Page 13 of From the Embers
A preacher who had never met her spoke about celebrating her life and honoring her memory.
Bree attempted to tell the story of how they met, but she broke down about halfway through and had to be ushered back to her seat.
I played the Rolling Stone’s “Wild Horses” on the guitar. There were supposed to be lyrics, but it was all I could do to find the right chords.
Through it all, Evelyn stood in the corner, bouncing my fussy daughter, who would never remember her mother.
I hugged people I didn’t know.
Caught up with old friends I hadn’t seen in years.
Consoled family members she’d hated.
Bree was generous enough to open her house for lunch after the funeral. It was a kind and thoughtful gesture, especially since the wasteland that had once been my home was still roped off with police tape.
By the end of the day, as I retreated to the pool house with Luna, I was so physically and emotionally exhausted that I somehow managed to actually sleep. Which was amazing, considering first thing the next morning, I had to wake up and do it all over again.
“Does Dad have to wear work clothes in heaven?”
Squatting in front of Asher, I stopped buttoning his shirt and looked him in the eye. “What?”
“Like suits and stuff. Does he have to wear those or can he wear weekend clothes?”
My throat got thick. “It’s heaven. I guess your dad can wear whatever he wants.”
He half smiled. “He’ll probably wear weekend clothes, then. He had this one shirt he wore all the time with a hole under the arm. Mom hated it, so she used to poke her finger in it and tell him to go change.” He slanted his head. Everything from his straight, dark brown hair to his expressive eyebrows looked just like a younger version of Rob. “I wonder if he took that shirt with him.”
Familiar pain wrenched my stomach. Madison and Luna were one thing. They were too young to truly understand what had happened to Jessica and Rob, but Asher was a vortex of curiosity. In the span of a week, he’d gone from a wild child to a Jeopardy contestant stuck on the category Afterlife. I couldn’t blame him though. Death was an abstract concept even to adults, much less a five-year-old.
I didn’t know how Bree did it. I could barely talk to Luna about Jessica and she was usually slapping me in the face and blowing spit bubbles through the majority of our conversations.
“I don’t think he got to take anything with him, buddy. But maybe you can keep the shirt. You can wear it anytime you’re missing him.”
His eyes flared comically wide. “Is that what you do with Aunt Jessica’s clothes?”
The laugh sprang from my throat before my constant state of misery had the chance to tamp it down. If I’d given it a second to really sink in, it would have been a bullet through my heart. I didn’t have any of Jessica’s clothes. Nothing to cling to on the darkest nights. Nothing to pass down to Luna. Short of the photos I’d recovered, nothing from our lives together had been salvageable after the fire.
However, right then, as I stared at a brave little boy getting dressed for his father’s funeral, I lived in the moment.
“What? You don’t think I’d look good in one of her outfits?”
He shrugged. “Not really.”
“I’ll have you know that I look spectacular in a crop top.”
“A crop what?” He curled his lip—again, just like Rob.
I stood up and patted my stomach. “A crop top. It’s a shirt that shows off your stomach. Surely you’ve seen my abs.”
“No, but I’ve seen your chicken nugget chest hair.”
I barked a laugh that I swear traveled through my entire body.
Well, hello there, Endorphins. So nice of you to join me again.
“What’s going on in here?” Bree asked.
I spun like a kid caught with my hand in the cookie jar and found her standing in a long, black dress, her wavy, brown hair pinned back and her makeup flawless—such was her personal brand of excellence.
“Oh, hey,” I greeted with an awkward grin.
Things with Bree were still, um, for lack of better terms, fucking weird. I mostly kept to myself in the pool house. However, with food being dropped off by the truckload, Bree had set an open invitation for dinner. Okay, so it wasn’t so much of an invitation as a demand.
“Dinner will be ready at six. Be there so I know you haven’t gone off the deep end and drunk yourself into a coma, leaving me with three children under six and another funeral to plan.”
Oh, that woman had a way with words. And to think, I was the songwriter. Then again, her harsh words were just how she was coping, and her brash honesty was at least something normal in my chaotic existence.
