He looks around, but he doesn’t find an answer. “The cemetery is too far away to walk, Clarisse. I get that you’re upset, but you’re safe with me. I promise I’ll drive carefully.”
I shake my head and tears start to resurface in my eyes.
I’m not ready for this.
He practically carries me the rest of the way to his car. “Oh, yeah, that reminds me.” He pulls open the driver’s side door, ducks into the backseat, and comes out with a nifty looking cap. It’s black and lacy, with an opaque sheet of black fabric draped from it. “It’s a veil,” he says, as if I couldn’t figure it out for myself. “It’s for a widowed woman in mourning.”
“I know what it is, Parker.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Everyone’s calling you the Black Widow, so I thought it would be suiting.” He props it haphazardly on the side of my head, and the fabric falls over my sunken eyes. “Honestly, I thought you’d want to hide your face from people in general. There’s no need to show everyone all your shit. Am I right?”
I check my reflection in his car window. “Thank you.” I adjust it a bit, and in all honesty, it doesn’t look half bad. If nothing else, it gives me a wall to hide behind. That’s step one. Step two is convincing Parker to take the bus. Easily done. He must understand why I’m so hesitant to get in his car, but I doubt he knows he’s agreed to an indirect route to the cemetery.
I can’t risk traveling past the scene of the accident, even if months have passed and Zayne’s blood has been washed from the sidewalk.
Dressed all in black, I board the city bus. Parker follows closely behind me. I make a point of not looking at him; he looks so much like Zayne. It’s painful to watch the depth of my sorrow reflected in those eyes.
I stare blankly out the window until we arrive at the cemetery. I accept Parker’s elbow and get off the bus. Together, we pass through the iron gate, and glide through the grass toward the gathering of people. A big, black bird squawks, perched in a tree high above me. I glance upward and shield two rays of sunshine with a hand, squinting into the canopy of trees from beneath the sheer black veil. After a moment of searching for the cause of the noise, I drop my hand and give in to my insecurities—eyes watching me, pecking at me like vultures.
Everyone stares—and by everyone, I mean every last person in attendance whose name is not Parker. A few people gasp; I’m not sure who, because I refuse to make eye contact with any of them. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Parker’s mother waving for us to join her, but I also catch a glimpse of Zayne’s ex-wife next to her. Yeah, I don’t think so. The fact that Casey is even here—like she has any relation to my baby—just murders my self-control. I let out a whimper I can’t hold in.
Parker flexes his bicep, tucking me closer to his side. I hang my head in shame. A grey fog settles in, swooping around me and threatening to pull me away to that faded place I like to stay.
Parker and I both turn our chins away from the others and slump our shoulders, standing to the side of the church minister who is about to perform the service. Although I remember specifically requesting a non-religious ceremony, the first words out of the man’s mouth are about God. The man raises his hands and looks up into the sky as he speaks, like my child is up there. Who knows, maybe he is.
“It looks like God needed another flower for his garden.”
People nod their heads and share smiles. My eyes dart from one sucker to the next. Rather than making a scene, screaming that God should try birthing his own damn flowers, I close my eyes and listen with an open, broken heart.
“We have come together this morning to remember Zayne Junior—to mourn the loss of a loved one so small he has not even had a moment to grow into a memory. Rather, we mourn the empty spaces in a home that has been prepared for his arrival. We mourn for the loss of hopes not realized, and we mourn for the opportunities he will not have: to catch his first snowflake on his tongue, to dip his toes into the ocean, or bury his feet in white sand.”
The man’s voice falters when he reaches for the canvas draped with a black fabric. My eyes flash forward. No one told me there would be a photograph. I told them no photographs. Please tell me there were not pictures taken of my baby. The minister pulls away the dull black fabric, and my eyes latch on to that image like magnetic lasers. A baby—full grown and perfect—with skin too pale and lips too pink, but it’s the swirl of obsidian hair atop his head that brings the tears.
