Page 79 of Keeping London (Flawed Heart)

“No.” I adamantly shake my head. I am not in the mood for a reenactment from the movieAnnie.

“Tomorrow…” she belts out.

“Stop, Paige. I’m serious,” I warn.

“Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there’ll be sun.” She sashays toward me and grabs my hands, pulling me off of the bench.

Before I know it, I’m part of this freak show as we both sing out from the tops of our lungs, “When I’m stuck with a day that’s gray and lonely…”

I hold my hands out to my sides, as if I were a Broadway performer, “I just stick up my chin and grin and say, oh…the sun will come out tomorrow…”

Paige and I dance around my room in our two-woman show, shrieking like a couple of dying cats in our personal Broadway performance of one of our favorite songs.

We pose and extend our jazz hands as we belt out as loud as we can the final note in a key that hasn’t been invented yet.

I finally have to let the last note die when I need to stop to take a breath. I turn to Paige, both of us red in the face and sporting gigantic grins. My smile drops as the plump tears begin streaming down my face. Paige pulls me into her arms, and the two of us stand in my room while I cry.

I don’t know how long I cry, but Paige’s shirt is covered in tears and snot when I finally pull away and wipe my face with the arm of my shirt.

“Feel better?” she asks as she rubs the sides of my arms with her hands.

I nod my head.

“Good. You know what they say.Sometimes, you just need to participate in a grand Broadway performance before having a good cry.”

“No one says that.” I chuckle.

“I do.” She shrugs. “Let’s go get some dinner. I’m starving.”

“Yeah, me, too,” I agree.

Paige leaves my room, and I look longingly at my laptop. I’ve been obsessively checking it ever since I got the call from Maggie. It’s only been a half hour or so since I sent my last message, so I know there wouldn’t be an email from Loïc anyway. For whatever reason, he’s not ready to communicate yet, and I have to accept that.

Using all of my willpower, I walk away from the laptop and into my bathroom to wash my tear-streaked face. I remind myself that I’ll have my phone to check for emails.

He’ll write or call when he’s ready. I can’t dictate his behavior, but I can change mine. I need to change mine. Living in a vacuum of misery while compulsively refreshing my inbox isn’t healthy.

I might not be able to erase the worry altogether, but I can lessen it. I can join the land of the living. I can take showers, leave the house, and go to dinner with my best friend. I have to focus on what I can control because nothing is more depressing than trying to change what I can’t.

Paige is right. I guess all I needed was a cheeky performance and a good cry.

London

“Funerals suck. All of them blow. But this one sucks the most.”

—London Wright

Today’s the day—the last day of February—a day I’ve been dreading for so many reasons. I stroll arm in arm with Paige up the cement walkway toward the church. The salt crystals that were tossed onto the sidewalk are still intact as they crunch under my heels. The frigid temperature is too frigid for even the salt to melt the ice.

My fingers, though nestled in black leather gloves, are frozen. I can no longer feel the skin on my face as it’s assaulted by the bitter air on this record-breaking cold day.

Today is truly miserable. Even the earth is mourning the loss of Cooper.

Once inside the church, Paige and I find a seat in a wooden pew. There’s a casket covered with an American flag at the front of the church. Beside it is a large framed picture of Cooper in uniform, his all-American boy smile gracing his face. Even if one had never met Cooper, they would be sad to say good-bye to the man in that picture. His goodness shines out of the frame, reminding everyone here of the true tragedy of this loss.

The world is a little bit darker without the light that was David Cooper. I know people say that all the time about people when they die. But, with Cooper, it is so true. Everyone who knew him will forever be changed. We’ll all be missing a sliver of joy, one that we’ll never get back.

The first two rows are taken up by Cooper’s and Maggie’s families. The women, who I assume are Cooper’s sisters, are hunched, their backs moving with silent cries, as they bring hands clutched with Kleenexes to their faces.

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