by A. J. Norris
Mikey wanted to hide. Sweat rolled down his temple. His face flushed. “Let’s get going then,” he muttered. God, he dreaded today.
They settled in the car. On the short ride, Brayden remained quiet and stared out the window. Marie made a point not to keep silent.
“How long does it take to get there?”
“The same amount of time it did Tuesday morning.”
Marie covered her chest with her hand. “Well, excuse me, you don’t have to be smart.”
Mikey glanced at her. “I wasn’t.” He was. The light turned red ahead of them and he stopped short. He checked on Brayden in the rear view mirror. His son jerked forward, but still continued looking out the window.
“Have you written the eulogy?” She fanned herself even though the A/C blasted cold air.
Eulogy? Are you out of your mind?
“I’m sorry?”
Marie sighed. “For Brandon’s sake.”
“Brayden. And no, I didn’t write a eulogy.”
“You prepared nothing? You should have prepared something.”
“Why didn’t you?” He flipped on his turn signal.
“Well, I’m her mother.” Her well-I-never tone suggested she thought what he said was outrageous.
“All the more reason. You were closer to her than me. We were divorced, remember?”
“You could still say a few nice things about her.”
I could, but they’d be lies.
He exhaled through his nose. “Marie, it’s best I don’t.”
Mikey made the final turn into the Rose and Son’s Funeral Home parking lot at five minutes to ten. Five cars were parked, one of which was the hearse.
“Did they run the obituary? They must not have put it in the paper. I’ll have to have a word with Mr. Rose. There should be more people here. Don’t you think?” Marie said.
“It ran,” he told her. “It’s not quite ten and not everyone comes to the viewing.” Mikey got out of the car, went around, and held Brayden’s hand.
Inside the mortuary, there proved to be even fewer guests than the five cars suggested. Even Mikey felt badly about the low turnout. Cynthia hadn’t remarried and her family all lived out of state. Why in the world would Marie be surprised so few people were there? She should be happy anyone showed up at all. He considered ducking into the restroom to call Brad and Andrea and bribing them to come.
His eyes went round as plates when he saw the open casket at the other end of the room. He’d been told Cynthia’s head had been bashed on the tile in her bathroom. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.
Brayden tugged on his jacket. “Dad…can we go up…there? I wanna see her.”
God. No.
“Sure, but why are you whispering?”
“I thought I was supposed to.”
“You can talk in a normal voice,” Mikey told him as they walked toward the casket. The march up the aisle was the longest trek of his life. Only a few rows of chairs lined either side of the aisle. A couple of wooden chairs clattered together when he tripped over his own feet and nearly fell. Brayden gaped at him.
“I’m all right.”
Next to the casket on a pedestal lay the peace lily bouquet for Brayden to put inside the coffin. The arrangement of pink roses Marie had insisted on covered almost the entire half of the gray box. A wreath with a banner that read, ‘Mother’, sat on an easel to the right.
Mikey looked everywhere he could except at Cynthia. However, Brayden gripped the lip of the coffin and peered at his mother.
“Are you sure this is Mom? This doesn’t look like Mom.”
The question forced Mikey to look at her. He could only take quick glances at the body. Brayden was right. Cynthia had looked better, and not because she was dead either. Her head seemed to be resting too low and the pillow had been fluffed in a bid to raise it. Heavy makeup was slathered on her face, likely to cover bruising. Great effort and care had gone into concealing a gash on her forehead, but the skin was split, making the attempt futile.
“What happened to her head? And why does she have so much makeup on?” Brayden asked.
“I’m not sure. Sometimes people don’t look the same when they’re dead. The funeral home does the best they can.”
“Well, they didn’t do a very good job.”
The voices of several new arrivals carried from the back of the room. Mikey took the opportunity to focus his eyes someplace other than his ex-wife’s dead body. He recognized a few of Cynthia’s friends and their husbands and a couple of people he didn’t know. They were likely co-workers since they appeared to be dressed more for an office than a funeral.
“Dad, do you think Mom died because you got divorced?”
Mikey glanced down at his son, who still stared at his mother. “Divorces don’t cause people to die.”
“I know that. I meant if you were together, would she have died?” Brayden removed his hands from the coffin and stepped backward.
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
Brayden took a deep breath. “If you were at home with her, maybe she wouldn’t have been murdered.”
“What? Where did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” He glanced up.
“That your mother was murdered?” The last word came out as a whisper.
“Grace told me—oh, I shouldn’t have—she let it slip. She didn’t mean to tell me.”
Terrific.
He’d planned to tell his son what happened eventually; he didn’t want him getting scared.
Mikey ran his hands through his hair. “When did you talk to her?”
“I didn’t…” his son looked away, “it was before…”
He cocked his head to the side. “Brayden? Tell me the truth. When was the last time you spoke to her?”
“I didn’t call her, honest.”
“I know you’re lying.”
“I know. Sorry. Are you mad?”
The worry in his son’s eyes broke his heart and he melted. Mikey tilted his head back and sighed. “No.” He’d be angry if everything wasn’t so depressing; his son’s mother had died, Grace left him, and Cynthia’s mother was more concerned about the cost of the funeral than her daughter’s murder. Not once had the woman mentioned the subject.