“To the family who will never see baby’s first smile, first step, or first anything. We will never see baby Zayne wrapped in his mother’s arms, or playing catch with his late father. We will never see him grow up. We can only remember that he was a gift from a gracious God, and God has decided that his time has come.”
The minister’s voice is unwavering and grows louder to overcome the dramatic sobs from the small crowd. Other family members listen, weep, and carry on, wiping their tears with a tissue or hugging the person beside them. I remain locked away in my own head—my own hell—paralyzed by the grief that has been festering there.
“We cannot shed tears over a child we have not known, but we can shed tears with his surviving mother. Let us pray for her in her time of sorrow. May we join together to push through the sadness and conflict, from the loss of this new life, and together we shall find peace in this sorrow and grief.”
Parker takes my hand and clutches it tightly. I look up at him, and he looks right back at me, his eyes sharing the same grief as my own. Our eyes hook in a moment of deep understanding and sadness, and it is then our hearts bind in a permanent and shared torment.
The minister gives us that moment, lowers his voice, and then takes both of my hands into his. “Do not let the death of this child be in vain. We can be certain that he is now with his father, and our Father.”
His words stake my heart. It’s both distasteful and distressing for me to have to be put through this service when Brenda knows full well I was raised in a non-religious family. Still, I tolerate it. I can respect the relief it gives those who whole-heartedly believe in forgiveness. I take a deep breath and blow it out to steady the rapid beat of my heart. Parker moves closer to me in a show of support, standing next to me like the foundation to my wall.
The service wraps up quickly. One-by-one people approach me, shake my hand, and pull me into a hug I don’t ask for. The only reason I endure it is because Parker stands by my side the entire time and moves people along. I’m thankful when the last woman in line, whom I’ve never met before, takes my hand. She looks at the large framed photograph of my deceased baby and then at me.
“The death of a child is the most devastating loss. I’m so sorry.”
I suffer through the rest of the afternoon surrounded by a bunch of people I barely know and many I’ve never seen before in my life. I accept the fresh-cut flower Parker hands to me; it’s stained blue like my baby’s skin. I tilt my head down, consumed by tears, loneliness, and heartache.
The reassuring words shared by the man everyone’s calling Father are depressing enough; I don’t need to hear the whispers. Some people are selfish, insincere, and just plain cruel. Two older ladies standing next to me don’t even bother to offer me their condolences. They have age and life written all over their faces, and yet they show no sign of remorse for their lack of sympathy.
Parker notices I’m in distress and collects me in his arms, but that just makes them whisper more.
That’s the Black Widow right there.
I heard she killed her last two husbands.
It looks like she’s going to do Parker in next.
“Ignore them,” Parker mumbles to me, and I do.
I’ll leave it up to my dear sister Karma to settle up with them later. Based on their ages, I expect it won’t be long at all.
22: Those Little Things
I remain silent for a long time after the memorial service. I’m quiet for the rest of the afternoon and all the way home. On the bus, Parker offers me a strong shoulder to cry on,
but I turn it away. That will only make things worse. It’s not until we reach my driveway that I finally speak to him again.
“Why the photographs, Parker? You don’t share photos of a stillborn baby.”
“My mother said it’s a gentle heirloom that’s supposed to help the family heal from their loss.”
“Your mother is fucking mental.”
I show myself to the front door, the rest of my evening passing in a blur of tears and uncertainty, like every day after that. I hide away in my home, sending Parker off and ignoring his calls whenever possible—anything to avoid the public and their rumors, suspicion, and lies. Police agree it’s an awful coincidence that two of my partners and a baby have met a tragic end in such a short time, but apart from belated witness testimony, they can’t prove a damn thing. You know what that makes me?
A dangerous woman.
Recovering from this loss is too much to handle. The death of my husband was bad enough, but I now believe the death of a child is not something you ever recover from. Parker is pretty much all I have left, and he sticks around the neighborhood for another month or two, but I think I’ve managed to finally push him away, too. I’ve ruined enough lives; there’s no point in me corrupting his.
