What Happens After Dark (18 page)

It was as if they were purging the house of every trace of him.

“The sheets,” her mom said. So they traipsed back to the bedroom to tear the bed apart. His pajamas were still under his pillow. They didn’t wash anything, just threw it all in the trash, as if his scent would never come out of the cotton and her mother couldn’t bear having the sheets on her bed again. She hadn’t even mentioned putting them in the Goodwill bags versus the rubbish bin.

“They smell like death,” she whispered.

They smelled like old man and bad memories, Bree agreed.

When the trash cans were full and so were the trunks and backseats of both their cars, all that remained of Bree’s father was the oxygen tank and the hospital bed he’d died in. Once hospice picked it all up, he’d be gone completely, no reminders.

“We need a cup of coffee after all that work,” her mom said, as if they’d been spring cleaning instead of erasing every scrap of her dead husband’s existence.

Minutes later, sitting at the kitchen table over a freshly brewed mug, her mom beamed suddenly. “Let’s have tacos for dinner.”

Bree’s father had hated Mexican food. He’d liked standard American fair, meat, potatoes, and a vegetable, that was it.

“I’ll go out and get some taco shells,” Bree offered.

“Sour cream and salsa, too,” her mom added. “And one of those taco seasoning mixes.”

He was dead, he was gone. They were doing things he hadn’t allowed, like having Mexican food for dinner. Then her mother was up again, as if she had ants in her pants and couldn’t sit still. She pulled the stepstool out of the broom closet.

“What are you doing?” Bree asked as her mom set the stool beneath a bank of high kitchen cabinets.

“I want my cookie jars.” The jars Bree’s father hadn’t allowed on the counter all at the same time.

When they’d emptied the cupboards, the countertop was a jumbled mess, cookie jars in the shapes of Cinderella and Popeye between the toaster and coffeemaker, a snowman next to the flour and sugar canisters. A fat chef with a black mustache, Mother Goose, a bright red fire hydrant, a gingerbread house. And Dumbo the elephant. Her father had hated that one, saying it was a stupid shape because all the cookie crumbs fell down into Dumbo’s legs. Which was true, but Dumbo was brightly colored and had the kindest painted eyes.

Together, she and her mother stared at the crowded counter. “Maybe you can put your flour and sugar in the cookie jars, to give you more room,” Bree suggested.

“I’ll think about it.” Yet her mother wore a sneaky smile, as if she was calculating how many more cookie jars she could buy now that her husband was dead.

Later, by the time they were eating tacos with salsa and sour cream on TV trays in the den and watching
Antiques Roadshow
on PBS, even the hospital bed was gone, having seemingly disappeared into thin air while Bree drove to and from the grocery store for the second time that day.

Yet, as Sunday evening wore on, the essence of her father lingered, his aftershave in the bathroom though she’d trashed the bottle, his body odor on the chair despite its new covering, his ghostly shadow flickering on the TV screen, but gone when she turned her head. There was even the odd echo of his demanding voice in the single heartbeat as a show faded to black before the commercials started.

Unlike her mother, she didn’t feel free of him.

She wondered if she ever would.

 

 

“HOW YOU DOING, BABY?”

“Fine.” Over the phone, Bree’s voice was distant, flat.

Or maybe it was the darkness outside. It was after ten on Sunday night, a lonely hour. This morning had been a lifetime ago. Luke wondered what had happened during the hours since she’d left him. “Have you and your mom set a date for the service?”

“I told you, we’re cremating him, so there’s no service.”

“You can still have a memorial.”

“He didn’t know anyone that would want to come.”

That was harsh, but it was the reaction he would have expected if the suspicions he’d considered this morning were correct. “The memorial is for you and your mom.” It was for the living, not the dead. Maybe it would help Bree let go emotionally.

“My mom doesn’t have anyone, either.”

Everyone had someone. Didn’t they? But he figured pressing would only push Bree further away. He’d met her mother once, that was all. He didn’t know what her reaction would be to anything. If something had happened to Bree when she was younger, wouldn’t the mother have known? Who could say for sure?

“How’s your mom?” he asked.

“She’s fine.” Then she laughed, a rough sound before she cut it off. “We cleaned out all his things.”

