by Roy, Deanna
“In the nursery. But I can’t go in there.”
“I’ll do it.” I laid the bra next to her.
I didn’t really want to go into Finn’s room either, but I guessed this was what Corabelle’s father had talked about. Doing what needed to be done. Be there for her. Getting the pads would upset her. Not getting them would too. I just had to accept the no-win situation for what it was.
The door stuck, and I had to push to get it to open. The movement of air made the butterflies on the mobile over the crib start to dance.
The wall was lined with our drawings of the sea, carefully stored by Corabelle’s mom until a month ago. We’d tacked up the yellowing paper covered in crayon to remind us of where we’d been, where we were going. I didn’t know what we were doing now.
Most of the consumables we’d bought already were in a little changing table one of our neighbors had loaned us. A package of newborn Pampers. Wipes. Corabelle’s parents picked up things here and there, and we tried to keep it all organized, knowing that when Finn came our system would fall apart to late nights and exhaustion.
We’d had no idea how hard it could all fall apart.
I found the package of nursing pads and pulled out a pair, judged their thickness, and took two more. The milk refusing to dry up was another insult.
When I got back to the bedroom, Corabelle was curled on the bed in her underwear, the black dress on the floor. I sat next to her. “We have to get ready, baby. We’re supposed to meet your parents in twenty minutes.”
“The dress doesn’t fit,” she said.
“Is it an old dress?”
“I wore it to Uncle Ben’s funeral last year.”
“You’ve had a baby since then.”
She rolled on her belly, her face pressed into the pillow.
“Corabelle, you’re perfect.”
Her voice was muffled. “I’m pathetic, leaky, fat, and I have no baby.”
I tried touching her shoulder, but she jerked like I had burned her. “Can I go buy you something else to wear?”
“In twenty minutes?”
“Let me see it on you.” I pulled her back to sitting and retrieved the dress. She stuck the pads in her bra, this terrible dead look in her eyes, as I figured out which end was which and dropped it over her head.
She was right, though. The front was tight on her swollen chest. “Maybe a jacket could cover it?” I asked.
She flung herself back on the bed. “Make this day be over.”
“We’ll get through it.”
“I don’t want to go through it.”
Her phone buzzed but she ignored it. I picked it up. “Your parents are asking if we’ve left.”
“Screw them.”
“Corabelle, come on.”
My tone must have set something off in her as she jumped up, tugging the dress down. “I don’t want to come on! I don’t want to go! I want him to be fine! I don’t want to see him in that horrible blue coffin!”
Sobs overtook her then, and I did my best to hold on to her even as she stiffened when I pulled her in. I had no idea what I was doing. I needed a rule book, something to tell me what to do and when to do it.
“We’re going to make it through this,” I said.
I led her into the living room, hoping to get her out the door. She didn’t have shoes. “Hold on,” I said and raced back to the closet. She seemed to have forgotten the tightness of the dress, and I hoped I could at least get her to her parents. They were doing a better job of helping her than I was.
I found a pair of black pumps and took them out to her. I didn’t think I could get her in them at that moment, so I just led her out to the Camaro barefoot. We could put them on when we got there.
In a town as small as Deming, we didn’t have far to go. I felt conspicuous, driving along the streets, feeling like every passerby was staring at us, the parents of the dead baby.
They were judging us. They wondered what we had done to deserve this. I could feel them backing away, wanting to avoid the bad luck in case it was catching.
Corabelle’s parents were waiting in front of the doors of the funeral home. I was sick of that place, its brick walls and white columns, the smell of rotting flowers, and the employees’ fake sympathy. I imagined my car crashing through the front doors, glass shattering, walls splintering. I tamped down the rage and parked.
Mrs. Rotheford rushed to the car and opened the door. She leaned down to put the shoes on Corabelle’s feet. “Come on now, baby, let’s get inside.” She pulled her daughter from the car.
Her father stepped up to help, and Corabelle was flanked by her parents, leaving no room for me. I felt like I was the cause of all the misery but no part of the solution.
When we entered the foyer, my own parents stood up from the sofa. My mother dabbed her eyes with a tissue. My father looked positively jovial, like we were celebrating a holiday.
“I just saw Finn,” Mom said. “He looks so sweet in his little duck pajamas.”
Corabelle’s head snapped up. “It’s supposed to be the frog ones!” She shot out of the room and toward the chapel, her parents hurrying after her.
My father rolled his eyes. “Not like it matters, frogs or ducks.” He rocked back on his heels. “At least you don’t have to be stuck with her now.”
I took three steps toward him with the absolute intention of knocking him flat. I didn’t have anything to lose. Everything that mattered was already gone.
But my sister ran around the corner, a bunch of daisies in her hands, and I stopped. She still had to live with them.
“Gavin, Gavin!” she cried and crashed into me. “I’m not an auntie anymore. Daddy said so.”
I pressed her face into my belly, scowling at my father. “You’ll always be an aunt,” I said.
“But Daddy said—”
“Daddy’s a big fat asshole.”
She looked up at me with big wide eyes. My mother came forward and grasped her by the shoulders. “We’re going to look around,” she said.
