My breath abandoned me; I felt as if I’d been punched in the solar plexus. I forced myself to calm down, to pull it together, to get my air back.
So I could let out a strangled growl.
“Mother fucker.”
CHAPTER 64
“Mommy! Mommy,” Celeste stage whispers from the parlor door. “Lookit who’s here.”
Catherine turns toward the commotion.
There, as big as life, is Bill, being lead into the funeral parlor by precocious Celeste. She leans forward, using all her might to drag the walking mountain in. Her hands are engulfed in his.
Bill is uncomfortable, that much is clear. Serves him right. My best friend, the guy who’s supposed to deliver my eulogy, shows up with minutes to spare? He should be uncomfortable.
“Sorry I’m late,” he whispers to everyone.
“It’s about time you showed up.” Angela’s voice is acid, and with her hands on her hips, she’s not putting up with any bullshit.
Bill shrinks back a few inches. Even so, he’s still a giant, albeit a somber one, dressed in his black three piece suit that struggles against his shoulders, chest, and arms.
“Please,” Catherine says. “It’s okay, Angie.” Catherine gets up and Bill swallows her with his arms. Her tears bead off the fabric of his suit.
Bill breaks the hug and leans to my mother.
“Beth, I … I don’t know what to say.” His face cracks with emotion, making it almost impossible for him to complete his sentence. Abandoning words, he wraps his arms around her. Mom smiles through the tears.
“You don’t have to say anything.”
Bill can only nod. He clasps hands with Glen and Rob, then moves to console Jude.
Celeste gets on her tippy toes and tugs Bill’s sleeve.
“Uncle Bill?”
“What is it, honey?”
“Where have you been?”
“Sorry I’m late, Celeste.”
She shakes her head. “Not what I meant. Why don’t you come around anymore?”
Bill glances at Angela. She’s rigid, her back to the wall, chin thrust out. They regard each other for a moment, then she looks away as if the sight of him hurts.
“It’s … complicated,” he says.
“Why?”
“Sometimes … sometimes adults have issues that make it hard for them to be with other people.”
“For how long?”
“It depends.”
“Why?”
“It’s just one of those things you’ll understand better when you get older, honey.”
“One of what things?”
“Does she always ask so many questions?” he asks Cat, who nods. Rubbing a thumb along Celeste’s cheek, he says, “My God, you’ve gotten so big.”
She fills with pride. “I growed a whole inch last time Mommy took me to the doctor. Think I’ll be as big as you one day, Uncle Bill?”
“Maybe, Celeste. Maybe.”
Watching Celeste interact with her godfather, my oldest friend, the man whom I consider my brother initiates a war of emotions in me. Should I be pissed at him? I’d made my peace, but as my life passes before my eyes, those old sensations, the old hurts … it’s like I’m experiencing them for the first time all over again. Not fun; living through them once was bad enough. Could they be nothing more than leftovers from my forfeit life, or am I truly feeling them?
I’m not so sure.
“Uncle Bill, lookit what I drew.” Celeste runs to the foyer and comes back with a few sheets of paper, changing gears the way only a person of her age can. “Gramma Beth and Aunt Angie helped me, but only a little bit.”
Bill’s hands tremble as he leafs through each page. He goes through them four times. “These are wonderful, Celeste. You’re going to be a great artist one day, just like your dad,” he says, looking at Cat. “Have you seen these?”
“No. Not yet.”
He begins to hand them over. Celeste is excited to hear what her mother has to say, bouncing from foot to foot. I’m also curious to see what she’s come up with. That I’ll miss the little things like seeing her artistic creations attached to the refrigerator door by alphabet magnets, class projects made of construction paper and too much glue, dioramas of dinosaurs and planets, fills me with a sense of loss so profound it staggers me.
Only now do I realize I’m feeling all of this, every last emotion, new and old, current and remembered. It’s coursing through my core. The pain, the anguish … all of it. I have been this whole time, and I’ve been kidding myself into thinking otherwise. The closer the end gets, the stronger the feelings become; happy, sad, and everything in between.
