I speak through gritted teeth. “I would have been there if you had waited.” I pause for a much needed breath. “This is my husband we’re talking about—mine!”
“Yes, dear. My son. The love of Casey’s life. Who else would I be talking about?”
Patience was never my strong suit, but this woman plucks at my last straw. “Zayne didn’t want to be buried; you know that, Brenda.”
She fluffs my emotions off. “Oh, that’s nonsense. No one in our family is cremated.”
“Get the fuck out... of my house,” I state angrily before wheeling the phone clear across the room. The plastic thing makes a hefty dent in the drywall before it clatters onto the floor in three pieces. I cry inconsolably for as long as I can handle, clutching at the pain in my side, until my mind drifts away from all this mental anguish and defeat. I feel like I’m transposed into an alternate reality where I live in darkness, but my life is in my own hands, and I control karma like the Black Widow herself.
21: Karma
I missed my own husband’s funeral. It’s no wonder I’ve become so irrational. I’m angry at the world. All this new pain leaves me feeling numb and pretty helpless in a society full of careless maniacs. Post-partum depression hits me like a sledge-hammer colliding with a brick wall, but the hospital staff can only keep me there for so long. When Zayne’s limited insurance runs out, I leave the hospital against doctor’s orders and call a cab to take me home.
It takes me a few minutes to get out of the waiting cab, but I do it on my own. I walk with a painful limp to the front door of my home and drop my bag there. I look down at my welcome mat, instantly getting choked up. Zayne brought that mat home to me on our first day in our new place. He called it our first house-warming present. That doesn’t even touch how we picked out this huge house because it was the perfect place to raise our family.
I breathe deeply and check over my shoulder. The car in the driveway tells me that one of his family members has hung around despite my graphic warning days ago to get the hell out. I wonder which one of them has the gall to stick around and deal with me after all I’ve been through.
I reach for the door handle, but it’s locked. I consider ringing the doorbell, but this is my house. I rummage through my purse for a key, but it’s not there. Angered by this, I punch my finger into the doorbell repeatedly and then start banging on the door. My heart beats more erratically by the second. I know I really shouldn’t get worked up like this, but panic takes me before the door whips open. Standing inside my home is a man, maybe a few years younger than Zayne, with the same chestnut eyes and dark lashes.
“Whoa there. Can I help you?” he says before checking to see who it is.
What the hell is he doing in my home?
I shove my way past him, slapping both my hands against his shirtless chest. With a groan, I hobble into the front room. Zayne’s brother follows me quickly, like I’ve somehow invaded his privacy. I spin around to berate him and grab at my side when a searing pain wraps around my waist.
“What the hell are you doing here?” My voice loses its gusto by the time I get the entire sentence out.
“I—uh—I just—”
I hold a flattened palm out to his clean-shaven face and move toward the kitchen. I stop and gasp when I enter the room. For me to have hoped that he was looking after my house while I was in hospital is a delusion. Dirty pots and pans are heaped in not one, not two, but three piles on the counter next to the dishes piled up in the kitchen sink.
“What’s that smell?” I ask, turning to face the shirtless man standing behind me.
He raises his eyebrows, not knowing how to answer me. His dimples wink at me, even while he wears a frown.
“Parker?” I ask again, not waiting for an answer. Maybe it’s the rotten food sticking to the pans, or maybe it’s because he forgot to take the garbage out for the past week. “You just thought you would raid my cabinets and leave the mess for who... the maid?”
Anyone who knows Zayne and me, knows we don’t have a fucking maid. Maybe, if Parker would have visited once in a lifetime, he would know that.
I continue to scowl at the younger and taller version of my late husband. I would have thought that Parker, being a cop for a big city police department, would have learned how to show an ounce of remorse, or at least know when to fake it, but he doesn’t. The look on his face, I would say, is smug.
“Get out of my house!” I scream with all that I have.
