“You answered too quickly,” she told me.
“The fastest answer is always the truest.”
“I miss him,” she said, her voice lowering, communicating her pain over the loss of my father. In many ways, Kent Russell was a best friend to millions through his storybooks, his inspirational speeches, and the persona and brand he sold to the world. I would’ve missed him too if I didn’t know the man he truly was in the privacy of his home.
“You miss him because you never actually knew him. Stop moping over a man who’s not worth your time.”
“No,” she said sharply, her voice heightened with pain. Her eyes started to water over as they’d been doing for the past few days. “You don’t get to do that, Graham. You don’t get to undermine my hurt. Your father was a good man to me. He was good to me when you were cold, and he stood up for you every time I wanted to leave, so you don’t get to tell me to stop moping. You don’t get to define the kind of sadness I feel,” she said, full-blown emotion taking over her body as she shook with a flood of tears falling from her eyes.
I tilted my head toward her, confused by her sudden outburst, but then my eyes fell to her stomach.
Hormonal mess.
“Whoa,” I muttered, a bit stunned.
She sat up straight. “What was that?” she asked, a bit frightened.
“I think you just had an emotional breakdown over the death of my father.”
She took a breath and groaned. “Oh my God, what’s wrong with me? These hormones are making me a mess. I hate everything about being pregnant. I swear I’m getting my tubes tied after this.” She stood up, trying to pull herself together, and wiped away her tears as she took more deep breaths. “Can you at least do me one favor today?”
“What’s that?”
“Can you pretend you’re sad at the funeral? People will talk if they see you smiling.”
I gave her a tight fake frown.
She rolled her eyes. “Good, now repeat after me: my father was truly loved, and he will be missed dearly.”
“My father was truly a dick, and he won’t be missed at all.”
She patted my chest. “Close enough. Now go get dressed.”
Standing up, I grumbled the whole way.
“Oh! Did you order the flowers for the service?” Jane hollered my way as I slid my white T-shirt over my head and tossed it onto the bathroom floor.
“All five thousand dollars’ worth of useless plants for a funeral that will be over in a few hours.”
“People will love them,” she told me.
“People are stupid,” I replied, stepping into the burning water falling from the showerhead. In the water, I tried my best to think of what type of eulogy I’d deliver for the man who was a hero to many but a devil to myself. I tried to dig up memories of love, moments of care, seconds of pride he’d delivered me, but I came up blank. Nothing. No real feelings could be found.
The heart inside my chest—the one he’d helped harden—remained completely numb.
“Here lies Mari Joy Palmer, a giver of love, peace, and happiness. It’s a shame the way she left the world. It was sudden, unspeakable, and more painful than I’d ever thought it would be.” I stared down at Mari’s motionless body and wiped the back of my neck with a small towel. The early morning sun beamed through the windows as I tried my best to catch my breath.
“Death by hot yoga.” Mari sighed, inhaling deeply and exhaling unevenly.
I laughed. “You’re going to have to get up, Mari. They have to set up for the next class.” I held my hand out toward my sister, who was lying in a puddle of sweat. “Let’s go.”
“Go on without me,” she said theatrically, waving her invisible flag. “I surrender.”
“Oh no you don’t. Come on.” I grabbed her arms and pulled her to a standing position, with her resisting the whole way up. “You went through chemotherapy, Mari. You can handle hot yoga.”
“I don’t get it,” she whined. “I thought yoga was supposed to make you feel grounded and bring about peace, not buckets of sweat and disgusting hair.”
I smirked, looking at her shoulder-length hair that was frizzy and knotted on top of her head. She’d been in remission for almost two years now, and we’d been living our lives to the fullest ever since then, including opening the flower shop.
After quick showers at the yoga studio, we headed outside, and when the summer sun kissed our skin and blinded us, Mari groaned. “Why the heck did we decide to ride our bikes here today? And why is six AM hot yoga even a thing we’d consider?”
“Because we care about our health and well-being, and want to be in the best shape of our lives,” I mocked. “Plus, the car’s in the shop.”
She rolled her eyes. “Is this the point where we bike to a café and get donuts and croissants before work?”
“Yup!” I said, unlocking my bike from the pole and hopping onto it.
“And by donuts and croissants do you mean…?”
“Green kale drinks? Yes, yes, I do.”
She groaned again, this time louder. “I liked you better when you didn’t give a crap about your health and just ate a steady diet of candy and tacos.”
I smiled and started pedaling. “Race you!”
I beat her to Green Dreams—obviously—and when she made it inside, she draped her body across the front counter. “Seriously, Lucy—regular yoga, yes, but hot yoga?” She paused, taking a few deep breaths. “Hot yoga can go straight back to hell where it came from to die a long painful death.”
A worker walked over to us with a bright smile. “Hey, ladies! What can I get for you?”
“Tequila, please,” Mari said, finally raising her head from the countertop. “You can put it in a to-go cup if you want. Then I can drink it on the way to work.”
The waitress stared at my sister blankly, and I smirked. “We’ll take two green machine juices, and two egg and potato breakfast wraps.”
“Sounds good. Would you like whole wheat, spinach, or flaxseed wraps?” she asked.