He heard Marie squawk from the back of the room but ignored her. Mikey wanted this time alone with his son.
“Bray, see the flowers on the little table over there?” He pointed at the peace lilies. “Those are for you to place next to your mom. They were her favorite.”
Brayden retrieved the bouquet. “You remembered. I thought you forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
Shit.
“No, I remember, Mom’s wedding bouquet had peace lilies.”
Brayden smiled. “Uh huh. Can I put them next to her now?”
“You can do anything you want.”
His son’s face brightened.
“Let me clarify, most anything. At least today,” Mikey told him. He sensed Marie lurking nearby.
Brayden edged closer to the body with his father shadowing him. “Where should I put them, Dad?”
Mikey dared a glance into the coffin. “I think—”
“Her hands. We could put them in her hands.” Brayden looked up at Mikey, hopeful.
“I don’t know. I don’t think we can—”
“We can do that,” Mr. Rose chimed in from behind them. Brayden smiled despite his red-rimmed eyes. Mikey flattened his lips into a thin line. His son’s face startled him. He’d failed to notice his son had been crying. He felt like a selfish ass.
Mr. Rose asked them to step back while he pulled a gold velvet drape around the casket. “This should only take a few minutes,” he said discreetly.
Mikey pivoted and found Marie speaking in hushed tones to Detective Harry Hunter. What was he doing here? Harry nodded at him; Mikey shook his head and rolled his eyes. He thought about going over and asking him if he was proud of himself, however, that wouldn’t acc
omplish anything and was beyond inappropriate. He decided to insult him in another way and ambled over.
“You could’ve bought a new suit.”
Harry looked down at himself. “What’s wrong with my suit?”
Marie gave Mikey a dirty look. Brayden looked back and forth from his father to the detective.
“What are you doing here, Detective?”
“Paying my respects to the family.”
“All right. In some small way I appreciate that. Even if you do have an ulterior motive.”
Harry chuckled low in the back of his throat. “Can I speak to you privately for a moment? I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”
“Sure why not? I’m not doing anything right now. Nothing at all.” Mikey motioned out in the hallway back toward the restrooms.
The detective spoke quietly and without sincerity, “Sorry for your loss.”
Mikey closed and opened his eyes like a dragon, slowly. “Let’s skip the bullshit pretenses. What do you want?”
“Got your message.” Hunter took out a tiny black notebook with a half-size pen attached to the side.
“And this couldn’t wait till after, oh I don’t know, the funeral?”
Harry got ready to ask a question when Brayden walked up behind him.
“Bray, this is a private conversation.”
“Who are you?” his son asked Hunter.
“My name’s Harry—”
“Harry is Grace’s father.” Mikey got a gleam in his eye as an idea hit him.
Take that Detective.
“Really?” Brayden eyes widened and he flashed a shy smile. “Did she come with you?”
“Um, no, she—uh, I’m sorry, she’s not here.”
Mikey thought messing with the cop would make him feel better. Instead, he wanted to hammer a nail into his brain to match the one in his gut.
“Oh.” The kid looked at the floor. “I thought at least maybe, she’d come to my mom’s funeral. I know Dad isn’t seeing her anymore, but I thought she’d wanna be here. She said she’d think about it.”
Disappointment laced his son’s words. Misty tears formed in Mikey’s eyes. The expression on Hunter’s face fell too.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-TWO
Grace
Grace sat at Natalie’s kitchen table tapping her foot. The smell of garlic and oregano filled the room. She glanced at the clock on the microwave. “Shit.”
Natalie looked up from the pot of her homemade spaghetti sauce she was stirring on the stove. “Haven’t you punished yourself enough, Grace? Just go to the funeral.”
“That’s a bad idea. If I go, I’ll only take him back and end up hating myself for giving in. He lied to me.”
Natalie covered her sauce with a lid and laid the spoon on a paper towel. “Are you serious? You didn’t tell him your father’s a cop.”
“That’s not the point. I only withheld the information. I was going to tell him. Eventually.”
“And didn’t he only ‘withhold information’ like you did?”
“Not the same thing.” Grace stared at the table. Natalie had a point but she wasn’t ready to admit the woman was right.
Natalie put her hands on her hips. “Oh my God. It’s exactly the same, whether you want to believe it or not.”
Grace sucked in a breath. “I wish things weren’t so difficult all the time.”
“They’re not. You just make them that way.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Steam rose from the pot when Natalie raised the lid and stirred her sauce again. “Your father went up there.”
Grace’s jaw dropped and she laid her palms on the table. “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“He went on police business. But I don’t think that was the real reason. I think he wanted to talk to Mikey. See if he is the man he thinks he is, or isn’t.”
Grace’s brows snapped together. “What does that mean?”
Natalie shrugged. “I think it means he feels guilty.” She turned a knob on the stove and put down her wooden spoon.
“For what?”
Natalie leaned over the kitchen island next to the stove top. “You’d have to ask him that.”
Grace missed Mikey. A lot. Sad really, since it had only been a few days. Had she been hasty in her decision?