Risking giving anybody the chills, determined to get a look at the last creative endeavor of Celeste’s I’ll ever see, I move in closer.
Closer.
Closer.
Almost on top of them now, huddled around the artwork.
The funeral director approaches my wife and places a pale hand on her shoulder.
“It’s time, Mrs. Franchitti,” he says in his soothing baritone. “We should be getting to the cemetery now.”
Catherine nods weakly. Tears leak from her red, swollen eyes, but she doesn’t move a muscle to wipe them away. She lets them fall … one after the other. The pictures drawn by my daughter’s hand disappear into Cat’s handbag. She’ll look at them later, something I’ll never be able to do.
The director turns and regards the silent crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention, please? We’ll be leaving for the cemetery shortly. I’d ask everyone to please exit through the front …” I want to scream at him. Yell at him to please stop, to give me a moment to see something as silly and insignificant and important as a child’s scribbles before I disappear. “Now, if you’ll please,” he gestures to the door, “the family would like some time alone with their loved one. I ask only that immediate family and pallbearers stay behind.”
Chairs rustle as people alight from their seats and form a neat, orderly line. The quiet is deafening. Only a rustle of fabric, a shuffle of feet on carpet, and muffled sobbing break the quiet while the assembled file out.
Angela gives Catherine one last hug before leaving with the twins.
Almost everyone is gone now; friends, extended family, co-workers, old classmates, and neighbors … all gone. Only Catherine, Celeste, Jude, Rob, Mom, Glen, Bill, Mary Jo and Pat—screw it, I’m not calling him Colonel anymore—and two of my cousins are left behind.
This is going to suck. There is no doubt in my phantom mind that this will be the toughest of it all. For everyone. It will be the last time any of my loved ones lay eyes on me. The actual lowering of the coffin into the ground won’t be a picnic, but this intimacy … it’s crushing.
I wish I couldn’t feel. I don’t want to feel anymore. Not this. Anything but this.
Mary Jo and Pat are first. They kneel before my coffin, begin their quiet goodbyes, and cry. It doesn’t surprise me coming from Mary Jo. Pat is another story. I’ve only seen the mighty Colonel cry twice: at his daughters’ weddings.
I’m flattered beyond words.
Jude and Rob are next.
Rob, quiet as ever, says a fair thee well—after he adjusts his glasses.
Jude does something unanticipated. She smiles and finally divulges the secret of where she buys her never ending supply of odd T-shirts. Little does she know I hear her every word. The information does me no good now, but the sentiment is one hundred percent Jude. I’d have been disappointed if she hadn’t injected her own brand of crazy humor into this. Perhaps she knew I’d haunt her silly ass otherwise.
The Currings say their final goodbyes and move to the side.
Mom leans on Glen for support as they walk toward me. Her armor is disintegrating. After a long moment of silence, she breaks down.
“He’s gone, Glen. My son is gone.” Her words are stifled and wet and filled with sorrow.
“I know, dear, I know ... shhhh.” Gle
n rubs her shoulders soothingly, ignoring his own emotional torrent. They may be an unconventional couple, but Mom and Glen will be fine because they have each other. That makes me happy.
“Good bye, Richard,” Mom says, and kisses my cold forehead. “Rest in peace, Baby Boy.”
Jesus, I want to cry. If I still had eyes, I suspect I would. Mom’s always been so strong and determined. Unshakable. I can’t recall a time she’s ever broken down like this, other than the dim memories I have of my father’s funeral from over two decades ago.
Mom and Glen make room for Bill. He takes a moment, kneels.
“Rick,” he says, head resting in his hands, “I know you can’t hear me …”
Says you, buddy.
“… damn.” He grinds his teeth. “I want you to know that I loved you like a brother. If I could change things ... if I could go back and make better decisions …” I can hardly hear him through his crying. “I hope that, wherever you are, you’re looking down on me and know how sorry I am.”