“Oh, stuffed crust pizza will do just fine,” Mari replied. “With a side of chips and queso.”
“Flaxseed.” I laughed. “We’ll have the flaxseed.”
When our food came out, we grabbed a table, and Mari dived in as if she hadn’t eaten in years. “So,” she started, her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. “How’s Richard?”
“He’s good,” I said, nodding. “Busy, but good. Our apartment currently looks like a tornado blew through it with his latest work, but he’s good. Since he found out he’s having a showcase at the museum in a few months, he’s been in panic mode trying to create something inspiring. He’s not sleeping, but that’s Richard.”
“Men are weird, and I can’t believe you’re actually living with one.”
“I know.” I laughed. It had taken me over five years to finally move in with Richard, mainly because I didn’t feel comfortable leaving Mari’s side when she got sick. We’d been living together for the past four months, and I loved it. I loved him. “Remember what Mama used to say about men moving in with women?”
“Yes—the second they get comfortable enough to take their shoes off in your house and go into your fridge without asking, it’s time for them to go.”
“A smart woman.”
Mari nodded. “I should’ve kept living by her rules after she passed away—maybe then I could’ve avoided Parker.” Her eyes grew heavy for a few seconds before she blinked away her pain and smiled. She hardly talked about Parker since he’d left her over two years ago, but whenever she did, it was as if a cloud of sadness hovered above her. She fought the cloud, though, and never let it release rain for her to wallow in. She did her best to be happy, and for the most part she was, though there were seconds of pain sometimes.
Seconds when she remembered, seconds when she blamed herself, seconds when she felt lonely. Seconds when she allowed her heart to break before she swiftly started piecing it back together.
With every second of
hurt, Mari made it her duty to find a minute of happiness.
“Well, you’re living by her rules now, which is better than never, right?” I said, trying to help her get rid of the cloud above her.
“Right!” she cheered, her eyes finding their joy again. It was odd how feelings worked, how a person could be sad one second and happy another. What amazed me the most was how a person could be both things all within the same second. I believed Mari had a pinch of both emotions in that moment, a little bit of sadness intermingled with her joy.
I thought that was a beautiful way to live.
“So, shall we get to work?” I asked, standing up from my chair. Mari moaned, annoyed, but agreed as she dragged herself back out to her bicycle and started pedaling to our shop.
Monet’s Gardens was mine and my sister’s dream come to life. The shop was fashioned after the paintings of my favorite artist, Claude Monet. When Mari and I finally made it to Europe, I planned to spend a lot of time standing in Monet’s Gardens in Giverny, France.
Prints of his artwork were scattered around the shop, and at times we’d shape floral arrangements to match the paintings. After we signed our lives away with bank loans, Mari and I worked our butts off to open the shop, and it came together swimmingly over time. We almost didn’t even get the shop, but Mari came through with a final loan she tried for. Even though it was a lot of work and took up so much time I never even considered having a social life, I couldn’t really complain about spending my days surrounded by flowers.
The building was small, but big enough to have dozens of different types of flowers, like parrot tulips, lilies, poppies, and of course, roses. We catered to all kinds of functions too; my favorites were weddings, and the worst were funerals.
Today was one of the worst, and it was my turn to drive the delivery truck to drop off the order.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to do the Garrett wedding and you do the Russell funeral?” I asked, getting all the white gladiolus bulbs and white roses organized to move into the truck. The person who’d passed away must’ve been very loved, based on the number of arrangements ordered. There were dozens of white roses for the casket spray, five different cross easels with sashes that said ‘Father’ across them, and dozens of random bouquets to be placed around the church.
It amazed me how beautiful flowers for such a sad occasion could be.
“No, I’m sure. I can help you load up the van, though,” Mari said, lifting up one of the arrangements and heading back to the alleyway where our delivery van was parked.
“If you do the funeral today, I’ll stop dragging you to hot yoga each morning.”
She snickered. “If I had a penny for every time I’d heard that, I’d already be in Europe.”
“No, I swear! No more sweating at six in the morning.”
“That’s a lie.”
I nodded. “Yeah, that’s a lie.”
“And, no more putting off our trip to Europe. We are officially going next summer, right?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.
I groaned. Ever since she got sick two years ago, I’d been putting off taking our trip. My brain knew that she was better, she was healthy and strong, but a small part of my heart feared traveling so far from home with the possibility of something going wrong with her health in a different country.
I swallowed hard and agreed. She smiled wide, pleased, and walked into the back room.
“Which church am I even going to today?” I wondered out loud, jumping onto the computer to pull up the file. I paused and narrowed my eyes as I read the words: UW-Milwaukee Panther Arena.
“Mari,” I hollered. “This says it’s at the arena downtown…is that right?”
She hurried back into the room and peered at the computer then shrugged. “Wow. That explains all the flowers.” She ran her hands through her hair, and I smiled. Every time she did that, my heart overflowed with joy. Her growing hair was a reminder of her growing life, of how lucky we were to be in the place we were. I was so happy the flowers in the truck weren’t for her.
“Yeah, but who has a funeral at an arena?” I asked, confused.
“Must be someone important.”
