by E. K. Blair
“Please let me come see you, dear. Let me say goodbye to you properly and not over the phone.”
“I’m sorry, Carol. I just can’t. I’ll text you with the details of the storage unit once I can get everything arranged,” I say quickly and then hang up before anything else can be said.
I’m scared to look at Declan, scared to see his reaction to all my deceit. I keep my eyes down when I walk out of the kitchen and into the living room. I pick up my box and head over to the door where he meets me.
“Look at me,” he says, and when I do, I respond thickly, “I hate all of them.”
“I know you do, but you can breathe now. It’s over with and you don’t ever have to be a part of those people again.”
“I’m ready to go,” I tell him as he takes the box from my arms and we leave, locking the door on all the haunting memories that remain in that apartment.
I ONCE SAW a poster that read Art is an Attempt to Bring Order Out of Chaos. I don’t remember where I saw it, but for some reason, I’ve always remembered it. Maybe that’s why my brother turned to sketching. Our lives were beyond chaotic. He didn’t start drawing until he was in his early twenties.
We used to ride the buses. It wasn’t because we needed to go somewhere; we rode them to feel like we were going somewhere. I’d sit next to him and watch as he sketched random passengers. He was talented. We both knew his talents would never get us out of the slums, but he didn’t do it because he had expectations; he did it to escape.
While Declan is with the columnist from Forbes, I flip through Pike’s sketchpad. I ghost my fingers over his lines, over his shadows, over every inch of paper that his hand would’ve touched. He drew me more beautiful than what reflects in the mirror. Every picture is amazing, and I wish people could’ve seen him the way I did. He was so much more than a drug dealer covered in tattoos that parents would shield their children from when they’d see him walking down the sidewalk.
He was a savior.
My savior.
The sound of the door unlocking catches my attention, and I’m happy to see Declan.
“Sorry that took so long,” he announces when he walks in and shrugs off his suit jacket.
He loosens his tie that’s tucked into the navy vest of the tailored three-piece suit he wore for the photos. Walking over to me, he leans over the couch I’m curled up on and kisses me.
“What’s that?”
“Pike’s sketchpad.”
He takes a seat next to me, asking, “May I?” as he holds his hand out.
I pass him the pad and watch as he looks through a couple of drawings.
“These aren’t bad,” he notes before turning to the next page that happens to be a sketch of me sleeping on a ratty couch we found at the Goodwill.
He stops and scans the image for a while before saying, “He loved you, didn’t he?” When I don’t respond, he looks at me and adds, “He’s drawn every detail perfectly down to the faint scar you have right under your left eyebrow.” He then traces the scar on my skin with his finger. “How did you get it?”
“I was thrown down a flight of stairs and busted my face up.”
“Your foster dad?”
“He was mad at me for . . .” I stop as shame builds.
“For what?” he presses, and when I still don’t respond, he says, “I don’t want you to hold anything back from me.”
I’ve already told him all the filth from my past, so I don’t know why this wave of embarrassment has come over me, but I push through it and answer him. “I’d been tied up and locked in the closet for a few days. I had been sick earlier that day and wound up not only defecating on myself but also throwing up. When he let me out, he was furious. He started kicking me in my ribs and then threw me down the basement stairs.”
He tosses the sketchpad onto the coffee table and pulls me into his arms quickly. I don’t cry, but that doesn’t mean the memories don’t inflict pain. Declan coddles me like one would a child, and I let him, because it feels good to be nurtured by him. His embrace is hard under his flexed muscles, but I find a way to melt into him anyway. I know he’s upset with what I just told him because I can feel the tension in his body, so I keep quiet to allow him to calm himself down, and he eventually does.
“I never got to see where Pike was buried,” I say after a good amount of time has passed.
“Why not?”
“I was scared. I was afraid to link myself to him and get busted for my con,” I explain. “When Bennett and Pike died, and when I thought you were dead too, I laid low. But since we’ve been back, I can’t stop thinking about where he is.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes. He didn’t deserve to die like he did and to be left all alone,” I tell him through the heavy knot of sadness in my throat. “Do you think you can find out where he was buried?”
He reaches into his vest to pull out his cell, and without wasting a minute, asks, “Where did this happen?”
“He was living in Justice. It’s the same county as here.”
“What’s his full name?”
“Pike Donley,” I tell him.
He looks up the number to Cook County and is redirected to the coroner’s office. He stands to walk over to grab a piece of paper and a pen as I hear him ask, “Who claimed the body?” He continues to take notes and ask questions as my gut twists and tangles while I listen to one side of this conversation.
Patience escapes me, and I walk over to where he’s standing so I can read the notes he’s taken. Matt’s name is written on the paper. Declan ends the call and tucks his phone away.
“Why did you write down Matt’s name?”
“He’s the one that claimed the body. Who is he?”
“Um . . . just one of Pike’s friends.”
“You know him?”
“Yeah, he was Pike’s buddy since we were kids,” I tell him while still concealing the fact that it wasn’t too long ago he was calling me to bail him out of debt.
“Well, since no next of kin claimed the body within the allotted time, Matt was able to do so before cremation. He paid the state fee for an indigent burial.”