My father tugged on the sleeves of his charcoal jacket, a size too small. “Lookit who’s deciding to be an asshole at his own kid’s funeral.”
“I don’t want you here.”
“You don’t get to pick your family.”
“I sure as hell wouldn’t pick you.” My face threatened to explode from the pressure.
My father glared at me. “You want to take a potshot at me?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Go ahead. I’ll give you a freebie.”
My hands were fisted, so ready to break his jaw. “I’m not like you. I don’t pick on people more pathetic than me.”
He laughed. “Oh, Gavin. You act like you were some great son.”
I had to walk away from this. Had to. “I’d appreciate it if you would leave,” I said, and headed back toward the chapel.
“You’re just a chip off the old block,” he called after me. “No sense denying it.”
I kept walking.
When I entered the room, Corabelle looked up from the coffin. “He’s in the wrong pajamas!”
“It’s okay, baby,” her mother said. “The duck ones are just as lovely.”
I didn’t really want to approach the box that held Finn, the lid open and a spray of purple hyacinths covering the lower half.
But I did. He looked nothing like he had in the hospital. His cheeks were colored pink, his mouth stitched closed. They had rearranged his lips to sit more naturally together, even though they had been formed to the tube when we held him that last time.
The pajamas were slightly too big, tucked beneath him. I was sure if I could see his legs, the footed part would dangle off the end. But I said none of this. “I think there are more ducks than frogs in the ocean.”
Corabelle laid her head on my shoulder, and I relaxed. This was just a ritual. A bit of time to pass. Maybe when it was behind us, she would be better. Maybe I would figure out something to say.
The minister came in with his black su
it and white collar, a pale face topped with scant wisps of blond hair. “Lovely boy,” he said, gazing down at the coffin, and I wondered how many babies he had seen in boxes.
“Thank you for coming,” Mrs. Rotheford said.
“Of course. I understand the other grandparents are here?” He looked around.
“Not if I have anything to do about it.” My voice was a growl, and Corabelle lifted her head to gaze at me.
“Family is the most important part at times like these,” the minister said.
“Not mine.”
“There’s Alaina and sweet June,” Mrs. Rotheford said, turning to the back of the room.
My sister ran forward and crashed into Corabelle’s mother. “Daddy says I’m not an auntie anymore.”
This seemed to make Corabelle waver, and I steadied her as her body swayed.
“Of course you’re an auntie,” Mrs. Rotheford said, looking at my mother questioningly.
Mom waved her handkerchief. “You know Robert.”
“Can you see Finn?” Mrs. Rotheford asked June. “Do you want to?”
June shook her head, still buried in the folds of the dress.
Mrs. Rotheford patted her back. “That’s okay.” She looked past me, then tensed. I knew before I turned around what she was seeing.
“Robert,” she said. “Good to see you.”
He didn’t answer, stopping at the end of the rows of chairs. If he said something nasty about Finn, he would be dead. I would kill him. I would not spare a single blow.
“Don’t you have a jacket, boy?” he said. “You’re running around such a solemn occasion looking like a bum.”
“Robert,” Mom said. “Don’t start.”
He took off his own jacket and tossed it at me. I would have let it hit the floor, but Corabelle watched with such wounded eyes that I caught it in one hand.
“Well, put it on,” he said.
I looked to Corabelle for what to do. She just stared up at me, worried, I knew, about my father’s explosive moods.
“It’ll be nice, Gavin,” Mrs. Rotheford said, her hand still on my sister’s dark head.
I shoved an arm into one of the sleeves, repulsed by the smell of my father’s cologne on the collar. He smirked at me as I shrugged it on. “Looks like you need to grow into it, son.”
The shoulders were too wide, making me look like a kid playing dress-up.
“Now, now,” the minister said. “Let’s go over the parts of the service.”
He droned on, but I didn’t pay the least bit of attention. Corabelle focused on his every word, concentrating, I knew, because it was easier than thinking.
The room had no windows, just partitions between sections to make the chapel bigger or smaller to match the crowd. We didn’t expect many people to be here for Finn, just a few neighbors and classmates maybe.
The minister closed his book with a snap. “And that’s when we’ll do the slide show,” he said. “The soundman will play the song you picked out, and the parents and grandparents will leave first.”
My father sat on one of the chairs, popping his knuckles.
“Let’s go find a cookie,” Mom said, tugging June along. “Robert, you could probably use something to drink.”
“I’ll say,” he said, jumping up out of the chair.
Mom flashed him a look that said, “Don’t start.”
At least he never knocked her or June around. If he did, I would have buried him before I was twelve or died trying. Mom always accepted his explanations for my discipline, as he called it. She preferred patching me up to trying to get in his way.
When they were gone, I sank onto one of the seats, not sure I was up for comforting anyone, deep in my own hole.
Mrs. Rotheford tried to lead Corabelle away from the casket, but she refused, saying, “When they close the lid, I will never see him again!”
The minister patted her back. Mr. Rotheford stepped forward from his spot by the podium and pulled his wife close. I knew I should go up there, do something, be there for her, but the familiar buzz was coursing through me, anger simmering, trying to spew out.