Parker decides to start with silence as I follow him back to the living room. He retrieves a T-shirt from the back of the sofa and throws it over his shoulder, followed by a black duffle bag. “I figured I would stay here and help you get back on your feet, since it’s a big empty house and you’re all alone; but it’s okay. I’ll get out of your hair.”
I don’t bother answering him. I figure the less I say, the quicker he’ll leave.
“Look, for what it’s worth, I’m really sorry for your loss.”
I nod, hinting for him to move along in the nicest way possible. Zayne always said that his brother was a man of few words, but Parker can’t seem to shut his mouth around me.
He turns back. “I’m sorry you had to learn how rotten my mother can be, too. It’s not right that you had to miss your own lover’s funeral.”
All thoughts but one comes screaming to the front of the conversation. I look up at Parker with the meanest eyes I can conjure. “He was my husband!” I snap, pointing toward the door.
He finally takes the hint and exits my house, leaving me with a pile of housework and boatload of personal baggage to clean up on my own. I cross the living room slowly and then fling the box of half-eaten pizza off the coffee table in a fit of anger and frustration. I kick the used blankets off my sofa and drop onto it, expelling a long breath before crumbling into myself and crying.
I suffer through a long bout of tears that involves me blaming everyone but Zayne for what has happened, and then I stare at the wall. Staring off into space is dangerous, but I do it for a long, long time, drowning myself in grief and helplessness. How can simply being alive be this painful?
My daydreams collide with reality. I’m at a loss for what is real anymore. My hand slides over the phantom kick in my stomach, but it’s almost as if a baby had never set up shop there. I try looking around my house, but it’s painful; everything reminds me of what will never be. Resting my eyes is no better, for every time I close my eyes, I see him. I see blood. I see that blonde woman jogging, a swerving vehicle, death; I’m finding it hard to maintain my sanity. I try to focus on what is real. There’s me. Then there’s Zayne’s asshole brother.
A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. I stand at the door but make no move to open it.
“I know you’re there,” Parker says through the door.
He carries on with his I’m sorry this and I’m sorry that. Inside, I’m like: Will you stop fucking saying that? I’ve had enough of it—enough.
With eyes shining with unshed tears, I lock my front door. My eyes whip back and forth. I have to keep Parker out. I struggle with the heavy wardrobe next to the door. After a couple of grunts and a sharp pain in my side, I get it to slide in front of that door. I might have gouged the wood floor in the process, but Parker won’t be coming back in now. I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. I think I’ve lost my mind.
Parker’s shouting for me to let him in, but I ignore him. He follows me from window to window and watches me close him out of my life. I go to reach for the next curtain but instead hunch over in pain.
“You can try to shut me out, Clarisse,” he says, his voice steady and clear, “but I’m not leaving until I know you’re okay.”
I limp around the house to finish the job, hurting my recovery but managing to pull closed all the heavy drapes with a swift whoosh of fabric in every direction. I keep at it, until I’ve blocked all light from breaching my depressing home. I shuffle toward the front of the house and settle against the rustic hall table Za
yne got me for my birthday.
Once I’m satisfied that his brother’s left me alone, I head for the master bedroom. I ignore the fucking mess on my way and swing the door open like I might find someone standing there on the other side. I don’t. The room is as we left it before the accident—we. I freeze in a momentary lapse of memory.
Zayne’s side of the bed is made and mine is a mess. His old man slippers are resting at the foot of the bed, right where he always leaves them. It looks like he’s gone for the day, as if he might actually return home at some point. But he’s not going to return. Not this time. He’s gone for fucking good.
I rush the bed, rip the sheets away maniacally, and throw them to the floor. I kick his slippers under the bed, my panic-stricken scream echoing through the empty room while I pull at my mussed up hair. Moments later, when I realize what I’ve done—disturbed the last piece of Zayne’s existence—fear grips me. He’s not coming back. I’m alone again. Again. I’m always so fucking alone.
