Page 8 of A Brilliant Spring

Chapter

Seven

Elissa

My knuckles bloom white as my fingers crinkle the pages in my hand. The words on the page, I just don’t comprehend. What the publicist wants me to say makes my stomach turn. My mother stands off to the side, talking to the publicist as they give me time to review the speech. My teeth grind together, the bumpy surfaces scraping together.

Thank you all for coming today. My father, Harold Black, was a generous, hardworking, loving father.

Vomit bubbles in my throat.

He was the heart of Black & Wells Publishing and Press, the backbone of the media empire he created in his early days after university. Harold worked incredibly hard to provide for his family, but also for his employees. He thought of every single one of his employees as an extended family member, which is why the turnout today is a testament to his character…

Oh. My. God. It’s like a commercial, an endorsement for my father, even after death. While it’s true that he treated his employees well, there’s no way everyone is here because they thought this highly of him; the board mandated them to be here. I drop my hands, the pages still being squeezed in my clenched fists. How am I supposed to deliver this eulogy, to say these words about my father, words that I just don’t believe?

My body feels like it’s being wrapped in iron chains, slithering around my body and coiling tightly until I can’t move or breathe. It’s like the walls are caving in on me and I’m struggling for air. My blood boils, and I’m crushed by fighting emotions. Anger and nerves battle it out and the urge to run surges in me when I hear a door click open behind me. I’m torn away from my thoughts. I turn around and Riley is standing at the door, a look of worry on her face. Her eyes are glassy, she’s pale, and her perfectly sculpted brows pinch together.

“Are you okay?” she asks in a hushed tone. I nod my head, take a deep breath, and give her a weak smile. Her shoulders drop as she visibly relaxes a little. Some colour returns to her face. “Okay. Because I need to freak out and you’re the only one I can do it with.”

I cock my head, giving her a concerned look, and she deflates. “My parents are here.” I immediately understand her dilemma. My heels echo as they click on the floor of the small room until I’m in front of her, wrapping my arms around her, the pages wrinkling against her back. She lets go of a heavy sigh and melts into my embrace.

“It’s going to be okay, Riles. You don’t have to tell them anything yet. You still have some time until you’ll start showing.” My voice cracks as I try to keep my volume low so that it doesn’t carry through the room and to the ears of people on the other side of the door. After a few moments, she sighs, and I rub her back. “Let’s go. I need to recite this junk.”

Riley pulls away from me, holding me at arm’s length as she stares into my eyes. Her flawless eyeliner never fails to amaze me. Her eyes waver as they look back and forth into mine. “You know, you don’t have to read the eulogy if you don’t want to. Just give me a sign and I’ll hold your hand and we’ll run out of here. ‘Grief stricken’ they would probably play it off as.” I chuckle and shake my head, and she chuckles along with me. Her hands grip mine, and for a moment, I am calm.

•••

The funeral procession started off well enough — it was all very polite; people coming over to my mother and I in our pew, greeting us, offering their condolences. I’m not sure who put together the funeral readings, my mother or the publicist, but it was all very posh, and holy, and everything that was the opposite of my father. Go figure. A wobbly old voice crackles through the speaker system.

“And now Harold’s daughter Elissa is going to say a few words.” My stomach sinks and my mother and Riley each squeeze a hand. I look at Riley, and she gives me a reassuring smile. Her full lips mouth, just give me a sign. I squeeze her hand back, and when I stand, my hands smooth out my black cotton wrap dress and I tuck my hands underneath my ass to make sure that the skirt is still down. I edge past my mother in the pew, and my head feels hollow. My breathing echoes in my ears as I walk toward the podium.

Flashes and shutters click behind me, and I finally make it to the podium and turn. My hand sinks into the pocket of my dress and extracts the crumpled, folded eulogy the publicist wrote for me. I lay it on the podium, my hand running over the paper, smoothing out the bumpy wrinkles. I clear my throat and it rings through the speakers.