“Today?” They hadn’t even scattered the ashes yet. No service, now cleaning his things out the day he’d died. Bizarre. Then again, it could be a catharsis, what they’d needed to do together. Who was he to judge the right or wrong of it?

“She needed it,” was all Bree said.

“What about you?”

She took forever to answer. He counted the long seconds with each heartbeat.

“I want to go home,” she whispered. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

“No.” He believed in things he could touch, see, and feel.

“I’m afraid to turn out the light.”

“He’s not there, Bree,” he murmured for comfort.

“There’s a place he might be.”

“Where?”

Again, she didn’t answer for a long time. “Just somewhere.”

His stomach sank. Jesus. It was true. Yet he still prayed his suspicion was wrong despite the fact that it supplied an answer to so many questions about her. “Then don’t go there.” He waited.

“You’re right,” she finally said. “I don’t have to go there anymore.”

“No, you don’t. I’ll come by and see you tomorrow after work.”

He expected her to fight him, but she simply said, “Okay.”

By the time she’d hung up, he still hadn’t figured out how to reach her, not emotionally at least. Except for a few brief glimpses inside her mind, there was still only the sexual way. He was starting to wonder if that was actually the worst way for her.

 

 

ON MONDAY MORNING, BREE CLACKED AWAY ON HER KEYBOARD IN her office. Coffee mug in her hand, Rachel watched from across the roundhouse. Beside her, Yvonne stirred extra creamer into her own cup.

“She looks sick,” Yvonne whispered too loudly. Yvonne always whispered too loudly, but Bree didn’t look up.

“She’s just pale.” Rachel differed in her assessment. “She looks like she hasn’t slept, but I don’t think she’s sick.”

Bree had arrived at eleven, an hour later than normal, the new normal versus the old normal. She’d said she had to drop off some things on her way to work.

“She’s acting kinda weird,” Yvonne said.

“Weird how?”

“Too quiet.”

“Yvonne,” Rachel said, exasperated, “she’s
always
quiet.”

“But this is a
weird
quiet.”

“Her father’s dying. That would make anyone act weird.”

“Did she say how he’s doing?”

“No.” Bree hadn’t said much of anything, except to explain why she was an hour late. Although
dropping stuff off
wasn’t much of an explanation.

“I mean, most people would tell you the situation and everything. I think Erin should ask her if everything’s okay.”

It wasn’t like Yvonne not to do her own asking. She was a tall woman, at least six feet, and big-boned would be the best word to describe her. Her caramel skin was unlined despite the fact that she was somewhere in her fifties—exactly how old, Rachel couldn’t say, but she’d be a grandmother come July. Yvonne didn’t so much love to gossip as she worried about everyone in the office as if they were her chicks. But today, for whatever reason, she didn’t know how to approach Bree.

“I’ll talk to her,” Rachel finally said.

“Yeah, you have rapport.”

Before Christmas, Yvonne had gotten bent out of shape over that supposed rapport. After all, Rachel had worked at DKG only a few months and Yvonne had been there forever. In the last couple of weeks, though, Yvonne had gotten over the jealousy. Maybe it was the grandchild. She had other things to occupy her mind.

Bree looked up at Rachel’s tap on the doorframe. She blinked, as if she needed a moment to refocus.

“I finished all the invoicing and everything you gave me on Friday,” Rachel told her.

“Yes. Thanks. I was just checking it all. You did a good job.” Bree’s voice was totally without inflection.

Rachel ventured a few steps inside the office. “Thank you. I can do more, whatever you need.” Then she decided it was silly to make small talk and avoid what she really wanted to say. “How did the weekend go at home? Is everything okay? Are
you
okay?”

Bree was already so fair-skinned that it was hard to say she could actually lose any more color. Maybe it was her bloodless lips that gave the impression, and the fact that she wasn’t wearing lipstick. She seemed to take a long time to decide what to say, then finally, “I’m fine. The weekend was”—she paused for a slow, thoughtful blink—“difficult.”

“I’m sorry,” Rachel empathized. “I know how hard it must be.” Not really. Her parents were both still living. She’d never lost anyone close. She’d certainly never had to watch anyone die. But she only had to
think
of losing someone to get a queasy feeling. It was the same way she’d felt about Erin losing her son; all she had to do was imagine it and she felt sick to the very pit of her stomach.

