I know it’s for the best. And, truly, I’m grateful he didn’t fight because I don’t think I could have handled it. I might have caved and told him everything. Everything about Tori’s plan against us. Then she would have called the police, and Drew could be in jail right now.
But he didn’t fight for me. For us. And he hasn’t returned my calls.
I was the one who chased him. I was the one who wouldn’t leave him alone. This is what I think about when I’m alone in my room with the lights on, not sleeping. Was I completely wrong about us?
I slip my hand into the pocket of my black cardigan and clasp the tightly folded square of paper.
I guess I’ll know soon enough.
I angle around the gathering and tuck myself into the crowd so I can still see Drew in profile. He hasn’t spotted me yet, and I’m hoping Annie and any relative who would recognize me hasn’t either. I don’t want my presence to upset him. I don’t want to take anything away from this most sacred of family rites. If I can’t be with him, holding his hand or wrapping my arm around him, I’d rather be invisible.
The priest officiating calls for everyone’s attention and invites the family to sit in the single row of chairs. I listen to the man’s words, but I can’t take my eyes off Drew. His head is bowed, and I watch his shoulders move in the laughter that everyone shares when the priest calls Mrs. Vivian a mother hen to everyone.
“More than once,” the priest shares, “she would come to the rectory with a plate she’d made for me — if I was lucky, it was her brisket—” When he says this, an appreciative murmur rolls over the crowd, and Drew closes his eyes as though he’s lost in memory. “And she’d insist on watching me eat it.”
Again, knowing laughter ripples around the gathering.
“You see, Vivian thought I didn’t have enough meat on my bones.” The middle-aged priest grips his thin arms in demonstration, a wistful smile claiming his face. “She always knew what everyone needed, and Vivian made it her vocation to give it to them.”
The man’s voice softens as his eyes move over Mrs. Vivian’s family. I swallow against the knot in my throat. “Some may look at Vivian Quincy’s life and see that her purpose was to help others, but I ask you to look a little closer. If you knew Vivian even a little, then she alsotaught youhow to help others.”
The thin priest lets his eyes span over the gathered mourners. “She wasn’t just a good person. She taught us all how to be better people.” He brings his gaze back to the family. “The best way we can honor her memory is to care for each other the way she did. Fiercely. Boldly.” He gives a little shrug. “Maybe even a little obnoxiously.”
We all laugh, but beneath the sounds of everyone else, I can hear Drew’s low chuckle. It touches me like a warm breeze, and my eyes find him again. Longing courses through me. And maybe he senses the force of it because with a swift jerk of his head, his gaze lands on me.
I freeze.
For the briefest of instants, I read naked surprise in his eyes. But it’s gone in a flash, replaced by a mask of solid granite. The look doesn’t hold anger or pain. Or love. It’s just completely blank. But his eyes lock with mine for a long moment, and I know my own face holds nothing back.
Shame. Guilt. Desperation. And a love that is almost killing me with its power.
Is he protecting himself like I know he does? Does the face he’s showing me hide a depth of feeling that matches my own? Or is he showing me nothing because he feels nothing?
Is he angry with me?
Breath leaves me with this thought. He has every right to be angry. Without knowing my reasons, how could he think anything good about me? I gave him my love. I told him I wanted to be with him no matter what.
What if he hates me now?
A tear slides down my cheek. I didn’t even know I was crying. Again. I know when Drew looks away that he’s seen it.
I feel a million times the fool.
I close my eyes, willing myself to be steady and strong. I’ve done this to protect him. To save him from going back to prison. He’s told me only a little of what it means to be locked up. The monotony. The indignity. The violence.
I’d do anything to keep him safe. I inhale deeply, holding that conviction in my chest, and then I can open my eyes, brush the tears from my lashes. When I do, I see an attendant with a basket on his arm, handing Drew and each member his family a single white flower. I blink away my tears, curious.
“While Vivian grew many fruits and vegetables in her treasured garden, peas among them, sweet peas aren’t for eating,” the priest says, lifting a crepe-blossomed flower to his nose and sniffing audibly. “Still, the flower is a symbol of departure, of fair well, and of thanks. The family welcomes you to come forward, take a flower, and make your own gesture of remembrance and adieu, knowing that we will see our friend, our mother, our grandmother Vivian in God’s heavenly garden that knows no death nor separation.”
The priest turns and nods to a plump woman in the crowd, and she steps forward, lifts her chin, and begins singing in a clear, operatic soprano.
“Morning has broken like the first morning…”
And as she sings, one of Drew’s uncles walks up to the casket and places his flower, gently, reverently, on its polished wood surface, and stands aside. Drew’s mother follows, and then his aunts, his cousins, and finally Annie and Drew. I watch as they walk up together, hand in hand.
The thin stemmed flower looks tiny in his grip, and the petals shake as he lays it with the others. I see his struggle to let go, but he does it and lines up beside the rest of his family, forming a kind of receiving queue.
The gathering of mourners falls in line. I glance over my shoulder, and find Tori’s eyes on me. I quickly take my place so others fill in behind me before she can. As I approach the basket of sweet peas, I tuck my right hand into the pocket of my cardigan and squeeze the folded note tight against my palm.
