The Battered Heiress Blues (5 page)

I had asked that no one attend Connor’s internment. I’d barely made it through the ceremony, knowing that all these strangers were watching me. I refused to allow them to be present when his precious body was laid forever in the cold ground. That moment belonged to me. Hearing footsteps behind me, an outstretched hand came over my shoulder. I opened my eyes and turned to find Henry, standing beside me with tears collecting in his eyes.

“May I carry Connor for you?” His voice cracked as he worked hard to hold back his emotions. His objective for the day was to lend me his strength. He wouldn’t be happy if I had to console him.

I stood with tears streaming down my face and managed to reply, “Would you please?” My face began to feel strained as I tried to refrain from crying, but I wailed out in utter despair when I stepped forward and leaned across my tiny son’s casket, pushing the blanket of roses off onto the floor.

“My baby. My son.”

The sounds of the chapel door closing behind me shook the panes of the stained glass panels. Tommy was adamant about maintaining my privacy, despite my father’s party planning. He appeared at my left side and grabbed hold of my hands. They trembled as I embraced the dark stained wood.

“We’re going to make it through this. Just let it out Julia. No one is here, but us. Say your goodbyes.”

He had given me the permission I needed to unload the world from my shoulders. Henry moved to my right and grasped my waist. I could hear their muffled sniffles as my sobbing came and went.

I had cried for so long and so hard that I suddenly found myself quieted and at peace just holding the coffin. I didn’t know how to let it go. I wasn’t sure I could, knowing that the next step was to tangibly let them put him in the soil that was calling him to rest.

Tommy slowly loosened my fingers from the casket and I stepped back slowly. My body felt weak and I started to fall, but Henry caught my waist and sat me down in the pew.

Sitting beside me, my brother whispered, “Connor’s with Mom, Julia. She’s looking out for him. He’s at peace. He feels only joy in the presence of God.”

“Screw your joy and peace.”

Tommy knew the importance of forward progress. “We should finish the service now, okay?”

Waiting for my approval, I could only offer a nod. There were no words for this. He walked back to the chapel door and opened it, asking the funeral home workers to carry the flowers to the grave. I waited and watched as they removed the countless flowers and sprays that lined the altar and aisles. When they collected the last one, I stood of my own volition and drew a long strong breath. Tommy extinguished the candles and the chapel became dark. I could have stayed in that dark chapel with my son all day.

Henry walked forward to the small coffin and lifted it off the stand. I could still smell the incense burning that Tommy had used during the Mass. We processed into the day- Tommy, then Henry holding Jackson’s son, with me staggering behind.

The last time I had made this walk was to bury my mom. Parents should die before their children. We’re programmed to expect this through old age or illness. No parent should suffer the loss of a child. Grieving a child is unnatural. No mom or dad should have to place a piece of their own heart in the ground. My son was my heart. He was my future. I was as good as dead inside.

The walk felt long, but the cemetery garden sat just behind the chapel through an iron gate, which the funeral director held open for us. Large mature crepe myrtles sat at the four corners of the space. My father had planted cypress hedges around the exterior so people couldn’t see him mourning my mother. I grew up thinking that he was emotionally twisted because of this, but I was now thankful for the privacy. In the center stood a beautiful fountain and an old weeping willow, whose feathery branches relayed a sense of peace. The sound of the water was calming as I approached the grave. My mother was buried on the left and Connor would rest to her right. I had requested no tent or chairs. I didn’t want others to feel invited to attend this goodbye.

Henry placed Connor on his grave and then walked toward me, grabbing my hand. The throbbing in my chest made me feel as if my heart would explode through my skin. With my legs beginning to fail me, I could barely hear Tommy. The tight hold I had on Henry’s hand was slipping.

“Get her a chair, now,” Henry barked at the workers. Within a minute, one materialized under me and he was pushing me gently down. A beautiful red cardinal caught my attention as it rested on one of the tree limbs that hung over Connor’s sacred space. Seeing such beauty distracted my sorrows for a brief moment. My hearing slowly returned for the final
Amen
.

Tommy walked over and held out his hand to urge me up on my feet. Handing me a rose, he took the lead in placing one on Connor’s coffin. I held the white rose, unable to release it, but Henry covertly opened my fingers and I watched it slowly fall to the wood below.

“Let’s go, Julia,” Tommy insisted, pulling me away as I protested.

“I want to stay for this.” I turned back toward Connor.

“No. You can come back later. Let’s go greet your guests and get a bite to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Come now, Jewels,” Henry instructed, holding my hand and pulling me to him.

They were trying to protect me from what was coming next. They would lower my sweet baby’s body into the dark depths of the dirt and no one he loved would be keeping watch. I would give in for now, while I was under their scrutiny. The funeral director offered a simple condolence before we walked in silence back to face the guests I hadn’t invited.

The house was overflowing with people I didn’t know. It felt like a bad socialite party- terrible company, insincere sentiments, and lots of empty promises. As we approached the front steps, Henry squeezed my hand and then vanished into the crowd. I felt many hands touch me as I passed and words were exchanged that I paid little attention to. I simply didn’t care. All I could do was shake my head as a thank you for what I assumed were kind words. Hopefully, people knew better than to engage me with questions that required a true response.

I finally made my way to the guest bathroom and locked the door behind me. The mirror portrayed a grotesque picture. My face looked unrecognizable. The person looking back at me was so full of misery and sadness. I had never allowed myself such moments of heartache in the past. I was a pick herself up by the bootstraps kind of girl- a mentality drilled into my head by my father. My nose and cheeks were a blistering red and my eyes were swollen from crying. Turning away from that stranger in the glass, I slid down the door until finding a resting place on the floor. I began the comforting practice of counting ceramic tiles. For some reason, counting eased my anxiety. I had a good five minutes alone before people started knocking to either use the toilet or perhaps look for me- probably the toilet. Truly, no one wanted to be here.