“I don’t want you to stay here anymore, Parker,” I tell him over dinner. I leave out the reason. He doesn’t need to know it’s because it’s too hard having a living, breathing man—who happens to look a hell of a lot like my late husband—walking around my neighborhood and knocking on my door, dredging up the painful memory of Zayne’s life. The fact that my eyes are sealed shut when I say it is proof enough for him.
“I know you don’t mean that. You need me.”
He reaches out to grab my hand, but I pull it away so he can’t touch me. He stares at me for a long time before speaking again. My eyes never leave the table.
“It hurts too much to see you like this, Clarisse. If it’s that upsetting for you to have me here, I’ll go.” He pauses and tries to make eye contact with me, but I withdraw from the situation entirely.
He watches me leave the table and walk down the hall. I feel his eyes on me until we’re separated by a wall. I rush into the bedroom and close the door between us. I stand there for the next five minutes, listening.
It doesn’t take him long to collect his things. I hear him approach my bedroom door when he finishes. His knuckles knock against my door a few times to get my attention.
I stumble backwards and then freeze in place, holding my breath.
“When you’re ready to talk, you know where to find me.” I hear every step he takes toward the front door. It sounds so final, but not half as final as the sound of the door slamming shut behind him.
Parker’s final words ring in my ears for days, interchanging with all the other demons haunting me. He’s disappeared from my life—just like Zayne had. I’ve been suffering in the dark ever since.
Going against Parker, my doctor, and everyone else who gives a damn about me, I detain myself to my home, lock that mother-fucking door, and throw away the key. Months pass where I leave only to stock up on a few groceries at the market up the street, simply to sustain life, not enjoy it.
I wrap my jacket tightly around myself and wear Zayne’s favorite ball cap to hide my eyes. Not only do I not want to face the locals, but I fear that someone is officially out to get me. I quickly walk up the street, my eye balls shooting from one parked car to the next. As soon as I can, I blend into the crowd and enter the market, finding the first food booth with fresh dairy and vegetables. I quickly grab a red pepper, a dozen eggs, and some apples. I’m convinced that someone’s following me.
Before, I wasn’t sure whether it was all in my head, but now I’m more than certain that someone is watching me. Eyes mark my every move and document my every purchase. I just know it. I’m being persecuted this very minute, and the only place I’m safe is inside the house that Zayne built. I pay the man at the cash register, forget about the rest of my little trip, and hightail it back to my house, carrying a single paper bag of produce.
One of my neighbors is standing in his front yard when I return home, but I keep my ball cap pulled low, and stare at the sidewalk. I hug the bag of groceries to my chest, and hide behind it. Still, he notices me.
“You should really think about mowing that lawn today.”
I don’t have time for chitchat. Whoever’s following me might catch up and get me. I try to ignore the asshole talking and break into a light jog across my overgrown front lawn.
“That grass isn’t going to cut itself, you know.”
With my key clutched in my palm, I climb the stairs to my house and escape from the threat. So, the length of the grass pisses off the neighbors. I could care less. I bet it was an asshole like him who mowed over my husband and made me this way.
I let myself into the house and lock the door. I peer out the peephole, but no one’s walking up my front sidewalk. I head to the kitchen and drop the paper bag onto my countertop, trying to focus on my happiest memories. Darkness consumes them all. Once I’ve got everything put away, I pace to my guest bedroom and take a handful of sleeping pills. I guzzle down the rest of my water and crash in my bed.
I am so over this day.
I’m not satisfied until a pillow is swallowing my head. If I could only stay that way forever. I open my eyes, feeling buried in this eternal hell. I wake, like I always do, at the crack of dawn in my guest bedroom. I really should quit calling it my guest bedroom, since I live here now.
Day after day, I wake and I crash. Wake and crash. Wake. Crash.
