“Oh yeah? Can I see?” She plops down on my mattress and leans in to look over my shoulder.
I adjust how I’m holding the paper to give her a better view. But I still don’t really have words.
“Hey, it’s you,” she says. “Wow. Zinnia drew this?”
“Yeah. I knew she liked to sketch, but …”
“She’s good. She even got your eyes right.”
Iwatch as she reaches out and traces the shape of an eye with her fingertip. I feel that same pleasant tingling in my scalp as I track the movement. I don’t know how to feel about the fact that Rose has thought about my eyes or why it makes my cheeks feel warm.
“It’s a gorgeous drawing,” Rose says as her finger drifts away from the paper. “Definitely the sort of thing you want to hold on to and keep safe.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
Rose stands up and starts to get ready for bed, changing out of the faded jeans and teal sweater that I think once belonged to Violet before they joined the communal collection of clothes we all share now. I keep my back to her, respectful of her privacy, and focus on carefully tucking the drawing under the mattress, where I know it will be safe.
That night, I dream of a full moon and the ashes of a forgotten name carried off on a cool breeze.
CAELA
Caelathought her dad would have liked the outfit she wore to his funeral.
He would’ve been happy that she dug out his old Nirvana T-shirt and been glad his favorite leather jacket was getting some use, even after he was gone. He probably would’ve thought her combat boots were punk and the thick black eyeliner was a nice touch.
Her mother, however, didn’t share that opinion.
“Don’t you think you’re being awfully disrespectful?” she asked on the way to the funeral home.
Caela didn’t answer, just stared out the window.
“Michaela, I asked you a question.”
Caela wrapped her arms around herself, comforted by the feel of the soft, old leather beneath her palms. Leather her father hadtouched hundreds, maybe thousands, of times. “The jacket and shirt are Dad’s,” she murmured.
“That doesn’t make them appropriate for a funeral,” her mother said with a frustrated huff. “And it’s over eighty degrees out. You’ve got to be sweating under there.”
Caela was burning up, it was true, but she didn’t care. She was willing to suffer the heat for the small comfort the jacket gave her. She knew her mother could never understand that, though. Once again, she was reminded of the thing she realized when she was a child: to her mother she was always going to be a burden. Even now, her silence, her grief, was an inconvenience. She’d disrupted her mother’s new, perfect life when she called three nights ago with the news of the accident.
“Whatever,” her mother said. “Do what you want.”
Tomorrow Caela would be packing up Jennette and driving down to Kentucky to live with her mother, to burden her even more.
She blinked back tears. She couldn’t think about that. Abouttomorrow. Thinking of anything past the present meant acknowledging a future without her dad. Because if there was a tomorrow, there was a day after. And a day after that. And then weeks and months and years where Caela didn’t get to see him. Didn’t getto hear his laugh or feel his hand ruffle her hair. A tomorrow without him was a future without her best friend.
Caela knew a lot of her friends would’ve been embarrassed to call their dad their best friend. That was something little kids did. But anyone who met Jonah Conroy got it. He was justcool. Fun and kind and supportive.
Imagining life without him was like imagining a world without sunshine.
Her mother’s car pulled into the funeral home’s parking lot. There were already a few other vehicles outside. She’d been here the day before for the visitation, and the idea of going back inside, of being near the casket again, made Caela sick.
Her dad had never wanted a traditional funeral. He didn’t want his corpse to be all made up, dressed up, and stared at by people. He wanted to be cremated straightaway. Then if people really wanted a funeral, they could throw a party in his honor.
“With whiskey,”he’d joke.“Lots of whiskey. And maybe a paintball fight.”
“I don’t think whiskey and paintball guns are a good combo, Dad.”
“Or they’re a perfect combo. Come on, Caela. Think of the comedic potential!”
