by Rae, Nikki
“He wouldn't want either of you to be sad,” Myles continues, and he reaches across the table to place a hand on top of mine.
Finally, I feel brave enough to look at him, and when I do, his expression is almost a mirror of my own.
“Okay,” I choke out around a lump in my throat. I sniff again. “Thank you.”
He nods. There's something in his body language that tells me that he wants to hug me, but I know if he does, I'll just start crying again. Right now, with only a short amount of time before we have to leave, I don't want to fall apart.
Without any other words exchanged between us, I finish my granola bar and drink about half of my tea while Myles drinks his.
When it’s time to go, I shrug on my trench coat and slip on my glasses. Myles grabs his keys and we walk to the car. We don't play music on the way there, which usually makes me nervous. But the only sound I can seem to handle right now is the air coming out of the vents in front of my seat and the tiny jingle of his keys whenever we turn onto a different street.
The funeral home is one that I've never been to before. When we walk inside, the room is bright and cheery. There are fake lavender flowers in vases and there's off-white wallpaper.
There are a few people that I don’t recognize wearing suits and black dresses. I’m not sure if it’s the trench coat and sunglasses or my expression when I take them off that causes them take one look at me and the avert their gazes to something else.
The only indication that this is a room for someone who has died are the photos. On stands, there are pictures of Stevie painting, Stevie laughing. There's one of Stevie and Jade at the boardwalk in front of the Ferris wheel. Their arms are around each other, my brother's chin is resting in Stevie’s thick black curls and Stevie’s staring directly at the camera.
Between the two tables of photographs is a wooden podium, and when my eyes travel past it, they settle on a small wooden box on the table to its right. Plain and something that seems like it would be impossible to hold Stevie. How can something so small encase someone who was such a big part of our lives? Someone who was so much bigger than that box, or these pictures, or any of these sad, crying people in this small, happy room.
I spot Boo and Trei sitting in the third row from the front of the room, so Myles and I sit next to them.
“Hey,” Trei says to me, playing with the hem of her dark brown dress.
“Hey,” I answer back.
The rest of my family files in. Laura is wearing a black dress almost identical to everyone else’s, Adam is wearing a suit that looks like everyone else's’, and Mom is wearing a grey shirt and a short black skirt. Laura sits down next to Boo as Mom and Adam take the row behind us. I’m guessing someone’s watching Leena because she’s not here. I’m grateful she doesn’t have to be.
Adam places a hand on my shoulder. When I turn to him he has nothing to say. He just wanted to show me that he’s here. Mom says nothing. Laura gives me an uncomfortable smile.
“Sorry about the car,” I whisper in her direction.
“It’s okay,” she whispers back.
There’s music playing somewhere behind us. It’s that Sarah McLachlan song they play during those commercials that tell you that there’s kittens and puppies being abused in some part of the country and you have to give them money so you can make people stop hurting them. Not only is it sad and making everything so much worse, it sucks.
If Stevie heard this song, he'd gag.
I don’t pay attention for too long because I notice my brother walking into the room. He’s wearing a suit, but under the jacket is one of Stevie’s beat up shirts with paint splatters on it. Jade’s cheeks are red and his eyes are swollen. I just want to get up and hug him, but a heavy man and woman with dark hair catch him before he’s close enough.
I’ve only seen them once or twice, but I recognize them as Stevie’s parents. They hook into him and guide him to a row of chairs on the opposite side of the room where they sit with a few people I recognize from when Stevie and Jade were in high school and would bring them over our house.
Myles notices where I’m staring and squeezes my hand for a second before letting it go.
Before I can worry about it, the song is cut short and a man wearing a robe and sash stands in the front of the room, next to the table with the box.
He talks for a few seconds before I recognize him as some kind of holy man. I'm not religious at all. Mom never really took us to church or anything like that. So when he opens his book and starts reading, other people respond with their “pray for us”s and their “amen”s, but I feel like I'm in a play and never learned my lines.
When the Father-priest-guy is done, he gives everyone a chance to stand and say something if they want to.
There's a silence so clear and clean then that I'm afraid to stand up. Even if I did, I don't know how I would say what I want to say. I can only see him in profile, but Jade is busy wiping away tears, suffering beyond anything I could ever imagine. That's probably one of the reasons why he's not sitting with me. He wouldn't want me to see.
Everyone suddenly turns their attention to the person sitting next to me. I didn’t expect Myles to get up and stand in front of the room, but that's exactly what he does.
He clears his throat before he speaks, staring down at his hands that grip the sides of the wood, but he eventually starts talking and the few intermittent whispers die down.
“My name is Myles,” he says. “And I didn’t know Stevie for that long, but what I did learn from him was that he was always happy.”
I can hear the people around me sniffling, agreeing with him, pulling tissues from the complimentary boxes strewn around the place.
“I'm a person who has seen a lot of sadness and a lot of people die,” he continues. “And when people die, it isn't supposed to happen like this. People who are young and healthy and just starting their lives, just learning about the world and what it can give them, don't deserve to die.”
Myles clears his throat.