With a deep breath and a swipe at his tears, he gets up and walks away.
“Are we gonna say g’bye to Daddy?”
Here come Celeste and Catherine, hand in hand. Now for the hardest part. The two most important people in my life, the two I love above all others, look down upon me.
“Yes, Pookie Bear,” Catherine says. “We are.”
They reach the kneeler. Celeste has to stand on it to see me, as kneeling would provide nothing more than a face full of wood. Nice, highly polished, very expensive wood, but wood nonetheless.
Catherine opens her mouth. Nothing comes out. Instead of speaking, she rests her forehead on the edge of my casket. I watch as she places her hand on my chest, and the parlor lights reflect off the C&R charm bracelet in a brilliant display.
Celeste pats her back.
“It’s okay, Mommy,” she says, sniffling. “I miss him, too.”
So damn innocent. Too bad reality had to swoop in and shatter it.
“I know you do, Celeste. I know you do.” It’s all Catherine can do to get those words out.
Catherine pulls herself together and stands up. She leans into the coffin and kisses me for the final time.
“I love you, baby. Really really. Goodbye, Ricky.” She picks up Celeste so she can hug me.
“Bye bye, Daddy. Wuv you.” Her voice is muffled, face burrowed into my chest.
Seeing her tiny hands wrapped around my empty body makes me want to scream. It makes me want to scream that life isn’t fair. It makes me want to scream that death isn’t fair. Nobody should have to be subjected to this, on either side.
Love you guys, too.
Always will.
Really really.
CHAPTER 65
I sat in my office in a total fog the rest of the afternoon. If anybody called, I didn’t answer. If people stopped by, I hadn’t noticed.
I must have driven home from work on instinct and muscle memory alone. Everything between point A and point B was a canvass of nothingness. Couldn’t even hazard a guess at the details, as my thoughts were dominated by what I’d discovered. Only by the grace of whatever higher power may exist did I get home in one piece.
My fist throbbed in the darkened kitchen. I saw it, the bruising and the swelling, but it seemed as if the hand I clenched in front of my face was seen through someone else’s viewpoint.
The clock ticked past eight o’clock. It was my scheduled guys’ night out and I shouldn’t have been home for at least another few hours.
On a normal Friday night.
But this wasn’t a normal Friday night.
I heard the sound of running water coming from the second floor when I’d gotten home. On guys’ nights, after Celeste was in bed, Catherine would settle in for a long bubble bath.
She wasn’t expecting me so soon.
I never informed her otherwise.
Sometime later—it could have been minutes, it could have been hours—the kitchen light flipped on.
“Jeez, baby, you scared me.” Bare feet slapped the kitchen tile behind me. Damp and smelling of shampoo, Catherine wrapped her arms around my neck and laid her head on my shoulder. “This is a pleasant surprise. I thought you’d still be out. Party break up early?”
I didn’t respond, didn’t move a muscle.
“Ricky?” She came into my peripheral vision. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“No. I’m not.” My tone was cold, hard; her concern meant nothing to me.
“Rick, you’re scaring me. Jesus, what happened to your hand? Did you get into a fight?”
I answered her with stony silence.
“Ricky. Talk to me. What happened?”
“Is there something you want to tell me?” I asked.
“Tell you? About what?”
“It’s a simple question, Catherine.”
“I don’t know what you’re … What’s all this?”
A mass of crumpled papers was spread out on the kitchen table, along with an open manila file folder.
“Printouts from the Red Cross website. And Celeste’s file.”
She pulled out a chair and sat. Her face told me she had no clue what I was talking about.
“Rick, I don’t know—”
“She’s B positive.”
“What? Who is?”
“Celeste’s blood type. It’s B positive.” I pushed the open folder across the table. Catherine picked it up, glanced at it, put it down. “I’m type A positive.” Calmly, keeping my building anger in check, I placed my donor card down in front of her. “Very common for a white boy, as it turns out. Yours is O positive. Almost like the band, remember?”
