Why Lie? (Love Riddles #2) (28 page)

The luxury of knowing you’re dying is being able to decide what you want. That’s another thought tumbling around in my head: What would the eleven-year-old me think of the box he made being used for this?

There’s a framed picture of her next to the casket. It, and her casket, are both surrounded by a sea of flowers and funeral wreaths. The pastor hasn’t started speaking yet. He’s waiting for my dad to give him the signal to begin. I turn my head to look at him.

His eyes are on the picture of Mom. It’s clear by his focus that’s the only thing he’s paying attention to.

I lean toward him, putting my hand on his arm. “Dad.” He jerks at my touch and blinks before looking at me. Since her death, he’s aged a hundred years. He’s lost weight, despite the fifty casseroles now sitting in his fridge.

There are also dark circles under his eyes.

He doesn’t mean to do it but he’s been pushing me, and everyone else away. He’s replaced her as my number one worry.

“Should the pastor start?” I ask, dropping my hand.

He looks down, watching my hand as it falls. Then he surprises me by reaching for it and holding it like Sydney holds my other hand. He doesn’t say anything or acknowledge it in any way. He looks forward, catches the pastor’s eye, and nods.

“Gwen Mackey will be missed in a way that those who loved her will carry with them forever. It will come as a surprise to no one here when I say she was one of the best women I have ever had the honor of knowing. Here in Ferncliff, her health battles have not been a secret.

While she faced each struggle head on, I know that she knew her entire community stood behind her with love and support. She did not fear death. If anything, Gwen Mackey embraced it, grateful for the time she had here on earth. We should all let her be our example of love and courage. The power of her love was a beautiful thing. Her son, Heath, has a few words. I’m going to invite him up to share them now.”

I receive a gentle squeeze to my left hand from Sydney and a firmer squeeze to my right from my dad before I stand. Woodenly, I move to where the pastor stands, on the other side of her casket.

More people must have shown after I sat. There are so many of them standing, sitting, their eyes all on me. They blur, their sympathetic faces all going out of focus as I clear my throat. I haven’t even said anything but it’s so thick I have to force air into it. I look at my dad but have to look away when I see his knee bouncing. That’s his tell. If I see him cry, there’s no way I’ll be able to talk about my mom and not lose it.

I focus on Sydney, not her beauty this time, her strength. She has been my anchor in this storm from the night my mom died to now. I’m so grateful she was able to spend time with my mom.

“I wanted to thank each and every one of you for coming today, even though I hate the reason. It’s selfish. I’ll be the first to admit it, but I wish my mom could live forever. See, my mom was the center of our world.”

I hazard a glance at my dad and have to suck in a breath and look away when confronted by the tears streaming down his face. I cough and wipe at the wetness that hits my eyes in response.

My voice is thick when I go on. “A heart is the symbol of love. The muscle in her chest was not strong enough to pump out all of the love she had within her. That’s okay though. It didn’t stop her from trying, and she succeeded.

“She loved everyone and showed it. There won’t be a day that goes by that I won’t miss her. I will try, and I encourage you to as well, to live life in a way that would make her proud.” My hand trembles as I reach forward to touch her casket. Then, palm flat against the curve of its lid, I look over to her picture.

It’s one that was taken in the last five years. She picked it herself for today. Said it was one she thought she looked pretty in and she didn’t want to be remembered looking sick.

Her hair was curled, framing her face. It was stylish in a trendy mom way. She was sitting on a bench in our backyard. There were flowers blooming behind her.

I remember that day, or at least the moment right before the picture was taken. My dad had the camera; it was new at the time and he wanted to test out the lenses and modes it had. My mom agreed to be his test subject. Two seconds before he snapped that picture, she farted. Three seconds after he snapped it, she giggled and tried to blame her fart on dad.

In the picture, she looks on the verge of laughter. When she picked that picture she knew my dad and I would both remember. I’m sure she thought it would make us laugh or smile, thinking of a funny moment. Maybe in time it will. Not yet.

All it does right now is make me miss her that much more. She was sick for my whole life. How is it possible to feel like there are still things I didn’t have a chance to tell her?

“I love you, Mom. I’ll always love you.”

When I look up, Sydney and the tears rolling down her cheeks is all I see.

“Would you be okay with me selling the house?”

Jesus.

I shake my head, not in an answer but more to kick-start my brainwaves.

Sell the house?

Only the stragglers remain. Sydney is in the kitchen helping Gigi clean up. I’m doing my best to keep my dad from drinking himself sick. Turns out, after half a bottle of whiskey, he gets chatty. He hasn’t stopped talking once in the last half hour. Only a quarter of what he’s said has made any sense.

“Sell the house?” I ask.

He refills his glass. “I can’t stay here without her.” It’s slurred but I get him.

“We can talk more about this later.”

There’s a decent chance he won’t remember any of what he’s said tomorrow. Everything else, no matter how much he’d like to forget, he won’t.

I won’t either.

I won’t forget how hard it was to walk through the tears to get back to my seat. How the moment I sat down someone, I’m not sure who, from the row behind ours squeezed my shoulder.

How I held on so tight to Sydney’s hand while I watched them lower my mom’s casket into the ground. How once I got back to my parents’ house, people kept coming up to me to say, “She’s in a better place,” or “Heaven gained another angel.”

How I wanted to shake them and argue if she wanted to go to heaven, she wouldn’t have fought as hard as she did to stay here; that they don’t know what they’re talking about; that they think it’s comforting but it’s not.

The only thing helping is the quiet strength Sydney gives. If she weren’t here, I’d probably be as drunk as my dad. In all the planning, in all the days leading up to her death, why hadn’t I thought about what I was going to do for my dad?