Reaching up, I grabbed the marble vanity and pulled myself vertical. That same strange woman was eyeing me again. Turning on the faucet, I splashed my face with cold water and then pulled out the hair pin, allowing my long dark curls to provide some shelter from the staring eyes beyond this safe room. I could do this. For a few more hours, I could keep it together.

Making my way to the drawing room, I found solace in a single chair that was set off to the side. From that vantage point, I could see the show. Henry was smack dab in the middle of the festivities, shaking hands and dispensing opinions under the watchful eye of my father. He barely glanced at me during the long drawn out afternoon. We hadn’t touched at all since our return to the house and I longed for one gentle, reassuring caress to remind me that the future held some small amount of happiness. Around him, I always breathed in a sense of hope, but it appeared that this day would not allow such luxuries. He would never so blatantly cross my father. In the fight for Henry’s affections, I was always the loser. Business always seemed to come first.

Father had made it abundantly clear to Henry during college that any opportunity with his firm came with a prerequisite. He must end his relationship with me. At the time, I estimated that the decision was a no brainer, but the cards were heavily stacked against me. John had contacted the other firms interviewing Henry. Despite his wicked talent, my father persuaded the various companies to pass on offering him a position. John made certain that he would have no alternative but to work for Spencer Industries. How could I compete when all I had to offer was me?

After an hour of mindless small talk, I rose to my feet and excused myself, feeling drawn to my mom’s portrait that hung in the foyer. With my hasty retreat to Peru, I hadn’t studied her face in months. Oh, how I longed for her today. I needed someone to prop me up and tell me that life would continue- or even that I wanted it to. I had no one. John had been an absentee father since my mother’s death. He became instantly disengaged, a prisoner to his own sorrow. We were a constant reminder of her and so he stayed away from us as much as possible, making appearances at birthdays and holidays. My nana had influenced our rearing, and though lovely as she was, no one could replace our parents. In one fateful day, my mother and father were both lost to us.

Henry was deliberately avoiding me in this public forum. I felt very alone until my brother walked around the corner.

“She was so beautiful,” he remarked.

“Loving, warm, and yes, very beautiful. I can still close my eyes and feel her brushing out my curls.”

“I miss her too.” Tommy’s face was covered with regret and shame; the very emotions my father had brainwashed him into thinking over the years since her tragic death. The cancer grew rapidly during her pregnancy and to spare Tommy, the treatment was delayed. One life was given and another was taken away, in an instant. My father placed the blame on Tommy and with that our lives were altered.

I noticed John watching us as we stared at Mom’s painting. Tommy turned his head to take in my view. He grew uncomfortable.

“He’s led a bitter life. I wish things were different. I’ve missed having a father.”

“Never mind that now,” I said. “We have each other.” I pulled Tommy out of the room and onto the veranda where we found respite in two rocking chairs. We rocked, eyes closed, holding hands, two against the world, like it always had been. The sound of people leaving was the only thing disturbing us.

“Here you are.” Henry was doing his best to be both charming and apologetic.

“I’ve been
here
all day.” I didn’t bother to open my eyes.

“Your father is about to leave.”

“Okay,” I said indifferently.

“I thought you’d want to come and say goodbye.”

“Not really.”

“Julia.” His voice was condemning.

I opened my eyes to face his accusatory tone. “If he’s leaving, he’ll be going through that door, right?”

“Yes. But…”

I cut him off. “Then I’ll say goodbye…to you also.”

“I wasn’t going to leave.”

“Weren’t you?”

A long pause was interrupted by the peacemaker. Tommy was God’s own human instrument. “How about something to eat? You haven’t had anything all day.”

“Sure. That would be nice. Thanks.”

Tommy left his chair and entered the house, leaving it rocking back and forth. Henry decisively stopped its swinging and sat down. “What’s the matter Jewels?”

“The matter?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let’s recap shall we? I buried my son today. Does that suffice for what’s the matter?”

“I’m sorry,” he responded, embarrassed for asking such a silly question.

“About what exactly?”

“You’re upset?”

“Yes.”

“Have I done something…?”

“No. You haven’t done anything,” I coolly replied.

“What does that mean? Why are you picking a fight with me?” Henry leaned forward and stopped my chair from rocking. His close proximity was intimate.

“Careful now- my father is afoot,” I teased.

Without warning, John walked through the door, as if he had some sixth sense that we were talking. Henry quickly stood up and took a step backward.

“I’m ready to go Henry.” John walked toward me, but stopped.

Henry searched his pockets for his phone and started dialing. “Very good, sir. I’ll call the plane.” He walked to the end of the veranda and started squawking instructions into his cell while my father grew impatient.

“Where are you headed?” I asked, completely disinterested in his answer.

“New York.” There was a long pause. “…unless you need me to stay.” His invitation was a rouse. He had no intention of staying. I had no intention of being hospitable.

“Have a good flight. Thanks for coming and bringing so many mourners- it really made the day seem all about Connor.”

John was visibly aggravated. He made his way to the steps while I took the opportunity to chastise him.

“By the way, how is your son doing…or haven’t you bothered to inquire? Time is ticking away, John. You are in control of most things, but not time. Look at me. Don’t end up like this…full of regret…with a child in the ground who never knew your loving touch or kind words.”

Descending down the stairs, without looking back, he said, “I’ll be in New York.” That was that. He fell out of view. I heard a car door slam in the distance. There had been no great sentiment over my loss. This was classic John.