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“He yelled at me to go. The last time I saw them, they were together,” I’m barely able to say through my tears. “I tried to find Buddy too,” I say, letting him know that I wanted to try to get everyone. I feel like I failed.
“I know you would have. Like I said earlier, he is fine. He is all fine. You did the best you could, baby,” Eddie says, his fingers brushing my wet cheeks and wiping my tears away.
“What now?” I ask, melting into his touch. This month has been a month to forget. Just when I think life can’t throw anything more at me, this happens. Eddie leans in and gives me a soft smile.
“Now we make a life. We both now know how quickly life can change, so we are going to continue our relationship how it started.”
“How’s that?” I ask, holding my breath, feeling overwhelmed and even more grateful.
“We are going to dive headfirst into it. You and me, Pinkie. The two of us. Together,” Eddie says, kissing my chapped lips with a light brush of his.
“Always,” I say, the confirmation of commitment in my bones.
“Always and forever,” he says, taking a seat and leaning forward on the bed. He stays with me all night and into the morning as we start to rebuild our life together. Not once leaving my side. Not once letting me down.
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN - EDDIE
Iadjust myself on the hard timber pew. The priest talks about life, love, legacy. Us boys sit tall and straight in the front row, looking directly at our mother’s casket. Black. Shiny. Overflowing with white roses.
I feel heavy. In my chest, in my legs, in my mind. My saving grace is the beautiful pink-haired woman sitting next to me. She squeezes my hand, our palms sweating together since I haven’t let go of her for even a second today. She has not only been going through her own traumatic experience, but has also been there for me, every minute of every day as I wade through this loss.
The loss of a matriarch. A woman who, despite all her hate, venom, and pure black soul, actually did donate many dollars and many hours to charities around the state. Who raised four boys who turned into men. A woman who died, knowing exactly what was coming for her, like they were the flames licking up at her from the depths of hell. The devil himself was probably at the gates waiting for her.
I swallow at that thought. I now know that smoke inhalation would have taken her and Dr. Wilson before the flames had even arrived. Their bodies were removed from the damaged hospital twenty-four hours after the whole place erupted. They were still holding each other.
The sermon ends and we stand. I move on autopilot. Buttoning up my jacket, I keep Pinkie close and follow my brothers and their girls down the aisle of the large cathedral past the people who knew her, of which there are many. There must be hundreds of people in attendance today, and as we shake hands with the priest and walk down the front stairs to our waiting cars, I see many more outside, with media flanking the walkways and the roads congested. I grab Pinkie’s hand tightly, the two of us remaining quiet until Tony opens our door, and I get her inside and follow her quickly, happy for the small amount of privacy it affords us.
“That was a lovely service,” Pinkie says, my hand finding hers again immediately.
“It was.” I release a large breath and try to get myself under control.
Grief is a funny thing. For the most part of the service, all I could think of was that this was nearly Pinkie. My heart was in my throat the entire time, and I fought tears, yet not for my mother. But for how grateful I felt that it wasn’t Pinkie in that casket that sat before us. I feel guilty for that. She was my mother, and I have grieved for her in my own way. She wasn’t a nice woman, and over the past days and weeks, my brothers and I have all spoken and pieced together her history, which has brought new light to who she was and explained why she was so evil.
“She would have been happy with it, I am sure,” Pinkie says, looking at me with concern as Tony follows all my brothers’ cars, us traveling in a convoy to the private crematorium to say our final private goodbyes.
We now know that the fires were deliberately set. CCTV footage from inside and around the hospital shows us the moment the young blond woman, who is friends with Pinkie’s foster brother Steve, walked inside, deliberately lit small fires using alcohol as an accelerant around the hospital, particularly targeting the cardiac ward, before running out and down the street. If it was only one fire, then it would have been easy to contain, causing a small amount of damage and that would be it. But she lit five individual fires, in different areas all in under a few minutes. She had a plan. She was strategic. It was deliberate. That weight sits heavy on Katie. I see the pain in her eyes every time someone talks about the fire, which they often do. It has been a hot topic in the city. In the news, on social media, in general conversation at the coffee shop. She carries it all because she thinks if she hadn’t moved here, then none of this would have happened. But Steve was so unhinged that it undoubtably would have been something similar somewhere else. She can’t carry the weight of other people’s actions.
The young blond girl hasn’t been seen since. I suspect she has probably moved states, because the results of her actions have been catastrophic for Baltimore.
Baltimore is not the same, and it won’t be for a very long time.
I squeeze Pinkie’s hand as Tony stops our car behind the gates of the crematorium, and we step out.
The media at the gate looks to be about five lines deep, lights from the cameras flashing almost incessantly. They shout questions, accompanied by low murmurs from the surrounding crowd. I secure my hand around hers and join my brothers, stepping inside the small room. The floor is made of marble with white walls. It is all very clinical and cold apart from the abundance of flowers that adorn the two coffins now sitting at the front.
“How is everyone holding up?” Harrison asks, standing tall as we group together before we take our seats.
“I feel guilty for feeling free of her. I’m happy, yet I can’t smile,” Tennyson says, not upset by our mother’s death. He calls it karma. Willow runs her hand up and down his arm, remaining quiet.
“I’m not sure what I feel. Maybe relief?” Ben says, looking at us all, his girl Em standing close to his side.
“I almost feel grateful, but guilty for feeling grateful,” I murmur as we try to keep our voices low.
“What do you mean?” Katie asks, looking up at me from my side as my brothers all look at me in quiet question.
“Grateful that it is her in that box and not you,” I say to her, my eyes growing glassy. She leans her head against my arm, hugging me closer, and I pull her in, kissing her hair and smelling her scent, reminding me that she is here.
“What about you?” I ask my eldest brother. He is carrying a lot. Addressing the media, trying to also help the city through it all. His plans for a presidential run have been derailed a little by this activity. He now needs to regroup and reassess, but there is no doubt in my mind that he will run, just not right now.