“What?” I blurt out, upset. “So what does that mean?”
“Nothing. Just that the state was in charge of the burial, that’s all.”
“Where is he?” My words increase in anxiety as the need to see his gravesite amplifies.
“Mount Olivet here in Chicago.”
“I have to go.”
“Elizabeth, you’re upset. Why don’t we take a little time and—”
“No!” I bellow.
“I think you should just—”
“Declan,” I say, cutting his words off, refusing to wait any longer to see where my brother’s buried. “If this were your mom, and I told you to ‘Take some time,’ would you be able to do that?”
He doesn’t answer me.
“I didn’t think so,” I tell him and he sees my point when he says, “I’ll call the valet to pull the car around.”
I throw my jacket on before we head down to the lobby where Declan’s Mercedes roadster is already waiting for us out front. I watch as the light drizzle from outside collects on the windshield and then gets wiped away with the wipers, and suddenly, the urgency I was feeling back at Lotus has dissipated. Pike is dead, and I’m not going to the cemetery to say goodbye because he’s still with me. But it’s a sinking feeling, maybe a part of me is still in denial, but it’s the thought of seeing his name on a burial plot that I fear.
Declan begins to speed when we merge onto I-90 E, and I look over to him, asking somberly, “Can you slow down?”
He draws his foot back off the accelerator, slowing the car. “Is everything okay?”
I look out of my window, raindrops skewing my view, and admit, “I’m scared.”
He takes my hand, but I keep my head turned away from him.
“We don’t have to do this right now if you’re not ready.”
“Is anybody ev
er ready?” The question is heavy between us as I turn to face him.
He holds my hand tighter and doesn’t respond.
“He needs flowers,” I tell him. “Can we stop and get him some flowers?”
“Of course, darling.”
I pull out my phone and find a florist not too far from the interstate, and when we arrive, my request is simple. “I need all the pink daisies you have in stock.”
“Daisies?” Declan questions when the sales clerk goes to the back cooler.
“They’re my favorite.”
“I remember,” he says with a subtle smile and then kisses the top of my head, resting his lips there for a moment while we wait for the lady to reappear.
“Any shade of pink?” the woman hollers from the back.
“Yes. Mix them,” I shout back to her. “All of them.”
I wait with Declan’s arm wrapped around me, tucking me against his side, and when the clerk reemerges from the back, my eyes widen.
“Christ, that’s a lot of flowers,” Declan notes in surprise.
“One hundred and sixty-three stems,” she tells us. “You wiped me out of inventory.”
I watch as she wraps the daisies in huge sheets of brown paper and ties them up with several cords of natural raffia. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
Declan pays and takes the flowers in his arms. Popping the trunk, he lays the bouquet down and we both laugh a little when they fill the trunk entirely.
We continue our drive, hitting light patches of traffic, and finally arrive at the gates of Mount Olivet. He parks the car at the funeral home that’s right through the entrance.
“I’m going to go grab a map. I’ll be right back.”
An eerie chill creeps along my arms and it only takes a minute for Declan to reappear with a map in hand.
“Where is he?”
“Block two,” he murmurs as he pulls out of the parking space and drives through the cemetery. I look at the gray headstones as we pass them, and before I know it, he’s pulling the car along the edge of the grass.
“This is it,” he says, turning the car off.
I look out the window and choke up, knowing that somewhere among all these gravestones is my brother. And he’s all alone. I battle between not wanting to get out of this car and jumping out of this car to run to him. I’m so scared to see the evidence of what I’ve done.
Tears spill down my cheeks effortlessly, and Declan reaches his arm over to console me.
“This is all my fault,” I strain out on a hoarse voice filled with anguish.
I turn to face Declan, and he doesn’t say a word. I know what he’s thinking; it’s the same thing I’m thinking. No one can argue that this is very much my fault, and Declan isn’t a man who will lie to comfort. We both know my part in all of this, and it makes it so much worse when there’s no truth out there that can take away any amount of my responsibility.
“Do you want me to come with you?” he asks, and I nod because I know I can’t do this alone.
We get out of the car, and he grabs the flowers from the trunk, placing them in my arms. With his arm wrapped around my shoulder, he leads the way. We walk around, looking at the names on the grave markers as my tears drip into the mass of daisies.
We wander for what feels like hours, but is probably only a minute before Declan stops.
“Elizabeth.”
I look up at him and he tilts his head over to a flat stone, and when I see it, I gasp in horror. “Oh, my God.”
And there it is.
His beautiful name engraved in stone, marking his death.
I step in front of it, my body shuddering in tormenting pain. Every dagger I’ve ever thrown coming right back to stab me in my chest, and Declan has to step behind me with both of his hands gripping my shoulders.
“How could I have done this?” I cry and then fall to my knees and out of Declan’s hands as I clutch the flowers to my chest. “He was my best friend, Declan.”
“I know,” his tender voice consoles as he now sits behind me.
I lay the flowers on the grass beside me and lean forward on my knees, bracing my hands on top of his name. “I’m so sorry, Pike. I should’ve just killed myself.” My words lose themselves within my agonizing sobs and falter when I can’t focus on anything aside from the debilitating guilt and remorse. “It should’ve been me! It should’ve been me!” I wail repeatedly.