We’ve both been on autopilot, checking one item off after another of her last wishes. He’s cried, yes. We both struggled with letting her go when it was time for them to take her away. Since then, he’s been a robot.

Until now.

Now he’s breaking and I haven’t the first clue what to do for him.

There’s a warm hand on my shoulder, so familiar I realize it’s the same hand from the cemetery. I look back and see it’s Mr. Fairlane.

“Heath, do me a favor and see if the ladies need a hand,” he mutters, his eyes on my dad.

I look back at Dad and he shrugs, not a dismissal but not a request for me to stay. When I stand, Mr. Fairlane takes my seat.

When I reach the kitchen, I see Sydney standing next to the sink, drying dishes as Gigi passes them to her. I move to her, not quiet about my approach, and circle her waist with my arms. With her back snug to my front, I press my face into her hair, inhaling the fruity scent I’ve come to miss whenever we’re apart.

“How are you doing?” she asks, setting a plate and the dish towel down so she can cover my arms with hers.

“Better now,” I reply.

“Is Pops talking to your dad?” Gigi asks.

I turn my face toward her and nod. “Told me to come in here and see if you needed help.”

She shakes her head. “I told you the first time you asked we had it covered. That was his way of getting rid of you.”

“I figured,” I reply.

“How’s your dad?” Sydney asks, giving my arm a squeeze.

“Not good.”

Gigi dries her hands and then motions for us to sit at the table. “Your dad has been in caretaker mode for a long time.”

“I think he wants to sell the house,” I say, sinking down into a chair.

“You sound surprised,” she replies, sitting in the chair across from me.

When I don’t say anything, she keeps going, “Did you think he’d want to stay in this big ‘ole house all by himself?”

I frown. “Not when you put it like that.”

“We’ll help, honey. Best thing to do for your dad is just be there for him.”

Sydney reaches out to rest her hand on my thigh. “And I’ll be here for you.”

I cover her hand with mine.

“We’re going to take Tom home with us tonight.”

Gigi, Sydney, and I, all look to the doorway. Mr. Fairlane is standing there, his eyes on me.

Gigi stands, and smooths her skirt down. “Should I go upstairs and pack him a bag?”

His brows knit together. “I hadn’t thought about that but it’d most likely be a good idea.”

She moves to him, pausing to press a kiss to his wrinkled cheek. “That’s why we make such a good team.”

Before she can get past him, he sweetly touches his mouth to hers. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

My gaze moves from them to Sydney. Her attention is still fully on her grandparents, her expression soft. It comes back to me, my earlier thought of how beautiful she is. Yes, it’s partly her physical appearance that will always make me attracted to her. There’s more though; it’s who she is, how she loves, and her compassion that take her natural beauty and make it so much more.

It’s happening now in the expression on her face as she watches a tender moment between two people she loves. What’s important is this is how she also looks at me. This was also, in brief moments here and there, how she looked at me before I hurt her. It’s up to me to make sure that this will be how she looks at me forever.

That’s all there is. That’s what Mr. Fairlane and Gigi have and it’s what my mom and dad had. It’s why he’s so crushed now. There’s a risk in someone else mattering that much. My dad is broken in a way I’m not sure will ever be fixed. Still, I am absolutely certain he would still risk it all for the time they had together.

I lift her hand to my lips. “I’m going to do a quick walkthrough. Then we can all head out together.”

“I’ll come with you,” she says, standing as I rise.

It doesn’t take long to walk through almost all of the rooms on the first floor and check to see that the back and side doors are locked. Dreading the den, it’s the room we head into last.

The hospital bed is gone. It was taken away the day after she died. The negative space it once existed in is cavernous. This is where she died. This room will never be the place we played board games and watched movies in. Once it became her room, it’s identity permanently changed. As attached as I am to this house, and as much as my dad’s declaration to sell it threw me, I get it now.

If it’s hard for me to even walk into this room, what must it be like for him? He can’t live here, not like this.

“Heath?”

I tip my chin down and meet Sydney’s eyes. “Hey.”

She lets go of my hand and wraps her arms around my middle before pressing her cheek to my chest. No words, just support. Encircling her in my arms, I rest my cheek on the top of her head. With her, suddenly being in this room doesn’t sting as much as it did a moment ago.

“We’re heading out,” Gigi murmurs from the doorway.

I let Sydney go but not fully, tucking her to my side so we can walk together. “We’re right behind you.”

My dad is standing by the already open front door with Mr. Fairlane. His shoulders are slumped, his face down, eyes on his shoes.

Watching my mom die was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced. Now, watching my dad fall apart and not having the first idea of what to do about it is the second.

I close the distance between us and let Sydney go so I can hug Dad. “I love you.”

His breath hitches and he hugs me back. “Son.”

Staring ahead, my vision is marred by the wetness that fills my eyes. I blink it back, give him an extra squeeze, and then step back. Sydney’s hand claims mine.

We’re quiet on the drive back to my place. My silence is reflective, hers to give me mental space.

Even though my house was empty of people when we left, the earlier crowded feeling had stuck with me. Now, walking into my cold and dark apartment, I’m even more grateful for the warmth and light Sydney exudes.

Her friend Cecil wasn’t here the night my mom died. He came back the day after but, given what was going on, he didn’t want to intrude. He stayed an extra day with a girl who works at Lola’s and then had to go back to San Francisco. At the time, I had argued he could stay.

Now, I’m relieved it’s only Sydney and me here. Before I royally screwed things up with her, I was overly concerned with appearances. It was my way of trying to make life better for my mom. She had it rough enough as it was so I tried to be perfect for her to have one less thing to worry about. I tried like hell not to make mistakes and then hid the ones I did make. It was exhausting.