Wearing a vacant expression, I crawl back onto the stripped bed, lie on my side, and clutch on to Zayne’s pillow for dear life. I squeeze it and inhale the lingering scent. He’s not completely gone from my life. Not yet, no. No. No! He can’t be.
Another disturbing sound leaves my mouth, that wail echoing through my empty house. I don’t remember breathing. I don’t remember night falling. I don’t remember ever leaving the bed, letting go of that pillow, or getting to my feet. I only remember that large, gentle hand on the small of my back, leading me to my guest bedroom; that same man pulls open the blankets and offers me a hesitant shoulder to cry on.
Parker wraps an arm around my shoulder and lets me cry all over him, until the front of his grey T-shirt is soaked through with my tears. His only escape is to answer the door for the woman with the pills that will fix it all.
I hear mumbling in the living room, but I’m too deeply lost in my own head to make out the words. All I know for sure is that one second Parker’s leaving me and the next he’s hovering over my bed with a concerned expression wrinkling his forehead.
“I can’t take it anymore, Parker,” I whisper, feeling physically and emotionally spent. “They’re not coming back. There’s nothing left for me here.”
“It’s okay, Clarisse. Take these.” He takes my hand and drops two pills into my palm. “The doctor said it’ll help you feel better.”
I blindly do as he says from that day forward, sipping from the glass in his hand, living in a heavy, drug-induced fog, spending the best part of my days under the sheets with my eyes pinched shut, alone. Days pass and then weeks. I don’t remember opening and closing my door. I barely remember getting up to go to the bathroom. I don’t eat much, but when I do, it’s a bite or two from the plate that keeps materializing on my nightstand.
Then one day, he’s gone. The plate I had been picking from is gone. The glass of water and bottle of pills, gone. The room is dark and shadowed, the blinds drawn tightly shut, reminding me only of my nights: long, lonely, and quiet—a battle that knows no borders.
There’s a pounding at my front door. I slowly move toward the loud, obnoxious sound, noticing how my hip protests only momentarily. Where the wardrobe once rested in front of my door to the outside world, I see the floor is now void of furniture. I can’t remember the last time I washed my hair, and I certainly am not expecting company.
I peer through the peephole, and a ghostly figure of the man I married is standing there. I gasp for a breath and shake my head to register my thoughts. I blink hard and look again, only to find that it’s Parker standing there. My eyes settle on his tired chestnut eyes, trimmed with those dark eyelashes. I can’t stop staring at him.
Is he back here to make me feel this way? Where I remember his face being clean-shaven the last time I had a look at him, he’s now wearing a five o’clock shadow. He’s dressed in a fancy, black suit that looks a lot like the one Zayne wore for our wedding. I don’t think I should open the door.
“Go away.” My voice is but a croak from lack of use.
Parker raises his eyebrows in a look of determination. “I’m not going anywhere without you. We’ve only got an hour.”
Pressing my forehead against the door, I beg him. “Please. Just leave me alone.”
After a moment of silence and a prayer, I peer through the peephole again. He’s still standing there and, as if he knows that I’m watching him, he moves one of his eyes close to the hole, his hands framing his face. I feel violated by the intimacy of it.
“You missed their funerals, Clarisse. I’m not going to let you miss your baby’s memorial service, too. My mother agreed to hold off the service for this long. Three months was the best I could do.”
My baby’s memorial service? Why is this the first time I’m hearing of this?
“Clarisse. I know you’re still there. You need to get out of this house before you drive yourself crazy.”
I huff, in a mixture of frustration and sadness. “It’s a bit late for that, I’d say.” I pause to think about it for a second. “I’m not coming.”
I spin around and walk away, scooping up a bottle of pills that can only be the ones I’ve been living off of lately. I find comfort in the idea of taking all of them right now to knock myself out. Yes, I think skipping today is a great idea. I’ll try again tomorrow.
I hear a jiggling of my front door knob, and I scurry to my guest bedroom. I tell myself that no one can get to me here, but then the lock slides free and my front door creaks open.