“Thank you,” Bree said, her fingers poised over her keyboard as if she couldn’t wait for Rachel to get out.

“If you need to talk, we can go out for lunch.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Bree said slowly as if she were carefully picking her words, “but I have to get this stuff done since I was late.”

“Oh yeah, sure.” Rachel’s feelings weren’t hurt. She had a thicker skin than Yvonne did. She just wished she could do something for Bree, be her friend, but the girl didn’t share much. Rachel had never met anyone quite so closed down.

Then Bree, almost as a concession, pushed some invoices across the desk. “These were in the mail if you want to enter them.”

“Sure.” At least it was something Rachel could do to help.

Yvonne accosted her almost the moment she was out of sight of Bree’s door. “What’d she say?”

“She said she’s fine.”

“She lying. I can tell. We need to do something.”

“There’s only so much pushing we can do, Yvonne. We offer, then we have to wait.” It was sort of like putting out food for a feral cat. You set down the bowl, then you backed off and let it come to you when it was ready. If it was ever ready. Funny, she figured Bree for the kind that would never be ready.

BREE DIDN’T KNOW WHY SHE’D LIED. OKAY, SHE HADN’T
LIED
. ON the face of it, everything
was
fine. She’d left her mom making arrangements about the death certificate and claiming the ashes. So practical, as if she wasn’t talking about burning up his body. A man’s body. All that was left of him but the memories. Bree wished she could burn those up right along with him.

On her way to work, she’d dropped off the used medications at the pharmacy, then taken all the bags in her car to the Goodwill donation station. This afternoon her mom was going to drop off the detritus they’d stuffed in her car. Then he’d be thoroughly gone.

Bree didn’t feel anything. Except a little peculiar that it was so easy to give away his possessions. And guilt that she
should
have felt something, but didn’t. Her mother seemed to have no such guilt.

As she stared unseeing at her computer monitor for long moments after Rachel left, her fingers poised over the keyboard, it came to her why she hadn’t said her father was dead. Because she didn’t want to go home. Her mother’s attitude creeped her out. It was Monday, the day after he’d died, and this wasn’t normal, yet Bree felt herself getting sucked into it. Like, what else can we throw out that’s
him
?

The dollhouse. She could tear it down board by board. Except that she didn’t want to go near it. Not yet. Maybe never. Could she lob a Molotov cocktail into it? Or maybe if she left it long enough, it would disintegrate under the harsh elements. What-ever, she didn’t want to go home, at least not to her mother’s house.

But if they knew her father had died, that’s exactly where Erin and Dominic would send her. When they’d lost Jay last year, neither of them had come in for two weeks. And when they finally did, they were hollow-eyed. They were still different now, too, maybe not grieving every moment like in the beginning, sometimes almost joyful for long minutes, especially over the last couple of weeks since the new year had started. But the lines of grief that had grown at Erin’s mouth would never go away, and Bree had seen a look in her eye when she caught sight of Jay’s photo on her desk, fond, loving, yet tinged with a sadness that would never end.

Bree didn’t feel like that. And they’d think her heartless. Or whacked. If she told them about her mom cleaning everything out? Good God, she wouldn’t even contemplate it.

If she could go anywhere, she’d have gone to Luke’s. She’d have rolled around in his bed, steeped herself in his scent. Even if he wasn’t there. At least she’d see him tonight. He’d said he’d come by. She could face her mom and that house if Luke was in it.

The phone rang. She almost shrieked at the unexpected intrusion. Her heart was racing as she picked up the receiver.

“Ah, Bree,” Denton Marbury said with his usual boom. She held the phone away so it didn’t hurt her eardrums. “I’ve left several messages for you, Bree. You haven’t returned my calls.”

Yeah, well, I was busy with my dying father.
She didn’t say it, though she would have liked the shock value. With Denton Marbury, a man with a hide as armored as an armadillo, it probably wouldn’t have had any effect. “I’ve been busy, Mr. Marbury, but you were on my list to call first thing this afternoon,” she lied. She’d
forgotten
to set up that meeting time he’d requested when she saw him last week. And she didn’t feel the least bit bad about that.