Page 81 of The Souls of Lost Lake
“Butterscotch,” he responded. He threw a pile of forks into the silverware drawer.
“Oh.” That was odd. Eddie didn’t even like butterscotch. Her heart plummeted further. They were Patty’s favorite. “Eddie?”
He began stacking glasses into the cupboard, his back to her. “Yeah?”
“Do you want to go for a walk?” It was a paltry offer considering butterscotch cookies, but the truth of the matter was, Wren knew no one was hungry.
Eddie shook his head as he kneed the dishwasher door shut. “No thanks.” He tugged off the quilted mixer cover that Patty had sewn, pulling the appliance toward him on the counter.
Wren hesitated, searching desperately for words. Maybe there were none. Maybe this was the right thing for Eddie to do. The people from the funeral home had left an hour ago with Patty. Wren was certain she’d never forget the sound of the stretcher andits wheels traveling across the floor. She’d closed her eyes quickly as it had exited Patty’s room, but she’d caught sight of the black bag that embraced Patty’s body. It was the gruesome side of death. The vacancy of everything. Her body, her room, their lives. Eddie’s life. Gary’s. All of it was empty. And yet there were little reminders of Patty everywhere they looked. A vase she’d bought at a garage sale sitting in the windowsill. A watercolor she’d painted before Eddie was born, hanging by the calendar on the wall. Her shoes were by the door, along with her favorite baseball cap she wore when she was out in the sun.
The hospice staff had been helpful, but Patty had been gone no more than forty minutes and they were collecting the morphine pills, checking off boxes on an end-of-life task sheet, and calling for someone to come retrieve the larger items like the walker and bedside toilet. Life was already moving ahead at a pace far faster than should be allowed. A hospice aide had just broken down the hospital bed and hauled it out in pieces. The back door had closed. The van driven away. The house left in a stone-cold silence that caused them all to question what had just happened.
Tristan Blythe came.
They’d gathered.
Eddie had gone to the kitchen.
Now here they were. Baking butterscotch cookies. The most mundane homelife activity.
But Patty was gone. And yet ... Wren fingered a devotional book Patty always kept on the kitchen bar ... she wasn’t.
Wren glanced at the clock. It was ticking. It needed to stop. Time needed to freeze.
“Do you want help?” Lame. She wanted to race after the undertaker’s car and make them unzip the bag and give Patty resuscitation. It was a cruel prank. Patty was still alive. In fact, Wren was almost sure if she returned to Patty’s bedroom, she would be there, tucked in and with a ready smile.
“I got it.” Eddie pulled two sticks of butter from the fridge. Heunwrapped them and dropped them in a glass bowl, popping it into the microwave.
“Want me to get the eggs?” Wren offered. Anything to pretend life was as it should be. That she didn’t hear Gary’s voice cracking with tears in the other room, and the low grumble of her father’s voice attempting to comfort him.
“Wren, I’ve got it!” Eddie snapped.
Tears sprang to her eyes. Which was dumb.Shewas dumb. It wasn’t personal. Eddie was hurting. Broken. Like the eggs.
Eddie tossed the eggshell in the garbage and broke another egg into the mixer’s bowl. He froze, then leaned against the counter, his head bent. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“It’s okay.” Wren stood there. She’d never felt so helpless before.
Eddie cracked another egg. The shell exploded in his hand, shards of it dropping into the bowl. He swore under his breath, startling Wren. Eddie never swore.
Digging into the goop, Eddie attempted to swipe out the eggshell. The microwave beeped, indicating the butter was ready. He abandoned the shell and popped open the microwave. The butter had completely melted and boiled over onto the glass plate. Eddie swore again. This time louder.
“Eddie?” Wren took a step toward him.
He slammed the microwave door shut. He swore again.
“Eddie.” She opted for stern this time.
“Knock it off, Wren.” Eddie’s bite was harsh.
Wren backed up the step she had taken. Eddie reached into the mixer bowl and tried to fish out more shell but succeeded only in completely slopping egg all over his hand. With a roar, he flung the egg white into the sink. His curse filled the kitchen, silenced their fathers in the living room, and made Wren sink onto a barstool.
Eddie stopped. Met her stunned expression, then growled again and made for the back door.
“Eddie!” Gary hurried into the kitchen, Tristan Blythe behind him.
Wren held up a hand. “I’ll go.”