I shrugged, not thinking too much of it. I arrived at the arena two hours before the ceremony to get everything set up, and the outside of the building was already surrounded with numerous people. I swore there had to be hundreds crowding the downtown streets of Milwaukee, and police officers paced the area.
Individuals were writing notes and posting them on the front steps; some cried while others were engaged in deep conversations.
As I drove the van around to the back to unload the flowers, I was denied access to the actual building by one of the arena workers. He pushed the door open and used his body to block my entrance. “Excuse me, you can’t come in here,” the man told me. “VIP access only.” He had a large headset around his neck, and the way he slightly closed the door behind him to avoid me peering inside made me suspicious.
“Oh, no, I’m just dropping off the flowers for the service,” I started to explain, and he rolled his eyes.
“More flowers?” he groaned, and then he pointed to another door. “The flower drop off is around the corner, third door. You can’t miss it,” he said flatly.
“Okay. Hey, whose funeral is this exactly?” I asked. I stood on my tiptoes and tried to get a peek of what was happening inside.
He shot me a dirty look filled with annoyance. “Around the corner,” he barked before slamming the door shut. I yanked on the door once and frowned.
Locked.
One day I’d stop being so nosey, but obviously that day wasn’t today.
I smiled to myself and mumbled, “Nice meeting you, too.”
When I drove the van around the corner, I realized we weren’t the only floral shop who’d been contacted for this event. Three vans were in line before me, and they weren’t even able to go inside the building; there were employees collecting the flower arrangements at the door. Before I could even put the car in park, workers were at the back, pounding on the back doors for me to open it up. Once I did, they started grabbing the flowers without much care, and I cringed at the way one of the women handled the white rose wreath. She tossed it over her arm, destroying the green Bells of Ireland.
“Careful!” I hollered, but everyone seemed to be deaf.
When finished, they slammed my doors shut, signed my paperwork, and handed me an envelope. “What’s this for?”
“Didn’t they tell you already?” The woman sighed heavily, then placed her hands on her hips. “The flowers are just for show, and the son of Mr. Russell instructed that they be returned to the florists who delivered them after the service. Inside is your ticket for the event, along with a pass to get backstage afterward to collect your flowers. Otherwise they will be tossed.”
“Tossed?” I exclaimed. “How wasteful.”
The woman arched an eyebrow. “Yes, because there was no possible chance the flowers wouldn’t have died all on their own,” she stated sarcastically. “At least now you can resell them.”
Resell funeral flowers? Because that wasn’t morbid.
Before I could reply, she waved me off without a goodbye.
I opened an envelope and found my ticket and a card that read, “After the service, please present this card to pick up the floral arrangements; otherwise they will be disposed of.”
My eyes read the ticket repeatedly.
A ticket.
For a funeral.
Never in my life had I witnessed such an odd event. When I rounded the corner to the main street, I noticed even more people had gathered around and were posting letters to the walls of the building.
My curiosity hit a new high, and after circling around a few times in search of parking, I pulled into a parking structure. I parked the van and climbed out to go see what everyone was doing there and whose funeral was taking place. As I stepped onto the packed sidewalk, I noticed a woman kneeling down, scribbling on a pie
ce of paper.
“Excuse me,” I said, tapping her on the shoulder. She looked up with a bright smile on her face. “I’m sorry to bother you, but…whose funeral is this exactly?”
She stood up, still grinning. “Kent Russell, the author.”
“Oh, no way.”
“Yeah. Everyone’s writing their own eulogies about how he saved their lives and taping them to the side of the building to honor his memory, but between you and me, I’m most excited to see G.M. Russell. It’s a shame it had to be for an event such as this one, though.”
“G.M. Russell? Wait, as in the greatest thriller and horror author of all time?!” I gushed, realization finally setting in. “Oh my gosh! I love G.M. Russell!”
“Wow. Took you long enough to connect those dots. At first I thought your blond hair was dyed that color, but now I see that you are actually a true-blue blonde,” she joked. “It’s such a big event because you know how G.M. is when it comes to public appearances—he hardly makes them. At book events, he doesn’t engage with the readers except for his big fake grin, and he doesn’t ever allow photographs, but today we’ll be able to take pictures of him. This. Is. Big!”
“Fans were invited to attend the funeral?”
“Yeah, Kent put it in his will. All the money is being donated to a children’s hospital. I got solid seats. My best friend Heather was supposed to come with me, but she went into labor—freaking kids ruin everything.”
I laughed.
“Do you want my extra ticket?” she asked. “It’s super close up front. Plus, I’d rather sit beside another G.M. fan than a Papa Russell fan. You’d be shocked by how many people are here for him.” She paused, cocked an eyebrow, and went digging through her purse. “On second thought, maybe not, seeing as how he was the one who croaked and all. Here you go, they’re opening the doors now.” She handed me her spare ticket. “Oh, and my name’s Tori.”
“Lucy,” I said with a smile. I hesitated for a moment, thinking how weird and out of the ordinary attending a stranger’s funeral in an arena was, but then again…G.M. Russell was inside that building, along with my flowers, which were going to be tossed in a few hours.
The Gravity of Us Page 3