I was not meant to be a father. The world didn’t need another asshole hothead.
I realized that if I followed that line of thought, I was saying Finn would have been like me, another kid with a bad-tempered dad who fucked him up. And then he’d be one.
The world had broken the chain, chosen for us.
One of the black suits came down the aisle. “Guests are arriving,” he said. “Shall we begin seating them?”
Mrs. Rotheford nodded.
“If you’d like to follow me, I can take you to a family room,” he said, gesturing toward a side door.
“I am NOT leaving Finn.” Corabelle clutched the side of the coffin like she was never going to let go.
Time for me to help. I came up behind her and put my arms around her waist. “Let’s go wait.”
Her head fell forward, her back starting to shake as she sobbed. “Don’t let them close it until I’m ready. Promise you won’t let them close it.”
“I won’t,” I said. “You’ll get to be the last one to say good-bye.”
She turned around to me, her forehead resting on my collarbone. “Okay. I’ll go.”
Relief washed over me. I had envisioned her refusing to leave, standing by the casket the whole service. I led her out the door behind the funeral home employee.
Behind us, mournful music started playing over speakers. The organ dirge faded as we walked down the hall, and I thought we had escaped it, but when we arrived in the small room lined with sofas, I realized the same song was piped in.
Corabelle and I sat on a flowered loveseat.
“Should I locate the other family members?” the man asked.
“No,” I said. “No way.”
The man’s face didn’t register any change of expression. “I’ll come for you when it’s time.” He nodded solemnly and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Despite what I’d said about my family, I did wish for June, a happy distraction, as we sat there and stared at the floor.
Corabelle made whimpering noises, trying to hold in her sobs. I felt my heart was disintegrating, piece by piece.
After an eternity of silence, one organ song blending into the next, the black suit returned and said, “It is time.”
Corabelle seemed numb by then, standing as she was told, letting me hold her shoulders and direct her through the door, down the hall, and up the aisle. When we got to the front, she didn’t turn toward the chairs, walking as though she were going to go stand by the casket again.
I led her gently to the front row. I wished we had long benches like in churches rather than separate chairs, as I couldn’t keep her as close as I wanted.
My parents were seated on the other side of the aisle, my father with his arm on the back of Mom’s chair, casual, like they were at a concert. My anger bubbled up again at his smug expression. He clearly didn’t give a shit that we were burying my son, his grandson.
I tried to think back to his father, my grandfather, but I couldn’t pull up any memories. He’d died of cirrhosis of the liver when I was four. My grandfather on my mother’s side was more typical, kind and funny and always bringing me little gifts like the geode we’d split in half.
Maybe my father had a bad father, and maybe he thought he would do better, then didn’t. Mom didn’t talk much about their courtship, but there had to be something to him that made her marry him. And I guess he was different with her, and with June, more funny, lighthearted. Something about me was always what triggered him.
I tried to imagine what I’d do if Finn had done something bad, broken a window or stolen a pack of gum from the grocer. As much as I didn’t think I’d blow, clearly it was in me, that slow burn that just ignited.
The world knew what it was doing.
The minister droned on. Corabelle watched the coffin, probably not registering any more than I was. I tri
ed to focus in. This was all Finn would get, his baptism, his funeral. I should pay attention.
“God’s will is a mystery to all of us.” The minister looked over the smattering of people in the chairs. “But we know Finn rests safely in the hands of the Almighty, and will know no pain or suffering in this world.”
He’d just said all the things I was thinking. Finn had been spared. Been saved from me. I glanced at Corabelle again, so pale and fragile, barely sitting up in her chair. Her dress was damp, I could see. I hadn’t even helped with that. I’d been useless. Pointless. And quite possibly, a threat to the well-being of her children.
“God speaks to us on the matter of death and sin in Romans 6, verse 23.” The minister laid his finger on the open book in his hand. “The wages of sin is death.”
His words crashed over me like the walls had collapsed. He went on, but I couldn’t hear any more of the verse. The wages of sin is death.
Finn’s death was the wages of sin.
Not Corabelle’s sin. She was his mother. She had done nothing wrong. She was innocent of everything.
But I was not. I had a family history. A black mark. And I’d tempted her, over and over again, until we’d hit disaster. It was right that I was the one to sign the papers taking him off life support. I was the one who would have ruined him, like my father clearly had ruined me.
The minister bowed his head to pray but I kept my head up and turned to my old man. He didn’t look down either and rolled his eyes when he caught my gaze. The burn began again. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to be in pain. This was no way to live around anyone I could harm, and certainly not for children. I would never have any. I would not do that.
Corabelle reached for my hand and clutched it. I bowed then with her, knowing she needed me to assimilate, to do what was expected.
The minister raised his hands. “And now for a final blessing for Finn Mays as he makes his way to Our Father.”
One of the black suits walked toward the casket. I thought at first he was just stepping up to escort us out as soon as the minister finished his rousing finale, but instead he moved toward the coffin. Before I realized his intention, he had lowered the rod holding up the lid of the coffin and dropped it down.
