Page 1 of Rough Start

Tap, tap, tap.

Eliana drummed her finger pensively on the side of her amber coffee mug as she stared vacantly at the newspaper that lay open on her round dining table. Her chestnut-colored eyes were glazed over, a sure sign her thoughts were far away. The sun had only just crested the horizon, and from the east-facing window of her suburban home in Concord, the light was casting an orange haze throughout the kitchen. Light refracted off the glistening ink of the newspaper. Eliana took a step forward from her position leaning against the counter to lessen the glare from the image she’d been transfixed on.

There it was again. In all its dreadful glory, staring up at her in an almost taunting manner, was the nearly page-sized portrait of her father. Right at the top of the obituary section. It must have been the extra money she spent for the space that made his notoriety so prominent, Lord knows it wasn’t on the merit of his conduct that gave him the honored position at the top of the page.

Henry Granville, born April 2nd, 1958, passed peacefully in sleep on the 10th of September 2019.

Born and raised in rural Maine, Henry worked with dedication for over three decades at Pine Hill Lumber Mill. His late wife passed only six years after their marriage, leaving him a single father to their daughter, and his only surviving family, Eliana. He was a loving father, loyal, hardworking…

Blah. Blah. Blah.

Setting her cup down with force onto the table, Eliana paced to the window and stared angrily at the front lawn. Her hands gripped the windowsill, knuckles white with strain. Her breathing had become more ragged, and the heat in her chest was rising to the back of her neck. Why the words made her so angry was nearly comical. Hadn’t she written them herself? As a young but accomplished defense attorney, she wasn’t one for fiction writing. Maybe this was one last attempt to be a good daughter. A short story of wishful thinking that would make her father—her dead father—proud.

Memories of their last encounter together flooded her mind. Pale. Sickly ill and though largely obese, he’d seemed too frail in the hospital bed with tubes in every orifice, monitors beeping and humming. His murky eyes had been searching the room frantically, his hands gripped the sheets in terror as he struggled for his next breath. The lung cancer had won. Eliana had been caught by his right hand. With strange force, he’d pulled her close, nearly toppling her on the bed, and he’d pressed his thumb firmly into her palm. Eliana stared in horror as he sputtered his last breath.

Despite her perfectly working lungs, Eliana felt herself clutching at her throat as though suffocating as she forced the memory out of her mind. Her left hand still hurt where he’d driven his thumb into her palm. Her anger as her own lies in the obituary faded into a strange feeling somewhere between grief and pity. How terrible it would be to suffocate to death. Betrayed by your own body.

Cancer is a bitch, she thought scornfully.

Startled by the hiss of the coffee maker, she turned from the window and switched the machine off. Her eyes caught the time, and she cursed under her breath. She was going to be late. Darting from the kitchen and down the hall, she raced up the stairs and into the bathroom that adjoined her yellow and teal decorated bedroom.

As she opened the door, vapor poured out like fog, and Eliana turned the shower off. Using the shower to steam clean her black dress, she pulled it free from the hanger on the shower rod and stepped into her room. Her bathrobe fell in a pool around her feet before she stepped into the tea length, cotton-blend dress that was trimmed with lace.

She was still struggling to slip her heels on as she descended the stairs and into the kitchen. With one arm in her khaki pea-coat, she pulled a tumbler from the cupboard and set it next to her forgotten mug. With haste, she poured the contents of the coffee pot into the traveler, nearly half sloshing onto the table, before she screwed the lid on, grabbed her purse and car keys from the entryway, and left the house, locking the door behind her.

Unable to help it, she found herself staring back at her home of only fourteen months in the rearview mirror of her silver Mercedes. The perfectly situated white house was in the exact center of the cul-de-sac. She’d fallen in love with it the moment the realtor had suggested it. It was the first house she’d been able to buy, and it stood as a mark of pride. How far she’d come in the last three years since she’d graduated from Harvard. Even farther in the last ten when she’d moved from Maine.

How different it was from the house she’d grown up in. The town. The people… how different she was now.

