41. Forever & Always
Forever I’m sure of it. Sure that if there was, I wouldn’t be deserving of it anyway.
“You grew up here watching them. Of course you know what to do. We’ll have some of the guys come along for the heavy lifting.”
With that, he leaves me, reeling, panic gripping my chest. Scrambling to think of a way to fix this, to continue this…
I don’t even know how to operate the casket lift.
I take a long time, too long to have been anything but impolite before I leave the room, hoping against hope it’s not obvious I’ve been sobbing.
Grateful Pastor Lemmings is notoriously long-winded, but I see it—the questioning disapproval in their eyes.
Jirani is no longer eager to hold my hand nor seek my comfort, and I can’t blame her.
I’m on autopilot, trembling and jerky as I reenter the viewing room.
The rest of the day passes in a quiet, looming kind of anxiety, the kind that slowly strangles every logical thinking section of your brain until nothing is left but a pungent desperation.
By the time I’m bursting into the empty foyer of Bell Funeral Home, my own movements are listless, and it’s not me.
Gideon is gone.
Lost.
Again.
I can feel the rain.
I’m alone.
Suddenly, I’m up the stairs, my fingers digging into the well-tailored suits in his closet, bringing them to my nose, inhaling him before moving on to a lighter garment, the dress he made for me.
A wicked-sounding sob leaves my throat as I strip out of my funeral dress, the hearse haphazardly parked, blocking the circular drive.
My knees threaten to give out, and I don’t fight it, letting myself fall heavily onto the rug.
“I’m just getting dressed, Gideon. I’ll be right out,” I call to an empty house. Empty everything.
Empty me, but the words are equal parts comforting and bizarre, so I keep talking as I work my pantyhose down my legs, a little sob leaving my throat. “I want my dad.”
The silk of my Krissy dress is soft on my skin; of course Gideon wouldn’t let it be itchy. He loves me too much to let me be itchy, to let me feel this scared and alone. “Gideon will fix it,” I assure Krissy. “He’s our best friend. We’re going to get married.”
I keep talking to Mr. and Mrs. Bell too, to Dad and Uncle Rodney.
To Gideon, to Jackson and the ghosts. The women who died because of me, Jess and Bryan.
I tell them how sorry I am that I couldn’t help Gideon Bell, that I won’t do the right thing.
I tell Dad I’m sorry for disappointing him, beg him not to be mad at me for crying.
My shaky fingers fumble with the high-neck buttons in the back, giving up quickly, unable to clasp the ties around the last few as I tug my Krissy doll off the bed and wander downstairs to wait for Gideon.
“I’m so sorry.” I sniffle. “I’m so sorry.”
Gideon, Present Day, 1994
“Name?” Brady Harrington asks, fumbling with the intake sheet.
I went to school with him, so he knows my name.
He knows why I’m here; they all do. I’d take pleasure in it to some degree, watching as they whisper and stare in their tiny holding room while I’m booked in, if my chest didn’t feel like it was being screwed through with a fist.
“Gideon Jason Bell,” I answer simply, rolling my shoulders. They’re aching from being cuffed behind my back. I roll them again, ignoring the way the officer at my side tenses, as if I’m some monster of biblical proportions. Not just a man who developed an unhealthy coping mechanism.
“Address.”
It’s already written on the page in front of him. Both of them are, but I play along. “17500 West Spring Lake Road, Swindon, Michigan. Shall I tell you the zip code as well?”
He clears his throat. “I’ve got it. And the other?”
“Other what?” I know what.
“Address.”
Again, it’s on the page. “214 North 23rd Avenue, Piedmont, Washington, 98626.”
“Occupation?”
I smirk, letting my eyes roll up, catching the eye of Detective Altman as he heads down the back hall of the small station, flocked by the few police Swindon has left to spare, following in his coattails like infants suckling at their mother.
“Medical Examiner… Funeral Director, boogeyman.” I whisper the last one for dramatic effect.
It works, the pen in his hand dropping to the desk with a clink.
More than half disgusted and annoyed that it affected him at all. This is Swindon’s finest?
“Date of birth.”
I prattle off the numbers, my thoughts elsewhere.
“Emergency contact?”
“Aubrey Fisher.”
“Pick someone else,” a voice warns from the back of the station. I don’t bother turning to look at Officer Braylon or encourage his outburst. “Pick someone else, you sick piece of shit!”
“Hey, head out! Take a breath, man!”