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I slump out of bed to go to my closet to look for something to wear. I should have just stayed in bed, but I couldn’t. In bed, all I thought about was how much I missed him. If I get out, maybe I will find something to distract myself. I stare at the racks of clothes hanging in my large walk-in closet that rivals the size of the one in my apartment in Connecticut. I don’t know what to wear, despite having enough clothes to clothe a small town of people.
Yesterday was easy. I just had to wear the nicest black dress I owned. But what do you wear the day after the funeral—after everyone has gone home, and all that is left are casseroles of food flooding the fridge and flowers wilting on the floor? How are either of those things supposed to make everything better?
Food…
I can’t even think about eating right now. And even if I could, we have a cook to do that for us.
And the damn flowers…
I don’t know how that tradition got started. Like flowers are going to make the pain go away. They don’t do a damn thing, except remind us of death again when the flowers wilt and die. Just like my father…except he didn’t just wilt away in old age and die in his sleep. No, he died of a heart attack at fifty years old, probably provoked because of me.
I decide to slip on jeans and a navy shirt. I walk to the mirror and run my hand through my long blonde curls. I don’t bother with makeup. I don’t know what you are supposed to wear the day after a funeral, but this is what I’ve chosen—something plain, boring, and nothing girlie, like how I usually dress.
I make my way downstairs although I don’t know what you are supposed to do the day after a funeral. Everyone has gone home, back to their lives, while we are left picking up the pieces. Everyone else has gone back to their lives, like nothing devastating just happened…when the most devastating thing in our lives just happened.
I know people always say you have to go through the different stages of grief, but that’s not true. There are no stages. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—they all happen at once. At least, that has been my experience during the past three days. I’ve experienced each emotion at least twice every hour.
I walk around the big house that feels completely empty. It’s not because my father’s gone. This house never felt like home to Dad. It didn’t feel like home to me either, for that matter. Dad was always home in the casinos and hotels he ran. I felt at home wherever he was, which meant I fell in love with the flashing lights of casinos and the comforts of a new hotel room. Any night I could get away from this empty mansion and be with him, I would.
I walk through the two living rooms. Why we have two, I don’t know. I also don’t understand why we have eight bedrooms when we only need three at the most—for me, my parents, and my grandfather. But, for some reason, we do.
I walk to the kitchen and open the fridge on autopilot.
The whole time, I never see anybody.
I already know where my mother is—drinking away her pain in her bedroom. If I were a better daughter, I would spend my day comforting her. But I’m not that daughter. Maybe if it were in reverse, if I had to comfort my dad over the loss of my mother, then maybe I could. But I can’t comfort my mother when I can’t even comfort myself.
I look around the room for the staff, but see nobody. They know better than to show up when they aren’t wanted. They will stay hidden until called upon.
And my grandfather is at one of the casinos, probably already trying to figure out who is going to take over the company now that my father’s dead. I know what he wants to talk to me about, but I’m not ready for that yet.
I’m not ready to be around anybody, not when I carry guilt around because of my father’s death. He died while I was out, drinking and having fun. He died while I was out, trying to sleep with a stranger. He died while worrying about me. He died because of me.
I pull out the first casserole and pop the lid open to find a bunch of green crap. I wrinkle my nose at the smell before putting it back in and pulling out a second dish. Don’t people know, if they are going to leave food, they should leave something comforting, not some healthy crap?
The second dish is mashed potatoes. I take the whole bowl and grab a spoon before heading to the basement movie theater. I don’t turn on the lights as I enter the ten-seat theater. I know where the remote is, the same place I left it on the center chair in the first row. I’m the only person who ever uses this room when I am home. It’s another useless room that we shouldn’t have.
I turn the screen on and wait for it to slowly come to life while I scoop cold potatoes into my mou
th. This seems as good a place as any to spend the day after a funeral. This is where I’ll spend the worst day of my life. I’ll spend it watching movies.
The lights come on halfway through the fourth Harry Potter film. I close my eyes from the pain of the abrupt change of light. I don’t move though. It hurts to move. It hurts to think. It hurts to exist.
“Meet me in your father’s home office in five minutes,” Granddad says before he walks out of the room.
He didn’t wait for me to respond. He doesn’t have to. He already knows that I’ll follow his orders. I always do.
I count silently in my head while I keep my eyes closed. I count to two hundred and forty. I only have sixty seconds left to make it to my father’s office, the minimal amount of time I know it will take me to get there.
I crack my eyes open as I slowly get up. I place the empty bowl on the floor. Someone will get it later. I slowly climb the stairs before turning down the hallway that leads to my father’s office. It should hurt, entering my father’s office, but as I open the door, it doesn’t. It doesn’t bring back any memories of my father. However, it does bring back memories of my grandfather sitting behind the desk, scolding me, like he always does.
I love my grandfather. He has done a lot for me and even more for my family. Without him, the Felton Corporation might never have reached the heights that it has. We wouldn’t have more than enough money to take care of ourselves for dozens of lifetimes without even having to lift a finger. Granddad was the one who turned a simple casino into almost twenty properties now. He was the one who grew the empire to what it is today.
He has given me direction in my life. He was the one who got me the modeling jobs. He was the one who decided that I should go to Yale. He was the one who decided I should major in theater. He was the one who decided my whole future.
And I know why he has brought me here—to decide what comes next.
I’m usually thankful for his guidance. He’s always right. He’s even right about what he’s brought me here to tell me. I’m just not ready to hear it yet. I’m not ready to hear it on the worst day of my life. Today, I need to go back downstairs and finish watching Harry Potter. I need to feel sorry for myself. I need to feel angry with the world. I don’t need to deal with this.