The next day is better than the last, the next day a little better, and the next even better yet. Eventually, I quit visiting the doctor for refills altogether and things become very clear again.
I don’t know why today feels different, but it does. Instead of hovering restlessly in my living room, I turn on an old exercise show I used to stay fit with. It’s amazing what a little sweat will do for a broken spirit. I fill a glass with tap water and swallow it back, staring at the dark drapes that protect me from the outside world. For the first time in the past year, I walk across the room with a purpose and pull on the long, white strings on the blinds. A blinding yellow light casts sunshine onto my creamy carpeted floor.
The moment of revelation steals the air from my lungs when I see I’ve missed one of the wedding photographs on the wall. I pace to the picture and scowl at the smiling woman, with both hands settling on my now bony hips. Somehow I’d managed to pull off happy with Zayne, even after all the trials I’d been put through.
I wonder if I’ll ever be able to move my lips into a smile like that again. It doesn’t hurt to try, but the muscles in my face refuse to turn my lips upwards. I back away from the picture and then violently pry the frame from the wall, taking a chunk of drywall with it. I turn over the frame and lower it onto the mantle, face down, with determination replacing the old tears in my eyes.
Suck it up, Clarisse. This is your life now. It’s not going to get any better than this. You might as well drop the snivelling act.
I spin around and move into the hallway, being careful to avoid any other triggers. When I reach the end of the hall, I pull open both drapes at once with a harsh tug. Dust sprinkles over me like it’s snowing, and it makes me sneeze. I glance into the backyard, but only for a second. When I see the small plastic baby swing toppled over in the overgrown grass, I nearly lose it.
I steal my eyes from the graphic images passing through my mind like a hideous home video and shake them from my head. My eyes zero in on the door I’ve left closed for the past year. I move to it without removing my eyes from the door handle and, with a swift twist, fling open the door to my master bedroom.
There, before me, are all of Zayne’s things I couldn’t bear to part with after he died. Everything had been tossed into the room in a haphazard heap of memories and things. Perhaps before I pushed Parker away, I could have gotten him to take all of Zayne’s things with h
im. Now I have a huge, difficult task ahead of myself.
I will do it—I have to—but not today, and not all at once. Dragging my feet, I crack open a few more sets of curtains and then mope all the way over to my sofa. I don’t miss the other wedding photograph on the mantle, or my very first ultrasound photo of my little peanut that is peeking out from a book on the tall wooden shelf.
And what about all those little things that were once hiding in the shadows? Like the nick in the paint, next to the light switch. To you, it means nothing. To me, that’s where Zayne scratched the wall with the box for the new crib, because he wouldn’t let his pregnant wife lift a finger. That damn thing took him hours to put together, because he insisted he was a handyman. I always laughed at him. A handyman? Maybe in another lifetime.
He can be so iron-willed sometimes.
See?
That.
No amount of paint will make me forget that Zayne was once here and now he’s been robbed of life, just like my sweet baby boy.
In the dark, it is so much easier to avoid the little things like that, but there’s no avoiding the constant flow of reminders of how alone I am in this world. Even when I brush my fucking teeth, I’m reminded of the way Zayne used to hug me from behind and reach for his toothbrush, because he was too impatient to wait for me to finish.
My heart aches with a hurt that shouldn’t even exist, but I am lost without him. So much time has passed, and yet my life continues to be in ruins like the day he left me. I know why today is different. Today is the day everything changed for me. It’s the anniversary of their deaths. Sweeping that reminder away, I scoop up my car keys and head outside.
I don’t bother to look in the mirror or pull on a bra. I know I look like shit in my sweatpants and T-shirt. I know Zayne’s car insurance isn’t even valid, but I don’t care. I need to get out.
The car groans to life after a couple of tries, and I drive around until the gas tank runs empty. I roll up to the gas station on fumes, but I make it there before the car stalls out. A young mechanic offers to pump my gas.
Playing House: A Black Widow Novel (Dark Secrets Duet Book 1) Page 13