“Of course I—”
“Also very common for a white woman.” Interrupting Catherine was something I’d never do under normal circumstances, but I wasn’t in a very considerate mood.
“Is there a point to all this?” she said impatiently.
“Do you know how rare type B blood is, Cat? I do. I read up on it. I spent hours on that site when I set up the blood drive. That’s not the point though.” I stood and paced the kitchen slowly. “It’s rare, but not improbable. What is improbable, so improbable it’s goddamn impossible, is an O mother giving birth to a B daughter when the father has A blood.” I stopped and turned on her. “Did you know that?”
She was visibly shaken. Her hands lay flat on the table, and a slight tremor ran through them. I noticed the lack of her charm bracelet. Fitting. Her eyes focused on anything but me.
“No, I didn’t know that,” she said quietly.
“All the backup information is right there in those printouts if you don’t believe me. Go ahead. Take a look.” She didn’t respond. “No? Oh well. It’s not a big deal. You can assume that I know what I’m talking about, which I do. Now,” my voice rose, “blood typing isn’t really the best method for testing paternity. It’s outdated. Obsolete. DNA is the way to go these days. It’s more accurate and reliable. But blood isn’t totally useless, and while it can’t exactly prove who is a potential father, it’s pretty goddamn good at ruling one out.”
I planted my fists on the cold table and hovered over her. Fingers of electric pain crawled up my arm. I embraced it.
“So. I ask you again, Catherine. Is there something you want to tell me?”
“Rick …” A tear broke free as Catherine closed her eyes. I had her. She knew it. The moment of truth was knocking on the door of our lives. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know.”
“Was there more than one?” Elaboration wasn’t necessary. She knew what I meant.
Catherine’s hand flew to her mouth and her eyes shot open as if I’d slapped her. “No! Just once … only once.”
“At least that simplifies things.” My teeth were clenched so hard I thought I would crack a filling. “Who was it?”
Catherine glanced at the papers, stalling for time.
“Who was it?” I screamed, slamming an open palm on the table.
Cat jerked in he
r seat. “I can’t.”
“Can’t isn’t a word I want to hear right now. What I want to hear is a name.”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes. It matters to me. I want to know.”
My wife shook her head vigorously, trying to ward off the reality of it all, wet hair flying in thick strands from side to side. “Rick …”
“Wrong answer. We both know you didn’t cheat on me with me, Cat. Who. Was. It?”
“Keep your voice down,” she hissed. “Celeste is upstairs sleeping.”
“WHO WAS IT?”
“Okay, okay. Please, stop yelling.” Cat paused, took a deep breath. “It was …”
“I’m waiting,” I said, not yelling, but not whispering either.
She looked down at her hands. “Bill. It was Bill.”
The air left my lungs with all the subtlety of explosive decompression. My legs went rubbery, my whole body tingled.
Bill was Celeste’s father, not me. I’d been raising my best friend’s kid for five years and was none the wiser. The revelation was as staggering as it was numbing.
“How could you?” I whispered.
“It was only the one time, I swear to God.”
“Like that’s supposed to make me feel better? It was enough, wasn’t it! I suppose you were too scared to use the conception calculator again, huh? Or were you hoping I’d never find out?”
“I wanted to believe she was yours,” Cat said vacantly. “I had to believe she was yours.”
“When did it happen?” Another shake of the head. “Don’t make me ask again.”
“When you were on your business trip.”
“Baltimore?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
The puzzle pieces clicked together. I could see it all in my head; the unanswered texts, my calls going directly to voicemail, the landline clicking over to the answering machine. I must have called while they were fucking. The sex we’d had the night I came home? The tears? The apologies? They weren’t for me, for how our lives had nearly fallen apart after the miscarriages. Those were tears of guilt. Guilt for having fucked someone before my side of the bed had grown cold. My best friend, no less.
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