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Jeff,
Please tell Emily.
Eli
Underneath the message are an obituary and a photo of a woman I’ve never met. Her name is Olivia McKinley and she’s Eli’s mother. A weighted sigh escapes my lips and I slouch into a seat at the table. Please tell Emily. Eli does his best to make an impression. It may not be a great impression, but he leaves one nonetheless.
I squish my lips to the side as I absorb Olivia’s obituary. It’s the first time I’ve seen an image of her. Eli’s talked about her on our rare occasional visits, but he never drew enough of a mental picture for me to visualize what she looked like.
Eli’s this biker my mom hooked up with once and he abandoned us the moment Mom said, “I missed my period.” While he gave Mom the slip, he also gave me my dark brown hair and my matching dark brown eyes and the ton of freckles over the bridge of my nose. But other than that he hasn’t given me much.
“So...” Total hesitation as I hunt for the correct words. “Eli’s mom died.”
“That’s right. Your mom wants us to attend the funeral.”
Um...I don’t do funerals or cemeteries. Mom and Dad are aware of this situation. My fingers tap against the table. There’s definitely a diplomatic way out of this. I need to find it and find it quick. “Why does she want to go? Not to be rude, but we don’t know this lady. We barely know Eli and...well...I thought Mom hated Kentucky.”
Dad rubs the b
ack of his head. “I don’t know why. I forwarded the e-mail to your mom this morning. A few minutes later, she called me at work in tears. I came home and she’d already purchased the plane tickets. Your guess is as good as mine here, but there’s one thing I do know—I don’t like seeing your mom cry.”
Neither do I.
“What are your thoughts on this, Em?”
I shrug. There are no words for this. None. Zip. Zero. Nada. “I don’t get it.”
“I know.”
That’s it? He knows? “I was hoping for something a little more like ‘I’ll talk to your Mom and I’ll convince her to shelve the crazy for a few days.’ I mean, we are underestimating the value of sending a well-written note attached to a nice flower arrangement.”
Dad does that thing where he’s quiet while mulling over a response. It’s reason one million and one why I love him. Dad hardly ever loses his temper or yells. He thinks everything through.
“I don’t claim to understand most of this,” he says. “But this is important to your mom, and you and she are the two most important things to me. If she needs to attend this funeral then we’ll attend.”
“What if I don’t want to attend?”
Dad’s patient blue eyes search me and I consider ducking under the table before he notices how much the prospect bothers me. Dead people. He’s asking me to voluntarily enter a building where there are dead people. Inside, I’m screaming. Very loudly. Very manically.
“Your mom and I will be there and absolutely nothing will harm you. Besides, you and I have had this discussion. The best way to get over your fears is to face them.”
Sure, his words sound pretty, but there’s this serious anxiety suffocating me like a shroud. Hives form on my wrist and I scratch at the welts under the table while flashing a forced grin. “Are you suggesting a body isn’t going to come back to life and try to eat me?”
“I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’re safe from a Walking Dead episode.”
I release an unladylike snort and Dad laughs. His chuckles fade and I loathe the heavy silence that follows.
“I’m not only talking about your fear of dead things,” Dad continues. “I’m talking about the paperwork I found in the trash. I believe it mentioned visiting out-of-town universities with your school this summer.”
Dang it, I should have used the paper shredder.
“There’s more to life than Florida,” he insists.
“I love Florida.” I love it so much that I have plans that involve staying here in town after graduation. Specifically, Trisha and I have plans. We’ve spent the past two years dreaming of going to the local college and rooming together. We even have color-coordinated comforters picked out, because that’s how Trisha rolls.
Dad waves his hand at the room. “There’s more out there for you than these four walls.”
“I love these four walls.” I do. The kitchen, to the three of us, is the focal point of our existence. Mom’s created a homey room with fresh flowers in several vases scattered on the table, island and counter. She painted the walls yellow because she read an article that said it’s a welcoming color.
