Page 28 of Quiet Obsession
“Maybe it can still be arranged?” Greta continues. “We could move the funeral to tomorrow and—”
“No,” I snap, “He’s going undertoday.”
Greta recoils as if I slapped her. “You can’t possibly think I’ll agree to bury my brother in a pine coffin. He was—”
“He was a modest man,” I seethe, the lie harder to push past my teeth than I expected. “So, I’m giving him a modest send-off. He’s dead, Greta. What difference does a fucking coffin make? How is cherry instead of pine going to help? It won’t bring him back, will it?”
Thankfuckfor small mercies.
Her lips part, then close, eyes welling with performative tears as she reaches across the table for my hand. Herfingers are as cold as her tiny black heart.
She leans in, the scent of her sickly-sweet perfume fanning my face. “I know this must be very hard for you. And I’m truly sorry for your loss, but—”
“There’s nobut. It’s done. The funeral’s in three hours. He’s ready and prepped and lying in the coffin I paid for.”
Her expression shifts to polite disdain. “Is it the money? I thought your father had savings!”
Plenty of savings. In fact, I’ve inherited much more than I thought I would, not that I’ll let Greta know. Turns out my father was a clever monster.
“It’s not money.” I stand, done with this conversation. “You can argue until you’re blue, but it won’t change anything. The funeral’s starting soon. I’m going to get ready.”
I don’t glance at Millie as I round the table. I don’t check her expression. I don’t look to see if she’s set the board for another match.
If I do, I won’t fucking leave.
8
Creed
The burial site is on the cemetery hill, the hole in the ground dug, the priest standing at its head, next to a simple gray stone engraved with Jeremiah’s name and the dates of his birth and death. No rank,Loving Father, orBeloved Husband. I’m many things, but a fucking liar isn’t one of them.
Greta’s closest, a big black hat obscuring half her face. She’s clutching a white handkerchief, wiping her dry eyes every few seconds, face still flushed with anger because, save for the two of us, my friends, and Miriam, no one came.
And it gives me the kind of sick satisfaction I’ve craved foryears.No one ever came for me. No one thought about digging deeper to uncover the real reasons behind the bruises, split lips, and black eyes I wore daily for almost a decade.
No onecared... and it gives me immense pleasure that no one came to say goodbye to Jeremiah. I didn’t announcehis death, but our neighbors watched his body being wheeled out, so it’s common knowledge.
I wouldn’t have shown up if it were an option, but I need to see his coffin go six feet under with my own two eyes.
The priest drones the same generic bullshit he repeats at every funeral. I gave him nothing to work with. Not one detail about Jeremiah, so he’s spewing the long-rehearsed lines he’s invented for all the Jane and John Does he’s buried over the years.
Hyde’s on my right, his long black coat billowing in the wind. Dash is on my left, and Noah’s two steps back with Millie, his coat draped over her shoulders. He gave it to her as we exited the car, and while my father’s corpse is being lowered, all I think about is tearing his coat off and wrapping her in mine.
I don’t understand why I’m annoyed, but Noah’s easy familiarity with Millie sets my teeth on edge. And if Hyde’s stiff shoulders are any indication, it annoys him, too.
Greta sniffles when the casket hits the bottom of the ditch. She throws a single snow-white rose onto the pine box before grabbing a handful of dirt to sprinkle the casket.
Miriam’s watching, waiting for me to move, but Idon’t. I stare at the ground, mind drifting through every hit I took over the years. Every insult, broken bone, and tear I ever shed.
I hate funerals. I was five when my mother died of cancer, but I still remember the day of her funeral like it was yesterday.
The crowd was considerably larger for her than it is for Jeremiah. Hundreds of people showed up. Hundreds of flowers were laid around her grave, piled so high I couldn’t see the ditch through my blurry eyes. I remember Dad’s hand squeezing my shoulder, fingers digging in hard, his stoic expression, not one emotion flickering across his face.
The wake was held at our house, dozens of people mourning, crying, all wearing black. I sat in front of the fireplace holding two toy cars, but I wasn’t playing. I didn’t play with anything after she died. I just sat there with the cars and listened to people talk about how gracious and lovely my mom was. How it was such a shame she died so young.
My father nodded along, nursing one drink after another, and once he’d closed the door behind the last guest, another door opened into a black hole that swallowed my childhood, my safety, and whatever was good inside me.
I went to bed that night with bruises all over my body.