“But,” he says. “Stevie wouldn't want any of us to be sad. This is something that the people he loved should not have to endure, but we have to. And we have to keep living because he can’t.”
Now Myles looks directly at Jade, who has managed to wipe his face clean and stare back at him. “Stevie loved you, Jade,” he says, and the way that he says it makes Jade stop sniffling for a few moments.
Jade nods.
After a few moments, Myles says, “Thank you,” and sits back down next to me. He places a hand on my knee and kisses my temple. I don't bother wiping the tears away from my face. They'll only be replaced by new ones.
Jade goes next. He stands behind the podium, staring at the surface of it like he's written a speech there. “I. . .” he starts, but he has to take a few minutes to steady himself before continuing.
“I tried to sit down and put everything I felt into words that I could read for everyone that showed up today.” His voice shakes, bends, and cracks, but he goes on.
“But I couldn't.” Jade takes in a breath and lets it out slowly. “I met Stevie in high school. He was the only other person at the time that I felt like I could talk to, connect with, and feel like I didn’t have to put on an act for. He saw me, all of me, for who I was.”
Jade swallows hard. “And he loved whatever he saw. I'm still not sure what such a person saw in someone as ordinary as me.”
His voice is beginning to fold, but he takes in a deep breath, straightens out the frown that’s taking over his mouth and stopping his words.
“Myles is right,” he says suddenly, and a few people glance at the seat on my right. I squeeze his hand now. “Stevie would want us to keep going. He always said that bad things happen. You can feel bad about the events that happen in life, or you can try to live through them and come out on the other side someone different and better.”
Jade closes his eyes for a long few seconds, and the skin between his eyebrows wrinkles as he tries to ho
ld in a sob that only comes out sounding choked.
“And I hope that I come out on the other side of this someone he would be proud of,” Jade says. “I hope that I can be that person for him.”
The sound of more tissues being pulled from boxes. Stevie’s parents have their arms around each other. Boo and Trei are a mess to my left, Myles is holding my hand on my right.
I sit and take all of it in. I don't try to think of other things to distract myself, I don't try to shut out what I feel. I don't try to stop crying. I take tissues when Trei hands them to me. I let the lurching in my stomach peak and settle with the words everyone else is saying once my brother takes his seat again.
Then it’s over.
People start shuffling about, the same horrible music begins again from the back of the room. This time, it’s some opera singer.
I hang back by the small boom box with Myles, impatiently waiting for whatever is going to happen next.
Boo and Trei find us first. Boo is rolling up the sleeves of his navy dress shirt and Trei is still trying to fix the makeup under her eyes. A chill runs through me and I’m not sure why, but Myles takes off his dress jacket and places it over my shoulders, despite the fact that I have my trench coat balled in my hands.
“So,” Boo breaks the silence. “How are you doing?”
I shrug.
“I heard you got a little color,” he jokes weakly.
I lift up my hair to show him the red skin on my neck and the side of my face.
Boo issues a low whistle, almost sounding normal. “That sucks.”
“You feel okay?” Trei says, and her tone tells me that she’s not talking about the injuries. Her red eyes give away that she’s been feeling less than okay too.
I shrug again.
Laura, Adam, and Mom find us next. Adam wraps his hand around my back, but I can tell he can’t talk yet. That’s fine. Mom does enough for the both of them.
“What a beautiful service,” she says. “I think Myles did a great job,” she says. “Why didn’t you say anything?” she asks me.
I’m not going to give her an answer. I’m too busy looking for Jade through the sea of people.
“We have to get going,” I hear Adam say. “Leena’s with a babysitter.” He kisses my forehead, then Laura’s.
Then finally, after not seeing him in days, my brother appears at my side, missing the other person who should be next to him.
“God,” he says, wiping his face, and with it, any trace that anything out of the ordinary is going on. “What the fuck is this music?”
I laugh half-heartedly, but it’s a small relief. Whatever’s been wound up so tight in my chest and preventing me from speaking unwinds.
“So,” he says after a minute, and I realize that there’s barely anyone else left in the room. “When do we leave for New York?”
Boo answers before anyone else. “We didn’t think we should.”
Jade smiles the tiniest bit. “Stevie,” and he has to pause for a moment to gather himself. “Loved Radiohead.”
“We can’t,” Trei says. “They bumped up another band.”
Jade glances at Myles. “Don’t you have connections?”
Myles smiles a little. “I have a friend that could work something out.”
My brother grabs hold of my hand, and I stare into his eyes first, then my band mates’.
“Are you sure?” I ask Myles.
“Positive.”
I take one last look around at the white and purple room. The muffled music drones on and people I don’t know file in and out of the room.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”
Covered
Chapter 13
“Please, don’t cry, you liar.”—Mumford & Sons
We arrive at Midnight at six because we left during rush hour. Myles talks to Jamie on the way there, and by the time we get to the club, everything is worked out, like we never cancelled in the first place.
Like nothing happened.
