Page 17 of It Was Always You

I had always imagined she’d live a long life, whether I was a part of it or not. I imagined her getting remarried for a moment, followed by a divorce, and remarried for a third or fourth time. I imagined her growing old and gray and going to visit her in the nursing home to hear her complain about the lack of available champagne with breakfast or the ignorance of the caregivers. Of all the thoughts that quickly crept in and out of my mind over the years, I never would have imagined she’d fall asleep—sober, might I add—at the wheel of her shitty brown sedan and drive head-on into a semi-truck, ending her life immediately.

But standing in the vestibule of the stuffy church, giving forced smiles and awkward hugs to distant relatives and the few friends she kept up with while the stench of apology flowers and potpourri fills my nose forces me to accept the reality of what has happened. I feel so alone. All I can think is that I wish Emmett was here.

I wouldn’t expect him to be here. Getting the chance to talk to him on a regular basis is hard enough, and employers don’t let you off to go to the funeral of your high school friend's estranged mom. I know that on this day, with everything looming, he would have been able to make some sarcastic comment about my great-uncle’s plaid pants with matching suspenders or the amount of Aqua Net needed to hold his wife’s beehive hairdo up, He would at least get a smile out of me. He’d know what to say when strangers are apologizing for my loss.

If it were me and him, he’d let me vent my truth: She has the title of Mom but after the night I almost ran away and instead moved in with Emmett and his family, I never once returned to her house. Worse yet, she never reached out to talk about what happened. I saw her for a split second at my high school graduation, standing by the doorway, almost hidden under the bleachers. I was shocked as hell that she had shown up, and wondered briefly if she would come to the party afterwards at Emmett’s house, but she vanished before the ceremony ended. I haven’t seen her since.

The woman we are putting to rest today is a stranger to me, but because of societal norms and pressure from my dad, I’m standing here with a smile plastered on my face, commenting on her beauty.

“Let me see if I can change around my schedule, maybe I could get a long weekend off and drive up,” he says.

“Emmett, you know I can’t let you do that.” Time off during storm season is limited to actual family emergencies. The fact that he started an assignment in Pennsylvania doesn’t make the distance easier. “You know how my relationship with my mom was. It’ll be fine. It’ll be an awkward few hours, at best. I won’t be in town that long. I fly in Friday afternoon; the funeral is Saturday and I’m back in New Mexico by Sunday.”

A long pause on his end. “Jen, I know you say that, but I also know it might hit you hard once you’re standing there in the church. It might all come to reality.”

I offer a shrug he can’t see. “It might. Not gonna lie. But either way, I’ll be fine.”

“My parents will be there, of course.”

My shoulders sag, and a little of the pinching in my neck dissipates. “It'll help to see them. One of your mom’s hugs can cure almost anything.”

“Call me after, okay?”

“Ready to sit down, sweetheart?” my dad’s voice interrupts my thoughts. He stands awkwardly next to the pastor, twisting a pamphlet between his palms—his telltale anxious tic.

He probably hates the fact he agreed to be here. To say goodbye to his technically legal wife while his new girlfriend stands by his side. Well, not new. They’ve been together since I was in high school, but this is the first time I’ve met her, so she feels new to me.

“Yeah, ready.”

The pastor turns toward my dad and ushers him into the sanctuary.

I fall back, feet frozen in place, staring up at one of the blown-up prints of my mom. When I arrived yesterday, my dad handed me a bunch of photo albums to filter through with the task of picking out pictures that were appropriate for today. Meaning, ones where we looked happy as a family, where Mom looked healthy. I tucked a handful in an envelope, and he spent this morning turning them into portraits. I didn’t look at the ones he chose, the ones that are now in frames lining the vestibule. Looking at them now, I really see them, and all the emotions I thought I had so perfectly hidden begin to bubble to the surface.

There’s a picture from one of my birthday parties when I was a kid, maybe early teens. Mom is leaning over the table behind me, one hand holding back my hair as she helps me blow out the candles. Her blonde hair glows with the light of the sunshine coming through the window. I run a hand up to smooth over my blonde curls, one of the few traits she and I had in common.

My dad’s head comes around the corner, followed by a prompt throat clearing. “Jenna.”

“Coming.” I unglue my feet from the floor and turn toward the double wooden doors as the organ starts to play some God-awful dreary hymn. The squeak of the hinges on the outside door catches my attention.

I pause and turn to the sound and squint when the bright sunlight shines through the open crack, only for a moment, because a large frame fills the door, blocking out the stream.

I can’t quite make out the face attached to the figure, the sunlight still causing an aura, and though it’s been two years since I’ve seen him in person, I’d know that height, the shape of those shoulders, thatbodyanywhere.

My feet are in motion before I can silence the sob that escapes me, and I’m barreling toward the figure with my arms in the air. He takes two giant steps forward and meets me, wrapping me tightly in his embrace, one hand around my waist and the other cradling the back of my head, muffling my tears against his chest.

“Youcame,” I croak.

“Ihadto.” He pulls me closer, dropping the hand from my head and using it to meet his other around my back, pulling me into him. My forehead finds my favorite spot against the side of his neck. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you here alone.”

We both know I wouldn’t have been alone. I have my dad, his girlfriend—whatever her name is—some cousins, neighbors, mom’s friends I haven’t seen since high school. A slew of flowers from people who couldn’t make it, his parents . . . but I know what he means. Without him, without someone who knows the entire relationship I had with my mom, without someone who knows how shitty I am at expressing my emotions, I would still have been alone if it weren’t for him. He knows I would have spent the day wearing a mask, hiding how I really feel. Out of sight, out of mind.

I pull back, swiping quickly at the mascara-tinted tears trailing down my face. “I thought you couldn’t get out of work?”

I look up at him for the first time, and notice his thick, dark hair is longer than usual, swooped to the side by gel. He wears dark blue jeans and a crisp button-up that hugs his arms. He’s gotten more muscular since I last saw him. Overall, so grown up and ungodly handsome.

I reach my hands up to gently tousle it. “I like the hair.”

He gives a boyish smile. “I didn’t have time for a cut. I can’t stay long. Seven hours at most. I’ll head back tonight.” He swipes a few wisps of hair out of my face.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com