Page 12 of King of Guilt

“O—” She rushed toward the door, opening it. “Of course. Excuse me.”

It was no surprise that Emma had managed to pull together a beautiful and elegant wake where I didn’t stop hearing her praises sung everywhere I turned. Those who didn’t get the chance to attend the wedding would start by expressing their condolences before congratulating me on an ‘incredible bride’.

Of course, the older men found it humorous to refer to her calm yet invigorating beauty, while younger ones felt the need to point out that any bride in her place would have thrown money at the planners and let them handle it.

The sinister manner in which young, single women regarded her wasn’t lost on me, even under the influence of self-medication and rivers of liquor. My friends noticed, too, especially Chad, who remarked that I should hire a bodyguard for my bride, because, as Chad jokingly put it; “Given the opportunity, they’ll eat her alive like zombies.”

Mindlessly, I powered through the social niceties until the very last guest left the house. I turned to Emma to see that she still stood in her high heels, helping the staff clean up. As if she had felt my gaze on her, she looked up at me, frozen with a tray of empty glasses. “Do you need anything?” she asked with a smile.

How could she still smile after the kind of day she’d had?

Quickly looking away, I shook my head. “No, thanks. I think you should rest now. Helen can supervise.”

“I’m not tired. You look drained, though. Why don’t you go upstairs? I had Helen prepare a hot bath for you.”

Surprised that she still managed to ensure my comfort with everything else on her overflowing plate, I looked into her eyes with volumes of gratitude I wished she could absorb. “I really appreciate everything you’ve done.”

“Come on.” Stepping closer, her eyes nervously roamed around. “Don’t say things like that.”

I understood that she didn’t want anyone to hear something they shouldn’t. After all, what she was doing was the expectation of a mourning man’s wife. Nodding, I whispered, “Thank you.”

“Good night.”

“Yeah. Good night.”

Upstairs, I stepped into the bathroom, greeted with the ever so soothing aroma of lavender. As I proceeded to shed my clothes one article at a time, I took a good look around me. Candles, incense, and a downplayed version of Chopin’s ‘Nocturne’.

Slipping into the welcoming warmth of the water, I leaned back, throwing out my arms over the edges as I closed my eyes.

Attempting to relax proved to be a challenge, since a few minutes in, I could only see flashbacks of the moment when my mother’s soul had abandoned this world. All those strangers. That chaos. The deafening noise of the machines. Nothing about it had felt peaceful, and with trembling lips, I prayed that she had already been gone before all of that had happened. My only wish now was that she was already far away from the hands and eyes of everyone in the room that night. That she didn’t hear the panic in their voices, or the pain in mine.

But as it turned out, the universe wasn’t done with throwing unwanted company my way. Before I could will the distressing visions away, I heard Emma’s whisper, “Mr. Allen?”

My jaws clenched. “It’s Dean, Emma. We’ve been over this.”

“May I come in?”

I opened my eyes, glaring up at the ceiling while I beckoned her over with my hand. Quickly realizing how patronizing that must have looked, I quickly said, “Of course. What is it?”

“How’s the headache?” I heard her voice approach behind me, until it felt as though her head was right behind mine. “I saw you take some pills downstairs.”

“It’s been there for so long; I no longer notice it now.”

I heard the click of a bottle and the soft pop of shampoo being squeezed into her palm. “May I?” Her fingertips gently landed on the top of my head and pressed a little, a heaven-sent touch.

“Okay,” I whispered.

“Close your eyes,” she said as I felt her fingers spread the shampoo all round, each one of them pressing an inch of my scalp that felt tender to the touch. “I don’t want it to burn.”

I did as she asked, letting out a long, silent sigh. Gradually, Emma began to increase the pressure she applied, massaging my whole head. In between those cathartic intervals, I would feel her twirl a couple of locks around her fingers, kneading and brushing through them like a wide, painless comb.

A minute later, the headache was gone. I knew a big part of that could have been attributed to the sensation—the stimulation of blood flow that distracted me from the pain.

But…

“Have you always washed the hair of men in distress?” I asked, partly as a joke, and partly because I wanted to know.

“It’s my first time.” I heard the smile in her voice. “I’m just improvising from memory. It’s how my hairdresser does it at the salon.” She paused, rubbing a straight line from the bottom of my head upward. “Does it feel good?”

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