch, then looks at the arched doors we entered through. “It’s time.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes this time. “We can wait a few more minutes. Traffic can be terrible on eighty-seven.”
I look at my watch. It’s ten on the dot. “Let’s get started.” I don’t say no one else is coming. I don’t have to.
The pastor nods and moves to the lectern beside the casket. A bit of her glow has dimmed. I thought that’s what I wanted. Now that it’s here, it feels cumbersome, like the onset of seasonal depression. No fucking fun.
“Maybe give it two more minutes?” Astor sits straighter and interlocks her fingers in her lap. It’s a signature, I’m professional, I’m unflappable, I have my shit together maneuver. Even when we don’t and aren’t.
My eyebrow crooks at her beautiful face.
“Sure.” Cheerleader for God, Barbie of the church preens with false hope.
I roll my tongue against the roof of my mouth.
Why delay the inevitable?
Five minutes come and go. Now, Pouty Pam looks at Astor, and my friend nods for her to continue. The celebration of life passes as Matt’s life did, a blur of disappointment punctuated by misplaced hope.
She closes her Bible, scoops it to her chest, and comes to the front of the casket. “You may take your time saying goodbye. I’ll meet you in the vestibule and escort you out.”
“Thank you,” Astor offers.
When she’s gone, I look at my therapist and friend. “You can go first or just go wait with Pastor Barbie. I’ll be out soon.”
Astor grabs my hand, kisses it, and stands. She walks with her head high toward Matt’s death box. When she reaches it, her head bows for a while. She’s a good girl who attends church with her dad on major holidays and still knows how to send up a prayer.
I know how to send out a big fuck you.
After she goes, I hoist myself off the pew and totter to Matt’s side. I let out a long breath that ends with a hiss.
“I’m pissed at you. I’m pissed at me too. So we’re even, I guess.” I give him a nod and retreat. My back grows colder the farther I get from him.
Outside, Astor handles the cordiality, stuffs me into the Town Car, and directs the driver to Crouther Brother’s Diner. We’re there in a flash. An obscure and muddled one. I’m directed out of the car, into the restaurant, and deposited into a booth. The black leather cushion and hard mahogany back ground me. They are familiar and welcome.
The smell of barbecue pork omelets, hash browns, and sweet biscuits shutters a weak heartbeat through my soul. The unforgettable laughter of Michael Crouther pulls me back from the edge.
He waves goodbye to a regular and heads in my direction. I don’t know where Astor has run off to, but her father is a man on a mission. He sets a steaming cup of coffee and a plate with one hot biscuit in front of me and sits on the other side of the booth.
“There aren’t many problems that a good cup of coffee and a sweet biscuit can’t help.” He shrugs his newly muscled shoulders. “Unless, of course, it’s my cholesterol.”
Just like that, he’s forced a smile onto my face. A small one, but one nonetheless.
“You’re a good man, Mr. Crouther. I won’t let Astor tell me any different.” I hug the mug between my hands.
“I’m sorry to hear about Matt.” He puts his hands in a lazy prayer position and pops his thumbs together repeatedly. “Even sorrier I couldn’t be there.”
“You have your hands full.” I stare at his amber eyes. “How’s your new kitchen manager working out?”
“Crazier than a cat in a bathtub, but somehow we’re both still alive.”
“Pops,” Astor scolds as she slips her phone back into her purse and glares daggers at her father.
“What?” His thick brows wrinkle his forehead and then drop. “Oh, right. I’m sorry, Astor. I’m guessing you want to sit with your friend.”
“No apology needed.” I offer him a wink.
“You see that?” He grins at his daughter. “She winked at me.” His thick bicep is propped on the back of the booth and flexes. “I haven’t lost my touch.”
“I wish you would.” She snorts and waves him up.
He pats the table. “It’s on the house today, no arguments.” Michael’s big finger points at me, and I keep my mouth dutifully closed. “Good.” His arms wrap around his daughter and pull her into a sweet embrace. He kisses her forehead and helps her into the booth. “Tell me bye before you go.”
