A tear falls down her cheek as she can only manage a whisper. “You just needed what everyone needs,” she tells me. “A home.”
I tighten my fists, trying to keep my breathing steady.
“It’s not a place, Tiernan. It’s a feeling.” Her voice shakes. “Even when you grew out of the terrors, you still only managed four or five hours of sleep a night in that house. With them. That’s why I wasn’t upset when they sent you away to school when you were only eleven.” She sniffles, a sob escaping as she looks away. “Maybe, finally, you’d sleep.”
The car stops and the door opens, Mirai quickly putting on her sunglasses and wiping tears away as she climbs out.
It takes a moment to get my limbs moving.
It’s a feeling.
A feeling. Not a place.
I close my eyes a moment, feeling the sun on the peak on my face. And my arms around my uncle as I sit behind him on the horse.
I step out of the car, barely registering the cameras and the chatter from the reporters as I blindly follow Mirai up the steps of the church. People are talking to me, taking my hand and giving it a little hug with both of theirs, but I can’t think.
I don’t feel good.
Why did I come back? I thought I needed to do this. Be here. It’s only right, right?
I swallow the sickness rising up my throat.
People crowd us, all hungry for something, and even though I couldn’t stomach opening up my social media when I got into town, it’s clear my parents’ suicide is still top news.
Hell, some director is probably already pitching the story to a production company, so my parents’ death can be lamented in some TV movie where they’ll be portrayed as perfect and in love from the moment they met. And me, their loving daughter—the product of their Shakespearean tragedy—will only be a significant character at the end… as I stand at their headstone and smile that they’re finally safely together for all eternity.
I take a seat in the front pew with Mirai, the only good part of all this is no one expects much from the grieving daughter, so I can sit quietly without looking weird for once.
I close my eyes behind my glasses again. Two days ago, I was making toys for the horses—milk jugs stuck with carrots and apples they could play with to get their treats. Were the jugs empty by now? Kaleb doesn’t care, and Noah probably wouldn’t notice.
I don’t know when the funeral begins, but when Mirai nudges me and whispers in my ear, “Glasses,” to remind me to remove my eyewear, I open my eyes and see the caskets in front of me.
I take off my glasses, folding them gently and slipping them into my pocket.
The speakers go up, one by one over the next hour, telling stories I’d never heard and painting a picture of people I didn’t know. I sit there, listening to Mirai talk about what a pleasure it was to be a part of their lives and support their work, while Cassidy (no double e) and Mr. Palmer tell stories of their youth and early careers, their charitable work a large part of the narrative the publicist probably asked them to push to remind people that how they left this world wasn’t the most important thing.
As Delmont, my father’s closest friend, stands up there and talks about their college football days and summers backpacking in Turkey or Chile or wherever, Mirai puts her hand on mine to alert me it’s almost time.
My stomach churns. I could talk about their work, I guess. How they were an inspiration to me, and I could lie about all the cards and presents they surprised me with at school, even though it was Mirai, and I always knew it was her, even though she gave them the credit.
I could talk about what I’ve learned from my uncle and cousins. And then say I learned it from my parents instead.
I don’t want to be quiet anymore. I want to prove to them that they didn’t break me. That I won’t let them affect my voice and my ability to be brave.
But as I try to steady my feet under me to get ready to stand up, I can’t.
I don’t want to lie.
“Things change, life moves on, and the world with it,” Delmont says. “But death? Death is as sure as night.”
I look up at him, listening to his words.
“It’s a part of us all.” He looks around at the audience as he starts to wrap up his speech. “The only thing we really leave behind is the work that we do and the people who love us.”
The people who love us…
“Amelia and Hannes didn’t leave anything on the table,” he concludes. “They always knew the answer to the most important question in one’s life—where do I want to be today?”