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“This one?” Gina points to a large structure, the only one near the end of this road.
“That’s the one,” I hear myself say, but I’m on autopilot now, literally asking one foot permission to move the other. “Right here is fine.” My body feels heavy as she parks and I exit, and yet, I manage to hold a hand up when her car door opens. “I’m going to need some privacy, please.”
“Completely understandable, London. I’m just going to stand beside the car and get some air.”
“Thank you.” I don’t turn back to look at her, though. My eyes are set on the entrance to her resting place. One foot in front of the other, I walk closer with tears brimming. My chest feels tight and breathing becomes a bit choppy.
Being here. Entering this space and finding that it looks the same hurts for some reason.
Maybe it’s because I’m the only one that cares.
Maybe it’s because I feel like a failure for not standing up for myself.
Maybe it’s because a part of my soul wants to unleash years of anger on the world for the unfairness of it all. And while I know it’s not her fault, the pain still lingers.
I feel abandoned.
“Why?” I’m choking, emotions bubbling to the surface that for so long I kept hidden from everyone. From myself. “Why, Mom?”
“It was just her time, Lola,” Alton answers out of nowhere, and I freeze. Where did he come from? How didn’t I hear him enter?
“What are you doing here?” There’s an edge of panic to my voice, my fight-or-flight instincts kicking in. Calm down. Gina is close and nothing will happen. “Did you know I would be here?”
25
“SHE WAS MY MOTHER, too.” His tone is softer than I ever remember him using, and I’m taken aback by it. It throws me off. Turns my sudden fear into annoyance.
Since when? That retort sits on the tip of my tongue, but instead I step around him. He’s misconstruing my question earlier. I’m not asking why she died; it’s clear to me that life has a beginning and end that no one can predict. No matter how unfair it is, how much I miss her, it is what it is.
What I want is answers.
Why do they treat me like crap?
Why is Alton fascinated with me?
Why does Dad threaten me every time he can?
Just fucking why?
“I’ll leave you to your visit, then,” I grit out, waving a hand in the air before turning to leave.
“Wait.” His hand shoots out to stop me—it connects with my arm and he winces, bringing my attention to the bandages around his hand. To the purple and swelling around his wrists. Alton notices where my eyes are and pulls it away. “That’s a gift from Mr. Asher himself.”
“Kind of like the ones you and Dad left on my arm and neck? Or how about the scratches your fiancée took immense joy in making down my arm.” With the tip of my finger I point to each one, waiting for some bullshit excuse or one of his threats. It doesn’t come this time, and I’m not ready for the regret in his eyes as I look at him once more.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice hoarse and low. “There’s no excuse for my behavior, London, and I’m truly sorry.”
“I don’t know what to say.” It’s the truth, and I also don’t feel comfortable inside this enclosed space alone with him. “Maybe I should come back later. Go ahead and have your visit—”
“No. Take your time...you were here first.” Alton gives me a sad smile, and it throws me off. This entire change of behavior isn’t like him at all. Did Malcolm hit his head? He only mentioned a broken hand and bullet to a shoulder; did I miss him giving this man a personality transplant? “...Dad and I will wait outside. Please, just give us a few minutes of your time before you go.”
“Again, why are you doing this?” I say, exasperation coloring my tone. “You don’t care. Never have.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, sis. You’re everything to us.” With that he walks out, leaving me alone inside the mausoleum, feeling lost and unsure. The sole thing giving me comfort is that Gina is nearby, keeping an eye, and she won’t let anything happen to me. None of them will.
“This is such a mess, Mom.” Taking the steps to where her plaque is on the wall, I lower myself to the floor right in front of it. I sit crossed-legged and look at her name, trace each letter with the tip of my fingers and then check the water level inside the metal vase. “What are they playing at? They’ve never come here. Not once since you died.”
Silence. Not that I expect anything different, but outside the wind picks up and the stained glass window above the entryway rattles a bit.