“Thank you all for coming. For some of you who may not know me, I am Elissa Black, Harold’s daughter. My father, Harold Black, was generous, hardworking, and —” My voice breaks as my pulse throbs underneath my skin and my eyes prickle with static. My hands wrap around the edge of the stand and grip it tightly as I try to balance myself and concentrate on my breathing. Flashing lights obscure and blur my vision, only making my heart race faster. I take a few moments to pull myself together. When my heart calms down a little, my hands loosen, and I pick up the paper and fiddle with it between my fingers.

I don’t dare to look up or into the crowd of nameless faces in front of me. They’re probably looking at me with sympathy for being “heartbroken” over losing my father. But the truth is, I’m not sure what I feel, if I feel anything at all. I’m irritated, sure. Anxious, yes. But mostly I’m numb. My brain still hasn’t quite processed the fact that he’s gone. It’s like an elaborate prank he’s playing on me, just to fuck with me and put me back in my place. Because that’s just what Harold would do. My lips move, seemingly of their own accord, but the words coming out of my mouth don’t match the words on the paper in front of me.

“My father, Harold, was a company man. Through and through. He loved his work, his company, and his employees, in that order.” I take a deep breath and ground myself, as I’m going off script. My lips continue to move with a mind of their own. “Harold was rarely around when I was growing up. He was always at work, and on the occasions when he was home, he was in his study, working. I guess that’s one useful thing I learned from him, how to work hard. Oh, and my love of whiskey.” The church echoes with a polite chuckle from the crowd. “I always kept my head down growing up, and put in maximum effort to get good grades for him and my mother. To make them proud, to make them love me. To be the perfect daughter.”

What in the fuck am I saying? Why isn’t someone stopping me? The words just keep pouring out of my mouth, and I’ve never been more disgusted with myself. Who is this weak woman rambling into the microphone?

“What I’m trying to say, I guess, is that I should count myself lucky that I only have to strive for one parent’s love and attention now. Takes a bit of the pressure off, doesn’t it?” I’m cracked, I’m losing it. My eyes sting and my nose feels like I’ve inhaled a bucket of water as tears spring to my eyes. My laugh carries through the room, echoing and crackling on the speakers. My breathing, hard and erratic, echoes into the mic as I lose it in front of the congregation. Riley shoots to her feet and clambers over my mother, stomps up the stairs, and wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me from the podium. I stretch my neck, gripping the stand, my mouth still making noise into the microphone.

Bulbs are flashing, clicking, and snapping at my very public meltdown. Just another scene for the tabloids and papers. They must think I’m drunk. I wish I was. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.

“Rest in peace, Dad,” I say, my words dripping with sarcasm. “Riley, let go, I’m coming…” My voice trails off as I’m pulled away from the podium. A shocked hush hangs over the church. No one dares to move, cough, or say anything. Riley’s grip around my arm tightens, dragging me behind her, and I try to wrestle out of her grasp. “Riley, let go,” I murmur, yanking back on my arm, but her grip doesn’t waver, not until she’s tugged me out of the side door of the church and into the hallway, and the massive arched doors slam closed behind me.

Chapter

Eight

Elissa

Riley’s nails bite into my skin as she drags me out of the church, stomping her feet and tossing withering glares over her shoulder.

“Riley, stop. Please, you’re hurting me.” When we’re finally far enough away from the main room in the church, her hands drop from around my bicep, the skin now raw and red, decorated with half-moon nail impressions. What the hell is her problem? What the hell is my problem? Riley’s arms are folded across her chest, and her toes are tapping rapidly on the marble floor. Her lips are moving, but it’s hard to hear what she’s saying; she’s just murmuring to herself. “What are you saying Riley?”

Her eyes dart to find mine, and when they do, they’re hard and narrow, and I shrink to about three inches tall; so small I can see the miniscule specks of dust on the floor. Her eyes soften as she exhales, and her body relaxes. Her shoulders rise and she drops her head into her hands, rubbing her forehead like she has a headache.

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