Declan reaches around my waist and pulls me away, off my knees and onto my bottom, and I fall back into him. I grab ahold of his arms crossing over my chest, and dig my nails into them as I sob, wishing I would’ve shot myself that day.
“He didn’t deserve to die.”
“Shh,” Declan breathes in my ear. “I know, baby. I know.”
“It should’ve been me,” I keep saying as Declan continues to hush and console me.
His hold on me is merciless as I allow every emotion to swallow me up, and when it finally relents and spits me out, I’m utterly spent. The dipping sun measures the hours we’ve been here. My body aches as I move to sit up on my own, and when I turn back to look at Declan, I notice his bloodshot eyes. He’s been crying with me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my throat dry and scratchy.
“Don’t be. You needed to get that out. You hold so much inside of you.”
“I’m a horrible person.”
“You’re not,” he tells me. “You made horrible choices, but you’re not a horrible person.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Maybe not today, but one day you will. I’m going to make you believe me.”
He stands and reaches down to me, helping me up. When I’m steady on my feet, I turn and scoot the flowers to rest over where Pike lies. I take a moment, drained of all my tears, not to say goodbye, but to pay respect to the most selfless person I’ve ever known.
TIME FREEZES, AND yet, the sun rises and the sun sets, only to rise once again.
I woke yesterday but was unable to get out of bed. Too much guilt. Too much sorrow in a world filled with regrets. So, I hid under the covers and slept, and woke, and slept. Declan checked on me throughout the day, allowing me to wallow in the misery of my wrongdoings. He ordered food from the kitchen, but I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t risk feeding the pain for fear it would devour me fully.
Emptiness is my companion as I stand here and stare out the window up into the blue sky. It’s been two days since I faced Pike’s resting place, and although I haven’t seen him or heard his voice, I’ve felt his arms around me ever since.
“You’re up,” Declan says when he walks into the room, dressed down in dark denim and a plain cotton T-shirt. “How are you feeling?”
“Numb.”
He walks over to me, saying, “I’m going to make you feel something today,” before kissing me. “Get dressed.”
“What are we doing?”
“Whatever we want.” He smirks and then shuts the door behind him.
After I shower and pull my hair together, I match his leisurely attire and opt for jeans and a fitted top. When I walk out into the living room, he stands with my jacket already in his hands.
“You’re up to no good,” I tease.
“You look stunning.”
“Yeah,” I quip. “You’re definitely up to no good.”
Once we reach the lobby, he leads me out to the busy streets of The Loop and hails a cab.
“A cab? Where’s your car?”
“We’re lying low today. Trust me,” he says when he opens the door for me. I scoot across the back seat and Declan tells the cabbie, “Navy Pier.”
“Navy Pier?”
“You ever been?”
“Oddly, no. You?” I ask.
“No.”
“So why are we going?”
“Why not?”
His spontaneity makes me smile, and I make the mindful choice to hand myself over to him today. Because, after all, he’s the reason I keep going.
We’re among all the tour
ists when we hop out of the cab. Two people who blend in with all the others. We walk hand in hand into a souvenir shop and look at all the trinkets, and Declan thinks he’s cute when he buys me a cheesy Chicago shirt that reads It’s better in the bleachers across the front.
“Wasted money.”
He takes the shirt and slips it over my head, saying, “Then you better wear it and not let it go to waste.”
He pulls it down, and when I push my arms out of the sleeves, he takes a step back and smiles.
“Are you happy now?”
He laughs, “You look cute.”
With a roll of my eyes, I join in with a light chuckle. He’s blithe and lighthearted, and it’s refreshing to see this side of him. We’ve had so many days filled with dark clouds and suffocating emotions, but to see that rays of light can break through those clouds gives me hope for us.
We walk along the water enjoying the spring breeze. He buys me a funnel cake when I tell him I’ve never tasted one and then licks the powdered sugar off my lips after I inhale the fried treat. When I’m thoroughly buzzed with sweet carbs, he takes me up to the Ferris wheel.
“Come on.”
“No way, Declan. That is way too high.”
“What are you saying? Tough-as-nails Elizabeth is scared of heights?”
“Umm . . . yeah,” I admit with my head craned back, looking up at the enormous wheel.
“It’s a Ferris wheel!” he exclaims.
“Yes. I know this,” I say, and with my arm up towards it, I exasperate, “and it’s a deathtrap!”
He shakes his head, laughing, “It’s the mildest ride here.”
“Don’t care. You’re not getting me on that thing.”
He releases a heavy sigh and succumbs. “All right. No Ferris wheel.” Taking my hand, he says, “I’ve got something better in mind.”
We make our way over to a small fishing vendor pavilion on the north dock. With bait and rods in hand, we find a spot to cast our lines.
“Give me your rod and I’ll hook the bait for you.”
“I’m capable of hooking it myself,” I say with a confident air.
“Go for it, darling.”
His eyes watch as I dunk my hand into the bait bucket, pull out a shiner, and pierce the hook through it.