“Am I an idiot?”
Natalie laughed. “No, but I think you’re scared of letting go.”
CHAPTER
FIFTY-THREE
Mikey
Marie stood with her hands on her hips. The pose made her look like a pecking hen. “What are you all doing out here? The service is about to start.”
“We’ll be right there.” Mikey dried his eyes with his fingers. He grasped Brayden’s shoulders from behind and led him into the viewing area. His son insisted on sitting directly in front of Cynthia’s dead body. A chaplain recommended by Mr. Rose said a prayer then spoke a few words about how wonderful a person Cynthia was during her life and how she was always there for every one of her friends.
Mikey couldn’t resist the urge and swiveled around in his chair. The other attendees had blank expressions. He also noted that only twenty or so people had bothered to show up. This included himself, Marie, Brayden, and Harry Hunter. His eyes met with the detective’s for a moment before he faced the front again.
Brayden sniffled but wasn’t crying. Marie blubbered like an idiot and mostly for show.
“If any members of the family or a friend would like to say a few words, you may do so at this time,” Mr. Rose said after thanking the minister.
Marie tapped Mikey on the arm.
No way. Nope.
Brayden tugged on his father’s sleeve. “You should probably say something,” he tried to whisper but failed—everyone heard.
Great.
What the hell was he supposed to say up there? Why couldn’t Marie do this?
Like a good soldier going off to battle, Mikey walked the five feet toward the lectern. He gripped the sides of the podium, his knuckles white. He tried to breathe. Wasn’t going to happen though.
He cleared his throat a number of times but his voice cracked anyway. “For those of you that don’t know me, Cynthia was my ex-wife. In the last few years, it was no secret to those that do know me, we didn’t exactly see things eye to eye.” Mikey paused when Marie’s mouth dropped open. Sweat dripped from his forehead.
Fuck.
No kind words were coming to mind. He hated this. Everyone stared at him, expecting him to say nice things. The woman wasn’t nice. He despised everything about her. He hadn’t wished her dead, nor wanted his son to grow up without a mother though. He could hardly believe he married her in the first place.
Brayden’s little forehead creased. He no longer looked like a child to Mikey, but a grown-up in a ten-year-old’s body. His child would never be the same. A loss of innocence had occurred overnight. Mikey looked out to the small crowd.
I’m sorry, Brayden. His boy’s eyes were shiny.
His voice cracked again. “I’m s-sorry…I…this is…I can’t do this. I don’t know what to say. Brayden…”
“It’s okay, Dad.” The child jumped up and led his father back to his seat with his hand on the small of his back. He didn’t sit down, and instead walked to the front of the room and addressed the crowd. “Mom, you died too soon and I love you. Well, that’s what I would’ve said to my mom if I could. Oh, and I hope there are peace lilies wherever you are.”
This was the moment Mikey knew his son was the bravest soul he’d ever known. He admired him and knew Brayden was already more of a man than he’d ever be.
Murmurs erupted behind Mikey. There were a few aaw’s and Marie clutched her heart. “Come here, Brandon,” she said and opened her arms; he went to his father.
Mikey smirked smugly. “I love you.”
CHAPTER
FIFTY-FOUR
Grace
Grace fidgeted in the kitchen chair, rubbed her palms on her jean
s. She pushed back and rose from the table.
Natalie watched her pace and the corners of her mouth quirked up. “Is your plan to wear a rut in the floor?”
Grace looked at her surroundings then her feet. “Crap. I didn’t even know I was pacing. What’s wrong with me?”
“Why do you think something’s the matter with you? I’m going to make some coffee. Would you like some?” Natalie opened the cupboard next to the refrigerator. A package of coffee maker filters tumbled out. She caught them mid-air.
“I don’t drink coffee. Why do I attract these impossible men? I hate this.” Grace grabbed hanks of hair above her ears.
“You don’t. And what do you hate?”
The scent of French roast filled the kitchen. Natalie measured and poured enough coffee grounds into the machine for a potent pot.
Grace stopped for a second to look at her friend. Her dad loved a strong cup of coffee too.
“You love him, don’t you?” The older woman filled the glass coffee pot and dumped the water into the reservoir. She pressed the start button.
“No. Yes. I don’t know. I miss Mikey. His kid. Brayden is possibly the wisest person I know, adult or child.”
Natalie leaned against the counter and crossed her legs at the ankles. “You don’t want to know what I think.”
“You right, I don’t. Do you think I made a mistake?”
Natalie raised a brow. “Thought you didn’t want to know my opinion?”
I don’t. I really don’t.
Grace stopped behind the island and laid her upper body across the counter, her head rested on her folded arms. She changed the subject to distract herself from thinking about how much of a mistake she’d made. “What about you and my dad? What’s going on?”
“We’re talking again.”
Grace lifted her head. “Does this mean…?”
“It doesn’t mean anything. We’re friends. I’m in the friend zone, I think it’s called.”
“My dad is a fool,” she said and flopped her head back down. “What should I do?”
Natalie inhaled deeply. “Do what feels good instead of worrying about all the what-if’s.”
