3. Wrinley
Wrinley
“ M ay the memory of Diana Jaymes bring comfort and peace, and may we find strength in the love and support of one another, knowing that their spirit lives on in our hearts.”
“Thank you, Pastor,” my dad says solemnly, shaking Pastor Keith’s hand as he finishes the funeral service.
We’re going home when we leave the cemetery, and everyone is going to come and pay their respects. Some have already expressed their shock and sadness for our loss, obviously, but of course we have to make a spectacle of our grief.
It’s been 6 days, 4 hours, 22 minutes and 37 seconds since we lost her. Not that I’m counting.
Arabella dislocated her shoulder and had a bump on her head, but is otherwise okay.
I ended up needing forty stitches up the side of my leg.
The doctors say it may be a while before I can dance again, not that I particularly care at the moment.
I also had a concussion and honestly, my head still isn’t right.
Mom was a good person–the best of us. I’ve spent the better part of the time since it happened, wondering why she had to die and why it wasn't me. The world was a better place with her in it and now I’m not sure what that means for the rest of us.
“Hey, Wrin.” Arabella places her hand softly on my shoulder, preventing my thoughts from spiraling further. “She’d think you did a beautiful job with the funeral.”
What an odd thing to say. I know she means well, because I did a lot of the planning for today to help dad out, but funeral and beautiful are not words I’d put together in the same sentence.
“Yeah, I guess she probably would.” I pull my best friend into a tight hug, as the tears threaten to escape. But like always, it’s no use and they fall anyway. Sometimes I wonder if tears are all I’ll ever see anymore.
“It’s a gorgeous day, too,” she says and I know she’s attempting to cheer me up, because that’s what my best friend does but I can’t bring myself to tell her it’s not possible for this day to be anything but somber and depressing. Instead, I give her a weak smile and pull myself together.
“It is a pretty day. Meet you at the house? Or do you need a ride?” If her mother was even remotely a responsible parent, I wouldn’t ask, but it’s really not a stretch that she’d drop her own daughter off at a funeral and then take off.
“I have a ride. Don’t worry about me.”
The house is a sea of black as I wander through the crowd, looking for my father.
My nerve endings are vibrating with the need to find a way to release all the rage and fear and anxiety coursing through me from the overstimulation of the past week.
People that I’ve never even met have offered their condolences like they ever gave a shit about my mother when she was living, let alone now that she’s gone.
I give a shit.
I miss her more with every breath.
I think the only thing we ever fought about was how strict she was when it came to safety.
Rules upon rules, strictly enforced, meant to keep me close and safe.
Turns out there’s no such thing as safety, because it didn’t end up safe for her.
Dad was always trying to get her to loosen up the reins a little, but with me being an only child, my safety was non-negotiable.
I’d be willing to bet Dad changes his tune now.
There’s another river of tears, resting–waiting–just behind my eyes. Waiting for the right moment to attack and be set free. I’ll let them out, eventually. For now, they have to wait.
As I approach my parent’s–dad’s–bedroom, I hear someone talking. It sounds like my dad, but I’m not sure who he’s talking to. The door is cracked, meaning I can peek in, if I can get closer without him knowing I’m here. These floors have given me away more than once in my life.
Thankfully, they stay silent for a change.
I didn’t think it was possible for my heart to break any more than it already has, but seeing my father, holding my mother’s pillow in a tight embrace and talking to her like she’s still here… shatters it into tiny pieces.
“How am I supposed to do this without you?” He asks, with desperation in his voice and tears falling rapidly down his cheeks. “I can’t raise our daughter alone. Oh god, what am I going to do?”
Walking into the room, I make a conscious effort to shove my own tears into a tiny box in my mind, locking them in place, to spare my father any more torment than he’s already suffering.
“Dad?” I whisper, trying not to scare him.
He turns to face me. His bloodshot eyes and the dark circles that surround them tell me he’s been sitting here–doing this–for a while.
I want to tell him everything will be okay.
That we’ll get through this together.
But the truth is, I don’t know anything for certain–not anymore.
“Wrinley, my beautiful girl.” He pulls me closer into him, holding me tight. His breathing is ragged and heavy, like he’s trying to stop himself from crying, but it’s obviously not working. “I’m okay. I’ll be okay. Don’t you worry.”
Mom ran this household so effortlessly and smoothly. Neither of us had to worry about anything. She was a natural caretaker. So, whether he wants me to worry about him or not, the fact is, I do worry.
I can’t stand the thought of him so sad.
The decision to be brave for him–to be strong for him–comes easy if it helps to ease even a little bit of his pain, even if it means I have to ignore my own.
The floor in the hallway creaks, drawing my attention from my grief stricken father, but no one is there. I’m so ready to have all these people out of the house.
We asked everyone to use the downstairs bathroom because Dad has refused to clean her makeup from the counter, wanting to leave it just as she did.
Like she’s coming back for it.
It shouldn’t surprise me that they didn’t listen.
I should have blocked off the stairs because no one here really loved her. Not like she deserved.
“I’m not worried, Dad,” I reassure him with a certainty in my tone that my heart doesn't match. “We’re going to be just fine.”