14. Just A Mother
Just A Mother
My black shoes scrape across the carpet of Bell Funeral Home as we wait in line so Mom can sign our names in the mourner’s booklet.
The gaggle of sniffling people and murmured conversations adds to my growing anxiety as I smooth out my dress.
My eyes dart around the sea of black, looking for Gideon, hoping the concealer I blotted under my eyes to hide the puffy dark circles there is working.
My muscles are still worn and sore for how hard I trembled as I walked through the woods last night.
I don’t even know how long I sat there in our grove, listening to the trinkets we hung off the branches of the large tree dance in the wind.
Telling myself I was being silly, a big baby when I flinched over every rustle of a bush. I’d felt him… Gideon.
At least I thought so.
I could’ve sworn sometime before dawn I’d smelled fresh linen on the wind.
Perhaps it was wishful thinking.
He never came out.
I sat there quietly, Krissy hugged tightly in my arms all night.
Alone.
At least mostly.
People handle grief in all sorts of ways.
Most just need time, Dad had reassured me when he caught me sneaking back into the house, just as the sun’s rays bled through the sheer curtains in the living room.
He’d sipped his coffee, looking at me over the newspaper, watched the tears streaming down my constantly raw cheeks and snotty nose before sending me up to my room to get some rest before the funeral.
I didn’t rest.
I didn’t eat as I took my seat by the window and watched the house across the street come to life.
Watched the lights come on in the viewing room, trying my best not to let my thoughts wander to the still, pale, nude body of Gideon’s mom.
How different she looked compared to Uncle Rodney, even though they’d both taken their lives in the same way.
How it’d taken me months to stop seeing his body every time I closed my eyes.
A year and a half to stop waking up in the middle of the night to crawl into Mom and Dad’s bed.
Will Mrs. Bell be the same? Their bed hardly seemed like a comforting place anymore without either of them in it.
In that moment, with misery and exhaustion weighing me down, I’d wanted nothing more than to run across the street and crawl into Gideon’s bed until it was time to go downstairs.
I never fall asleep as fast as I do when I’m curled against him, sucking up all his warmth.
His fingers playing with my blonde curls.
My lip wobbles for all the wrong reasons, and I can’t shake the feeling that something has changed.
That everything has changed. That I’m being selfish and horrible about the whole thing. That I can’t stop.
We file into the service room, and I swear my heart shudders when I see him. Gideon’s harsh eyes are already locked on me, his face blank, maybe even colder than usual as he watches me enter.
I have to dig my teeth into my inner cheeks to stop from smiling at the sight of him. It wouldn’t have been a happy smile, just maybe a relieved one. It’s inappropriate either way.
My feet get the best of me. I’m not three steps down the aisle, heading straight for him between the pews, before Dad’s rough hand snags my forearm, tugging me back into the line so we can take our seats. “There will be time later, Audrey. Take a seat.”
But will there? I don’t believe him.
I smooth out my dress again as I sit, my heart hammering away, my eyes never leaving Gideon nor his mine.
I’d been so caught up in him, worried about him, that I’d entirely blocked out the fact that mere inches from my best friend, the face of his mother rested, looking peaceful in her casket.
Her long black hair falling in ringlets around her shoulders.
She’s never looked more like my Krissy doll than she does right now.
It’s my first time seeing Gideon's work.
She’s beautiful, in a haunting, scary kind of way. Prettier and happier than she was in life. Something about that doesn’t feel right.
My eyes flick away from his mother to find him scrutinizing me so feverishly that he doesn’t register the Johnsons as they try to give their condolences.
Utterly ignoring the older couple whose tailoring shop has become something of our second headquarters when the grove is too wet and our homes are unwelcoming.
Mrs. Johnson always brings baked goods from home, and her chocolate chip cookies are Gideon’s favorite.
Mine too. The Johnsons are nice, nice to him.
They don’t seem to rush him out the door like other people in town do.
His father’s face leans in close to his, whispering something in his ear that seems to shake Gideon’s attention to the older couple at last. I can’t help but let out a relieved breath as the awkward encounter ends with Gideon being pulled into a stiff hug.
My lips part as my best friend’s eyes screw shut, his brows furrowing like he does when he’s focusing really hard on something.
When they start to pull away, those ocean eyes pop open, and they’re… wet.
