“I’ll figure it out, Boss,” Seth tells me and I immediately answer, “Don’t go to her.”
His brow raises, but he’s quick to fix the display of shock. “Of course,” he replies.
“I’m arranging to see her shortly. Dig up everything you can on her and on her sister’s death.”
“Will do,” Seth says as he slips the papers back into the folder and then glances at the monitors once again. The paused image of Beth shows her leaning across the bar midscream, demanding answers. Answers I don’t have for her. Answers she may never get.
“The other reason I wanted to see you… I have those papers you wanted,” Seth says, interrupting my thoughts.
“What papers?”
“The ones about your brother.”
My brother.
There’s always someone to fight. Someone to blame.
It never stops.
Bethany
Bethany
People mourn differently. My mother would turn in her grave if she knew I went to work last night instead of going to my sister’s funeral. My sister, Jennifer, was the only family I had left.
And instead of watching Jenny be put in the ground, beside my mother who’s been there for a decade, I worked.
Yes, my mother would turn in her grave if she knew.
But that’s because my mother had never been able to stand on her own two feet whenever there was a loss, or any day of the week, really. Let alone take on a sixteen-hour shift to avoid the burial of a loved one. The last loved one I had.
As I let out a flat sigh, remembering how she used to handle things, I watch my warm breath turn to fog. It’s not even late, but the sun has set and the dark winter night feels appropriate if nothing else.
The laughter coming from inside my house doesn’t though.
My heart twists with a pain I loathe. Laughter. On a night like tonight.
Gripping the door handle a little harder than I need to, I prepare myself for what’s on the other side.
Distant relatives chattering in the corner, and the smell of every casserole known to man invade my senses.
The warmth is welcoming as I close the door behind me without looking, only staring straight ahead.
Even as I lean my back against the cold door, no one sees me. No one stops their unremarkable conversations to spare me a glance. Bottles clink to my right and I turn just in time to see a group of my sister’s friends toasting as they throw back whatever clear liquor is in their glasses. My glasses.
With a deep breath, I push off the door. Focusing on the sound of my coat rustling as I pull it off, I barely make eye contact with an aunt I haven’t seen in years.
“My poor dear,” she says, and I notice how her lips purse even while she’s speaking. With a wine glass held away from her, she gives me a one-armed hug. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers.
Everyone is so, so sorry.
Offering her a weak smile, and somehow not voicing every angry thought that threatens to strangle me, I answer back, “Thank you.”
Her gaze drifts down to my boots, still covered with a light dusting of snow and then travels back up to my eyes. “Did you just get done with work?”
I lie. “Yes. Did the scrubs give it away?” The small joke eases the tension as she grips my shoulder. This isn’t the first time I’ve ventured to the bar before coming home. Although, this is the first time the house isn’t empty. And it’s the first time I’ve felt I truly needed a drink. I need something to numb… all of this.
“Would you like a drink?” she offers me and then tells a group of people I’ve never met goodbye as they make their way out of my house.
“How about some red wine. A nightcap, since it’s almost over?”
It’s. Is she referring to the evening? Or the wake?
The tight smile on my face widens and I tell her, “I’d like that.” My gaze wanders to the living room and I spitefully think that I’d like the four-year-old rummaging through the drawer of my coffee table to get out. They can all get out.
That thin smile still lingers on my lips when she brings me a glass and I nod a thanks, although I don’t drink it. Not because I don’t need one, but purely out of spite.
“Did the caterers bring everything?” I ask her politely, nodding a hello at a few family members who offer a pathetic wave in return. My mother was the black sheep of the family. Because of that, I couldn’t name half of the people in here even though I recognize their faces. She got a divorce when my dad skipped out on us, and the family essentially divorced her for not “trying harder” in her marriage.
So the majority of the people here, I’ve met only once or twice… usually at funerals.