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Isadora
I hate funerals. If I was a grief eater, I could feast all day on the sadness and misery that comes with being forced to stare at a casket. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we prolong the anguish by shoving our faces in it for a full day?
Is it supposed to make it easier? Do we reach a point where we’re so sick of staring back at a lifeless body that we accept death?
My mother lies in a casket, surrounded in white silk and flowers. Four-dozen roses sit in pots on the floor around her, which I’m guessing came from Lucian, though the attached card was signed A Friend. Her long red hair has been curled, the tracks on her arms covered in thick makeup. That’s the other thing about funerals: they lie. If they were about truth, my mother would lying in a cardboard box, her hair half-cocked in a greasy ponytail, with a bunch of used needles around her.
Aunt Midge opted for an emerald dress that makes her look like the doll encased in Laura’s collection.
Something that isn’t real.
Her complexion, glowing and perfect, as if the drugs never even touched her blood. The pictures Aunt Midge gathered lie about her body, and I focus on the one of her and me, as the pastor rattles off some scripture I couldn’t begin to understand.
I opted not to give a eulogy, and instead wrote a letter for my mother, to be burned with her ashes. Speaking in crowds was never my thing to begin with, but being asked to share thoughts and feelings about a mother I spent most of my life despising isn’t something I care to eulogize, at all.
Only a handful of people show up, mostly the guys from the bar where Aunt Midge works, who came out to support her. Taking my hand in hers, Aunt Midge sobs into a tissue, as we watch the others pay their final respects. The woman must be an endless reservoir of tears. At some point, it has to dry out, and perhaps that’s where I’m at. It must look strange that I’m the only one at the funeral whose eyes are dry as a bone.
I need air.
Desperately.
This place is suffocating.
Smothering me.
Aunt Midge gives a squeeze of my hand, sending another round of panic shooting into my chest. An oncoming anxiety attack, I bet. I suffered them frequently after the attack of Aedon and Brady, and the tightness in my chest, the spi
Mac stumbles over to the two of us, undoubtedly drunk, and plants a kiss on the top of my forehead. As he wraps Aunt Midge in a whiskey-scented hug, I set my palm on hers.
“I’m going to get some fresh air.”
“Okay, sweetheart,” she says, her voice muffled by Mac’s embrace.
How she can stand it right now, I don’t know. I’ll probably hyperventilate if someone tries to hug me, which is a good reason to walk away. This is when the hugs begin. When the sorry’s and memories and regrets pour out of everyone like a river of sorrows.
Breathing hard through my nose, I exit the showing room, down the hallway, through the foyer, and out the front door of the funeral home. Gripping the staircase handrail, I suck in deep breaths in an effort to calm my pounding heart.
Breathe, Isa. Just breathe.
Opening my eyes on a long exhale, I find a familiar face standing before me.
“Hey there, Isa.” Mayor Boyd stands with one foot propped on the staircase, his hand resting on his thigh. “How are you?”
“I’m good. What are you doing here?”
“I just, uh … I saw in the paper that Je
“She moved around a lot.”
“Yeah. I heard that.”
An awkward pause hangs between us, and I hike my thumb over my shoulder. “You want to … go inside? The service is over. Everyone’s just doing the final respects thing.”
“No, no. I don’t want to intrude. I am curious, though. How do you …. How did you know her?”
“She was my mother.”
“Your mother?” There’s an edge of surprise in his tone, and he clears his throat, adjusting his glasses. “That’s interesting. I don’t suppose she had anything good to say about her favorite government teacher.” The laugh that follows is goofy and awkward, and somehow inappropriate for the mood.
“Um. We didn’t get along very well when she was alive.”
“Ah, that’s too bad.” He rolls his shoulders back and clears his throat again. “Say, I don’t suppose we could--”
“Hello, Isa.” The voice that interrupts is a deep rich sound that tickles my ear, and I lift my gaze past Boyd, to where Lucian stands behind him. Decked out in a perfectly tailored, crisp, black suit, he’s almost hard to look at, and my body instinctively responds, in spite of the bad terms we left on. Tucked in the pocket of his suit is a black rose that’s actually fitting for Lucian. Even at a funeral, though, he doesn’t belong in this town.
Boyd cranes his neck, and in doing so, stumbles back a step, chuckling as he catches himself. “Well, speak of the devil …”
I frown at that, not recalling any mention of Lucian in our conversation.
With one hand shoved in the pocket of his slacks, Lucian steps toward me, his other hand ru
“I’ll just … let the two of you have a moment of privacy.” Boyd steps down onto the sidewalk, twitchy and rolling his shoulders back, like he’s uncomfortable around the looming darkness that stands behind him. “Isa, we’ll catch up later.”
Ignoring him, I keep my eyes on Lucian, as he ascends the staircase. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard about your mother. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
Crossing my arms, I peel my gaze away from him, noticing his car at the curb. The same car we almost had sex in, when I swore Lucian Blackthorne was the most incredible human being I’d ever met in my life. “I’m fine. I take it the roses were from you?”
“Yes. You look good.”
“It’s only been a week since I saw you last.”
“And I’ve thought about you every minute of every day since. It’s fucking maddening, the way you’ve infected my brain.”
I don’t bother to tell him that every night I’ve awakened in cold sweats, calling out his name. I’ve imagined his hands on me, his lips on mine, the lack of breath, the pounding of my heart, all the chaos that explodes around me when I think of him.
“Yeah, well. Too bad I don’t have a clue who the hell you really are.” I spin around to leave, but at the tight grip of my arm, twist to face him. “Let me go.”
“You’re the only person in the world who really knows me.” He gives a sharp tug that yanks me forward, and I fall into him. “Everything I’ve shown you is what I am.”
“I want to believe that. Believe me. I want to think I’m the only girl who cracked the Devil of Bonesalt. But I don’t think you’re that stupid, Lucian. I don’t think you’re that careless, to let some local girl into your world.”
He doesn’t respond to that, and instead traces a finger down my temple, his touch almost unbearable, as much as I’ve missed it. “I want you to come back. Come back to me.”
He cups my face and plants a kiss to my forehead, and I swear it takes every ounce of strength not to wrap my arms around him and get lost in his embrace. I want to, so badly. These last few days, I’ve felt lost, drifting. I’ve yearned for someone to pull my strings and ground me, to hold me down and keep me from losing myself.