* * *

Thirty-eight. There were thirty-eight people at the funeral. Eliana knew this because, from her standing position in the back of the church, she had counted them over and over again. The hour drive from her home to the steeple-capped building hadn’t been long enough. Sixty minutes wasn’t enough time to prepare herself for the blur of the funeral.

Among the thirty-eight people, she’d counted twelve cousins, two aunts, six uncles; a few of her father’s former co-workers and at least a dozen others who’d probably only wandered in for the food. She could feel the bitter scowl on her face, but she was startled as every single face turned from the front of the church to look at her. All thirty-eight of them. Standing more erect, her eyes darted to the minister who was looking at her expectantly.

“Miss Granville?” the middle-aged, yellow-haired minister-for-hire asked, “You… had a few words?”

“Oh!” was all she could say as she pushed herself forward. Her heels clicked on the wood floor as she walked up the aisle, and shook the reverend’s hand before taking her place behind the pulpit, the open casket at her back.

We’ve gathered here today… she thought sardonically as she fished into the pocket of her dress and removed her notecards.

“Um…” she muttered as she straightened her immaculately constructed eulogy. “My father… Henry… Um…” For some reason, her cards were impossible to read. Why were they blurry? Looking up momentarily she realized the entire church and its thirty-eight onlookers were blurry as well. Touching a hand to her face she realized the culprit of her sudden case of vision loss wasn’t cataracts, but tears. She was crying. “I’m sorry I’m…” Her heart began racing, and she feared she was about to lose all composure. Public speaking was never a paralyzing fear for her, but public blubbering was another matter altogether.

Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she forced a small laugh to attempt to ease the tensions within herself.

“My father was a hardworking man who had no time for sentiment,” she began, eyes still stinging painfully, “or tears.” A few among them chuckled. God bless her sensible cousins. “Let’s be honest, we all knew a different side of Henry Granville. At work, he was devoted, clever, and painfully faithful. His crew were like brothers to him. More-so than his actual brothers.” A few more laughs gave her encouragement. “Among his family, he was the life of the party. I think he laughed more at the reunions than anyone. Especially after a few drinks… he was a man who enjoyed a good drink. Or a bad one, he wasn’t picky. You weren’t any help with that peach moonshine you peddled that weekend at Moosehead Lake, Uncle Ron!” The assembly roared with laughter, including the red-faced man in the second row. “At home, my dad was…” She felt a sudden lump in her throat. “My dad… he…”

The stinging in her eyes had returned, and instinctively she turned her back to the room forgetting that in that motion she came face to face with the lifeless body of her father who rested in the casket. A sudden wave of nausea hit her, and her already tear-dampened hands were useless as she tried to quell the onslaught of tears.

Staring bluntly and boldly at her clearly deceased father, she couldn’t help but come to the realization that her tears were not entirely of loss, but, God help her, they were in relief. He was gone, and with him the dread she’d lived with every day. She’d never again come home to find him passed out drunk on the floor having pissed himself in the process. There would never be another missed event, argument, drunken rage or emotional breakdown. Eliana would never have to endure another broken promise or failed attempt at sobriety or disappointment from him again.

He was gone. Forever.

With one hand over her mouth, she silenced the maddening laughter that threatened to burst forth. From behind her, she could hear the murmuring and whispering that was steadily growing louder. Among the voices, a single bold and heavy footfall rattled the ground, and Eliana felt a figure approach. Thank heaven the minister was coming to relieve her failed speech.

A strong hand held a tissue to her, and she turned just enough to accept it. However, the figure next to her was far too tall to be Reverend Matthew. “Thank you…”

Drying her eyes, she looked from the ground where her cream-colored heels were pointed toward a set of large, black leather boots, up dark denim jeans covering broad thighs and hips. A black leather cut was draped over a crisp white button-down shirt that was left open at the collar revealing tanned skin at the throat and did nothing to conceal the hardened chest beneath. Dark stubble dusted a pointed chin, square jaw, and faded into slicked back black hair that curled ever so slightly at the ends. Light blue eyes grew darker toward the pupils that stared down at her.