Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
It was the first time in days that I felt anything other than the despair - or the numbness.
But right then, rage was a comforting companion.
It was, at least, familiar.
"Not now, Lenny," Edison half-declared, half-asked. "You need to bury your sister."
Ugh. That hurt. But he was right.
I bit down onto my tongue until it shot pain through my mouth, let Edison lead me toward the service where an older woman with a sing-song voice talked about the joy of life and the cycle of death, words that didn't really sink in much because all I could do was stare at the box where my sister's body was situated.
I wished suddenly that I was the kind of person for whom blind faith came easily.
Death must be much more comforting if you believed there was something after, if you thought your loved one went on.
Me, yeah, I wasn't sure.
But I leaned toward this being all there was.
So I wasn't going to see her again in some dreamy afterlife.
I would never see her again.
She was in a box that was going in the ground to be covered with dirt.
And just like that, the most beautiful person I ever knew was gone for good.
The gut-punch sensation was expected when we were all handed tulips to drop on the casket. Summer and Lo gave me head nods, knowing I wasn't in a place that would allow me to accept their sympathies, and they moved off.
As did Jake's wife, who cupped my shoulder as she passed. She and I had hardly spoken over the years, but she had been a mom to Letha when ours couldn't be bothered.
On that thought, it was pretty much the exact moment I was aware of my mother saying something about how tacky it was that I had chosen not to have a gathering somewhere after so everyone who loved Letha could mourn.
And, well, there was only so much I could be expected to take in a week.
I was at my max.
And, quite frankly, this was a long time coming anyway.
Even Letha would agree that what came next was something I was fully in my right to do.
"You get no right to say shit about how I handled this situation," I called, voice raised, nothing but an empty gravestone-filled field to overhear. Well, except for two employees and the non-denominational woman who had led the service.
"Really, Lenore, I raised you better than to have a funer..."
"You raised me? Seriously? Is that a fucking joke? You didn't raise me. TV raised me. And babysitters. And, well, my fucking self. And when you brought Letha into the world, I raised her too. Since you were so fucking jealous of the love her father gave her instead of you. You didn't raise either of us, so you get no place to judge anything that I do. And, quite frankly, you had no fucking right to be here at all after what you did. But you're here. So let me just say this. Today is the last time you will ever see me. As far as you are concerned, you lost both your daughters today. Do you understand me? I am dead to you. Because you, you have been dead to me for fucking years." I eyed her man, clearly taken aback by the revelations, likely already sick of her shit, and going to use this new information to get shot of her. "So don't come running to me when you're even older, even more unlovable. I won't be there for you. Just like you were never there for me. Or Letha. I hope you die miserable and alone. I know that is your worst fucking fear. And I am just a vengeful bitch enough to wish it on you."
With that, I turned, storming away, walking back toward the lot as the tears started again, as the rage was spent, as decades of bitter was finally spewed all over the target it had always called home from afar.
The anger gone, there was nothing left.
Just the hollow feeling in my chest as Edison ushered me back to my apartment, letting me crawl to bed, forcing some godawful cabbage-filled soup into me, then, later, coming in beside me, pulling me close, whispering to me in his native tongue.
Some words were repeated enough for me to pick them out.
Draga mea.
Iubirea mea.
The small part of my brain that wasn't suffocating under the raging currents of grief wanted to know what they meant, why he said them to me again and again.
But sleep claimed me before I could ask.
—
Two days later, the impossible happened.
I woke up.
And my first urge wasn't to curl back up and sob.
I noticed things that I had been too out of it for days to notice before.
My hair felt gross.
My skin felt like it needed a scrubbing.