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Prologue
Lucy
Dreamsareafunnything.
They grow and change as we do, but the dreams we have when we are younger are never really forgotten. They just morph into other things, or they go on the shelf with dreams that didn’t come true.
Some dreams are made with bright eyes as we stare up at the night sky.
While some are made late at night with tears rolling down our cheeks as we stare at the ceiling.
But the thing I love about humans is that, no matter how many broken hearts and shattered dreams, we don’t stop. Sure, it takes a little time, but one day we start to dream again—we start towantthings again.
People say that the human heart is a fragile thing, but I don’t think that’s true. I think the human heart is the strongest organ in our body, because no matter how many times it’s shattered, it just keeps beating.
Something I have to remind myself of as I stand in the graveyard, trying not to have a full-blown panic attack. My hand is on my heart, a reminder that it is still beating—that I amfine. I look away from the black casket and up to the sky and take five deep breaths.
Deep breaths, Lucy. Just take five deep breaths and you’ll be okay, my dad’s voice echoes in my head.
“Lucy?” My mom takes my hand in hers.
I look at her—dark circles under her eyes and tears steadily rolling down her cheeks. I squeeze her hand and offer a small smile.
I’m fine.
Ihaveto be fine.
“You have to throw the dirt on the casket,” she whispers.
Right.
I step forward and take a handful of dirt from the pan lying beside the grave and toss it on the shiny black casket. I purse my lips and step back, letting mom have her turn. I look away, focusing instead on the hundreds of headstones in the graveyard.
Dad would’ve hated this—he wasn’t one for attention—but I don’t say anything. I’ve learned that funerals aren’t for the dead, they’re for the living. They’re meant to be some sort of closure for those left behind to really say goodbye. But if you ask me, that’s all a bunch of bull.
You can’t say goodbye to someone whose heart isn’t beating.
You can’t say goodbye to someone who is already gone, you just suddenly have to live without them.
The preacher says the final remarks, but I don’t hear him. I haven’t heard a word he’s said since we stepped foot in the cemetery.
Mom starts to walk away, and everyone slowly begins to approach us—offering their condolences and hugs. I know most of these people will get in their cars and go back to their regular lives. A few will come back to our house, and a handful will stick around for a few minutes, giving that final goodbye.
I take a deep breath and stick my hands deeper into my coat and start walking. Mom says my name, but I just can’t be around these people right now. So, I keep walking, even though I have absolutely no idea where I’m going.
Not that I really care.
Death is an inevitable thing—I know that.
My father was a doctor. I’m no stranger to death, and I’m normally perfectly comfortable with the concept of my own mortality.
I also know that everyone has to suffer the loss of a parent. I just wasn’t expecting to have to suffer it at twenty-two.
And I most certainly wasn’t planning on suffering alone.
In my head, when I thought about losing a parent, I always pictured myself being older and having my own family to soften the blow—as awful as that sounds. The loss just seemed like it would be easier to handle with a hand to hold.
Yet here I am—twenty-two and alone—walking through a cemetery on the day of my father’s funeral.