“Clarisse, I’m coming in,” Parker says in warning. “I won’t let you do this. You’ve hidden yourself away for long enough. It’s time to face the world.” He lets himself inside the house.
I place the bottle on the nightstand and kneel next to it, shaking my head when I see that there are only two lonely pills in the bottle I thought would save me. “No,” I shout back to him. “I don’t think it’s time. You need to leave.”
“It’s time, Clarisse,” Parker says, twisting the door knob and pushing open the guest bedroom door.
I jump up out of surprise and look at him through wide eyes. He stands in the doorway of my room, but the way he leans against the doorframe is much too familiar. When he looks up at me with those eyes, it slays me, nearly taking me back to my knees.
“Please,” I beg, my heart aching in a way I’d like to forget.
“Do I really have to say it again? I’m not leaving without you.”
I swallow from the depth of his promise. “You most certainly are.” If I can just get him out of the doorway, I can lock him out and I’ll be set.
I step toward him, and he stands up to his full height again, but when I push on the door in an attempt to close it between us, his shoe stops it from getting closure.
“Nice try, but it’s not going to work. Get dressed,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I huff again. Parker is just as persistent as Zayne was. At this rate, I have to believe I’ll be rid of him faster if I give in. “Fine!” I shout, making it known that I’m not going with him because I want to.
He smiles softly and backs away at the same time as I do. “I’ll wait for you here.” He glances at the floor from the hall, but he doesn’t trust me enough to step any farther away.
So much for my last ditch attempt at getting him out of the room. I can see this is a fight I won’t win, so I open up the closet. The black dress I thought I’d find buried at the back is hanging in front of the other out-of-season clothes, with a pair of black nylons strung around the neck of the hanger. My favorite black heels are piled up on the floor beneath it.
I know I didn’t do this myself, but I refuse to admit how out of it I’ve been lately, so I put myself together and act like nothing is out of the ordinary.
Parker follows me to the bathroom. “I don’t get why you’re forcing me to leave my house and publicly grieve my child. You’re pretty messed up, you know that?”
The quirk of his eyebrow rejects my question and
throws it back at me. “It’s for the best.”
I leave the bathroom door half open. I’m not in the mood to argue with him anymore. I strip naked right in front of him and catch his eye before he quickly looks away. I ignore him some more and take a quick shower. He turns away long enough to respect my privacy while I exit the tub and dress.
While I towel dry my hair, I take a peek at him. I want to strangle his handsome throat. This was not in my plans for today, or ever for that matter. At least he doesn’t hassle me about how his mother has titled this event a celebration of Zayne Junior’s life—the child who won’t ever get to have a single birthday let alone have a life worth celebrating. I clench my teeth together, to fight off the emotions.
I don’t know if I can do this.
I don’t want to see Zayne’s family. I’m not ready to say goodbye to him yet. It hurts too much to think about my baby boy.
I smooth my hands down the front of my dress. It fits like a glove over my now flat stomach. I cringe while I throw a few things into a black handbag and walk back to the guest bedroom. I pull on my shoes and sigh.
Parker finally trusts that I’m coming and heads for the front foyer. I follow him and stop in front of the mirror hanging on the wall. I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me. She’s unsightly, with black rings under her eyes and red blotchy cheeks. My hair. Ugh. There’s no way I can wear it down, so I rake it into a messy bun atop my head, knowing it’s the best I can do right now.
When I step out of the house, panic takes me. I gasp for breath and stare at that damn welcome mat beneath my heels.
I don’t think I can do this.
Parker comes to my rescue, grabs on to my elbow, and lifts me until I’m standing upright again. “Are you okay?”
“I can’t—” I start, but telling him I can’t breathe is futile.
The fact that he gets me moving toward his car in a matter of a minute is a miracle, but I refuse to get in that death trap. Not only can I not do this, but I don’t want to, either. “I can’t,” I say softly.
Playing House: A Black Widow Novel (Dark Secrets Duet Book 1) Page 12