Gideon is crying?
As if summoned by the worry in my own eyes, his flash toward me again. Cold.
Unfeeling.
Angry.
But the water remains.
Goosebumps dot my flesh as I watch him turn into someone I don’t recognize, sad, stoic, even a little weepy but holding it together. It’s like watching a play, but this isn’t a play.
It’s a funeral.
And his mother is dead.
Mrs. Johnson sees his watery eyes too, cooing something softly to him before patting his cheek.
Gideon hates it when people touch his face.
He nods his thanks, his eyes back on me the second they walk away.
Cold and intense, the water coming and going.
It all looks so… real. Suddenly, the water gulped down on the way out of the door feels like cement in my empty stomach.
I don’t lift my eyes from my own palms again until the pastor starts the sermon, and I spend it staring at the back of his head.
Gideon, Eighteen Years Old, 1984
Cheyenne Dean, a girl I graduated early with, wraps her arms tightly around me, sniffling into the coat of my suit.
She smells like marshmallows, and for the life of me, I can’t feel anything but annoyed by her tears.
Those buzzing hornets are back, making my thoughts muddy as her fluffy brown hair blocks out my view of Audrey.
I debate for a moment how much everyone would freak out if I shoved her right now, Cheyenne’s head smacking into the nearest gravestone.
If I followed her down, straddling her frame and kept on fucking bashing it until her brain went goopy inside her skull.
Would that make Audrey cry?
Probably.
She’d be fine, though.
When Cheyenne realizes I’m not going to respond to any of her condolences she huffs, sniffling before stalking back to her mother.
Her grandpa was one of the last people my mom helped direct a funeral for.
I suppose they felt obligated to come. My eyes are already on my girl again.
She looks fucking beautiful in her long-sleeved black dress, those opaque tights hugging pale thighs that’ll be tan again by summer.
The sun is beating down on her blonde curls, ones I modeled Mom’s hair after, making them shine like a halo around her head.
I modeled all of Mom's postmortem makeup from hers, really. It’s not how it's supposed to be done. I think it upset Dad, but I couldn’t stop thinking about my best friend.
Audrey’s eyes are puffier than usual, the green standing out even more thanks to how red they are. Big and sad.
But right now, there’s something else too.
Apprehension?
Anger?
Her eyes cut to Cheyenne glaring at her back like she wants to hurt her just as badly as I do.
Jealous.
My girl is jealous.
Fucking goofball.
She finally returns her attention to me, where it belongs. Something terrible lances at my chest as she takes a step forward, her dad stopping her again.
My vision goes a little fuzzy and before I decide to, I’m fucking this up again.
Fucking up my chance to show Dad we don’t have to leave.
That he can stop this all now before it’s too late.
Before the next blink, I’m in front of her, jerking her arm from her father’s grasp.
Her little gasp is barely audible as he starts talking.
“Hey son, why don’t you head back to your father? You two can catch up after—"
“Oh, let them be, Manard. Jesus Christ,” Audrey’s mom hisses, her words already slurring slightly.
I don’t look over the shoulder at my own father, knowing what I’ll see there and choosing to ignore it as I tug her down the wooded path deeper into the graveyard.
“Gideon, what are you doing? We can’t just leave!”
“Can’t we?” I quip, not turning around to face her, not feeling like I can.
The buzzing is getting louder. I shouldn’t be around her right now, around anyone.
But what if this is my last chance?
What if—
I halt as she wrenches her arm from my grasp. “Gideon, stop!” she hisses, curls bouncing as she crosses her arms, keeping me from tugging her hands back out so I can hold them.
I see red.
My hand slaps over her mouth as she squeals.
The heat from her little body barreling into me as I haul her into my arms, ignoring the way she’s fighting me.
Every struggle triggers something deeper in me, something not right.
I want to let Audrey down. I want her to run from me.
I want to see the horrified look on her face when I chase her down, slamming her face into the dirt.
She’d be so offended at first, so angry as I jerked up the hem of her little black dress. She’d whimper as I ripped her tights—
She curses at me, her mouth still muffled under my palm as I veer off the path, dragging her shiny black shoes in the dirt.
I’m going to lose her.
I’m going to lose Audrey.
My mind is veering between buzzing and blank swarming thoughts and none at all.