“Are you okay?” Myles asks as we’re parking across the street from Midnight. We hadn’t talked since Laura, Jade, and Trei piled into Boo’s van and I got back into Myles’ jeep. I was hoping I could ride with Jade, but we kind of just scattered and got into whatever car was closest.
Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe it’s better that I didn’t ride with him. I wouldn’t have been able to keep myself from asking him what happened. Why would he text me to come to the hospital just to send me away when I got there? How is he? I just want things to be back to normal. Knowing that it’ll never happen doesn’t change that.
I shrug for the fortieth time today.
“Are you sure you want to go on?” he asks.
There’s already people filing around the building, waiting for the doors to open.
“This is the only thing I know how to do.” It’s probably the longest sentence I’ve said in two days. “I have to.”
He nods.
Then we get out of the car and cut in front of the short line forming to get into the club.
Boo and Trei follow us in seconds later, Jade and Laura trailing behind them.
Jamie’s there to greet us amidst the stage crew setting up the instruments and lighting and checking the sound for us.
“Glad you could make it,” he says, sarcasm laced into the words. “Boo, Trei,” he says, turning their way. “If you could sound check your instruments first, we’re ready for that.” Then he turns back to me. “Evan was wanting to speak to you in his office,” he says.
“Okay,” Trei answers with Boo following her to the stage.
Jamie motions for me to follow him, and I give Myles a glance before I turn away, but his expression is just as confused as mine.
It doesn’t last long, because he turns toward my brother and sister and says, “You ever sit in the balcony?”
They follow my boyfriend up the stairs as I head down the hall.
“So what does Evan need to see me about?” I ask Jamie. “Is he mad about us cancelling and then un-cancelling?”
Jamie tucks his ever-present clipboard under his arm. “Who knows,” he says. Once we’re at the door, he knocks three times. “God knows the crew and the band that was replacing you is a little miffed about it, but you have priority”
I’m about to ask him what his problem is, but Evan’s muffled voice tells us to come in before I can. Jamie doesn’t follow me inside.
“Hello, Sophie,” Evan says from the desk. He’s wearing a hunter green, long sleeved dress shirt under a suit-like jacket and his hair is in the usual low ponytail at the base of his head.
I hear the door shut softly behind me. “Hey.”
“Is it true that you are playing?” I inch over to the desk, deciding on sitting in the chair because he looks like he wants to talk about something.
“Yeah,” I say, uneasy. “Why? Is it on too short notice?”
Evan stands and walks around the desk until he’s standing in front of me. “No,” he says. His brown eyes fix themselves somewhere on my right temple. “Of course not.”
“Okay,” I say just to say something. “So what's up?”
He takes the seat next to me and turns so we're facing each other. He leans forward, folding his hands in a teepee in front of him when he rests his elbows on his knees. Instinctively, I lean back against the leather chair so we aren't as close.
“I heard about what happened,” he says.
I was kind of expecting him to mention it sooner or later, but I was kind of praying it would have been later. Like way later. Way after the show, after tonight, maybe even a month or a year from now. Once the sentence has left his mouth, I find myself unprepared and fresh tears spring up in my eyes.
He's picked at a scab that wasn’t healed enough, and now I'm bleeding all over the place.
Will it always be like this? The wound heals, only to be reopened?
I get so caught up in the question that I don’t realize Evan coming even closer. I don't ca
re when his face is right near my head, studying me in a way I've never been looked at before. Like I’m cracking and he can see that the pieces are held together with the thinnest of threads and he’s waiting for them to fray.
I don't want to cry in front of him. Dear God, please.
For a moment, I think he's going to touch me, try to gesture in some way to make me feel better and keep the tears from seeping through my eyelids every time I blink.
So it comes as more than just a shock when he finally says, “I can help you.”
I swallow, my mouth and throat dry. But I slowly turn my head toward him, moving away again so we're not as close.
“What do you mean?” I whisper.
Evan leans back, maybe sensing my unease at the proximity between the two of us.
“I know what you are feeling,” he says. “I can sense the hurt and loss coming off of you. I cannot imagine what is going on in your mind as well.”
I have to blink a few times.
“I'm okay,” I say, and I don't even know if I'm lying at this point, or simply oblivious to how my own body is reacting to traumatic events.
“I'm doing better.” I shrug. That part isn't exactly a lie. At least I'm eating and talking and trying. I'm trying to keep it together so I can play tonight. I'm doing better and I can do this.
My own sobbing is pathetic, but I can't stop it when it comes. It’s a flood of salt water, washing over me and crashing through my body. I can't stop myself from being pulled with it.
Evan doesn't stir or move an inch through it all. When it seems that the tide has gone down, he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and hands me a faded yellow handkerchief. My shaking hand reaches forward because I don't know what else to do.
“Thanks,” I mutter when the crying has died down to a sniffling. “Sorry,” I add on, looking at the floor.
Evan leans in again, slower this time so he doesn't startle me. When I glance at him, his eyes are searching my face. I expect him to say something like it's okay, or that everything will be fine, but he doesn't. He doesn't say anything. As more and more time begins ticking away—seconds, minutes—I suddenly realize that maybe he’s waiting for me to talk.