“Yes, Pops.” She watches him walk away, and I’m jealous. Her dad has always been good looking. Now that he’s taken charge of his health and fitness, the man is fine. But it’s his heart and presence and their relationship I envy.
My throat thickens, and I burn it with a gulp of coffee.
“Everything okay?” I gesture to her purse.
Astor nods and pulls it into her lap. “Holly told me Wednesday that she was coming to the service. I called to check on her.” She pulls three envelopes from her bag. Two large and one small. “The person who was going to cover her shift called out sick, putting her on for twenty hours straight.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah. She sent the plant since she couldn’t make it.” Astor slides the cards across the table to me. “The director handed me these when we were leaving.”
I guzzle half the coffee, wishing it were wine, and grab the little one. Matthew’s name is printed on the outside with ink that looks like it was derived from the tears of a ghost. It’s barely visible. I flip open the end and pull out a tiny piece of paper. Printed on it is a standard thoughts-and-prayers condolence with a dash and then Holly’s full name. As though the whole thing was generated from a data entry computer program. It probably was.
“Here.” I shove it back to Astor. She’s closer to Holly than I am, and I know she’ll appreciate it.
The second is a sorry for your loss, thanks for all your money standard card from the cemetery. It’s stamped with a name I can’t decipher. I down the rest of my coffee and contemplate throwing the last card in the trash on the way out, along with the rest.
I can’t stand the empty notions.
“Open it,” Astor urges, as though she can read my mind. When really, it’s my body language giving me away.
“You can if you want.” I slide her the large open card, the other one, and head to the counter for a refill. They’re bustling this morning, now that I actually open my eyes and look around. And I can’t blame them for how fast I shotgunned my drink.
“Here you go, hun.” Bernadette signals me over with a wave of her thick fingers.
I shuffle down the bar and extend my mug to her. She fills it to the brim, knowing I won’t destroy it with sugar or creamer.
“Thank you, B.”
She nods and carries on with three tasks at once.
When my ass hits the booth, Astor stares wide-eyed at the third card with her hand over her mouth.
“What’s wrong?”
Her gaze flits to me, then darts back to the card, and back at me.
“What?” I snatch the thick paper from her hand. “For fuck’s sake. I can’t take any more surprises right now.”
In an instant, I think every horrible thought.
Matt has a long-lost kid.
Matt is wanted in five states for murder.
Matt’s family is suing me for paying for his funeral.
Unlike the other two notes, this one is handwritten. Its ink is dark and rich. The letters slice across the page in a perfectly straight line one row after another in perfect form.
“A donation to The Veterans Residence of Long Island for one million dollars has been made in the name of Matthew Banett.” My voice kind of peters out at the word dollars. My eyes go full fuzzy. The remaining words don’t compute. Hell, the ones I read aloud don’t either.
“Oh my God! Hailey, you didn’t?—”
“Of course, I didn’t.” My mouth hangs open, then snaps closed. It opens again. “If I had a million bucks lying around, I’d pay off the mortgage on my office. No offense to Matt.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t take any offense.”
I shrug one shoulder and blink at the card, reading the words again. Donation. In the name of Matthew. One million dollars.
“Who, then?”
Again, I shrug. There’s no one. Matt had no one except me. And that was limited. Then I remember an earlier conversation.
I’m diving for my clutch and digging out my phone. I hit the number for my last call. It rings and rings.
“Hailey?” My aunt’s voice is small and scared. She’s afraid I’m going to trauma dump on her.
“You said you made a small donation to The Veterans Residence in Matt's name.”
“Yes,” she answers, though it wasn’t a question. Confusion thickens her voice.
“This is going to sound rude, but for how much exactly?”
My aunt lives on the famous eighteenth floor of The Sherry Netherland. It’s a hotel with an exclusive number of apartments on the upper floors. Her place has a wraparound balcony overlooking Central Park and more square footage than she knows what to do with. I live in my aunt’s old apartment in the same building on the twenty-fifth floor with a nice view of the park that she signed over to me years ago. She has more designer clothes and shoes than Nordstrom. She has money but not a million to throw around. At least, I don’t think so.
“A thousand dollars, Hay.”
That’s in the vicinity of what I thought my aunt would so wrongly claim is a small donation. It’s nothing of the sort. It’s also nothing close to one million dollars.
“Do you have a receipt you can look at?”
“Hay Bale, what’s going on?”
“Please? It’s important.”
“Hold on a minute. I’m pretty sure I can pull it up on my phone.” There’s a bunch of rustling on the line.
“Thanks,” I offer, even though I doubt she heard it.
Astor gestures wildly, but I hold up my palm to her. My heart beats so fast that I might pass out. If Nat accidentally donated a million, I will for certain. There’s more rustling. Astor thieves my sweet biscuit, takes a hunk out of it, then offers me the other side. I contemplate it but don’t want to choke to death if I gasp.
“It says one thousand very clearly, Hailey. What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry to be annoying, but can you read each digit to me.”
“One. Comma. Zero. Zero. Zero. What’s going on?”
“I’ll call you back. Promise. Bye.” I hang up and search for Daniel’s number. It’s been a couple of weeks since I called him when I had Matt transferred from his facility into a suicide watch. He is the director of the residence and has been a huge help to Matt through the years. His pushback on the board is the only reason Matt was able to live there as a dishonorably discharged soldier.
I find it and dial.
It rings. And rings. And rings. Then call waiting picks up. It tells me how important my call is, but I don’t believe it.
Astor has chowed half of my sweet biscuit, and I can’t blame her. The suspense is killing me too.
“The Veterans Residence of Long Island. This is Daniel. How can I help you?” His usual gruffness is absent. He’s downright chipper. Something I’ve never heard from the harried veteran.
“Daniel, this is Hailey Fitzpatrick.”
“You’re on my list of people to call. High on it too, but things have been absolutely mental around here. I didn’t want to call today with the service and all. I’m sorry I couldn't be there.”
“You’re where you’ll do the most good,” I interject.
He blows past my compliment. “I cannot thank you enough.”
“Thank me for what, exactly?”
“Your donation. It’s going to change so much around here. It’ll allow us to buy washers and dryers and do our laundry in-house. We’ll save a ton of money. It’ll give the residents a skill and a way to earn money. The board is talking about getting new computers. We have dinosaurs here. Two-thousand-era desktops. The kitchens could use new stoves.”
The more he gushes, the higher Astor’s eyebrows get. I know she can hear him rattling on and on about the benefits of my donation.
“Daniel?” I cut him off mid-celebration about possibly buying a small building next to the facility and adding on.
“Yes?”
I hate to burst his hot air balloon, but it has to be done.
“You said my donation, but I didn’t donate. My aunt gave one in Matt’s name for one thousand dollars.”
“Yes, I didn’t mean to minimize your aunt’s giving. We appreciate that too. So much. It will feed our guys for several days and ease the tightness in the budget.”
“I think you missed the part where I said I didn’t donate.”
“Um…” He draws a deep breath. “Let me look again to quadruple check, but I think you’re wrong.”
And I think I’d know if I volunteered one million of my dollars that I don’t have.
“It’s right here. A donation to The Veterans Residence of Long Island for one million dollars has been made in the name of Matthew Banett.” He positively squeals the dollar amount. “The name of the donor is input as Dr. Hailey Fitzpatrick.”
“I…I don’t know how that’s possible, Daniel. I don’t have a million dollars to my name. I certainly can’t give away what I don’t have.”
“I…Uh…I don’t know what to tell you. The funds were already transferred into the general account for TVR.” He clears his throat and rustles some papers. “The donation was made online like most. I suppose the donor can input anyone’s name in the box for the donor.”
The note is still clutched in my hand. There’s more to it. I hadn’t paid much attention earlier. The dollar amount threw me for a loop.
“Thanks, Daniel, and congratulations.”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t help Matt more.”
“Me too.” I hang up and drop my phone onto the table with a kathunk .
Then I read the card again. I read every word aloud, so I don’t miss a thing.
A donation to The Veterans Residence of Long Island for one million dollars has been made in the name of Matthew Banett.
I swallow and continue.
The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart. - Helen Keller