Page 84 of Light As A Feather
“Just a little more time,” I plead like I’m not a grown ass man in my own house.
“With all due respect, we really should get started sooner rather than later,” Montrose says gently as he kneels in front of me. The tilt of his rich brown lips is respectful but friendly. “Can I help you carry her?”
Seizing, my heart skips a beat at the thought of letting her go. I just got her back, just got to feel the warmth of her skin sinking into mine. I didn’t touch her enough, didn’t kiss her enough. It can’t be over; not like this. This isnotwhat we planned. As I devolve into panic, there’s a steady hand on my back. At the simple comfort, another sob escapes me.
Through wet lashes, I see the girl who showed up at my back door, pajamas soaked through, in the middle of the night with a tear-stained face. Running into my arms for a semblance of safety in one of her most vulnerable moments.
“I can’t,” she wept into my shoulder.“I can’t do it anymore…I can’t spend another night terrified one of them is going to kill the other.”
I was aware her parents fought all the time. It’s part of the reason she spent most of her days outdoors, but I hadn’t realized how bad it was at that point. As someone fortunate enough to have parents who were—in my sixteen-year-old opinion—obnoxiously in love with each other, I never could have imagined how violent her household was; up until then, she’d kept it from me.
“My mom, she . . .” She struggled to catch her breath long enough to speak. “She came into my room. She was trying to hide, but I got scared. He was beating on the door so hard. It was rattling, that and them screaming back and forth, the noise, it was too much.” Whether it was shame or fear, it was a fight to get every word out. “I panicked, I couldn’t catch my breath, and she, she started hitting me over the head with the stuffed animal you gave me.” The brown bat plush that I’d won for her at the Monterey County Fair, the one that was supposed to comfort her. Discreetly, I search her scalp for cuts or bleeding. Luckily, there are none. “She wouldn’t stop, she wanted me to be quiet—to shut up—so badly, but I couldn’t.”
Of course I’d said yes when she asked if she could stay with me, of course I’d held her close while she trembled with adrenaline, of course I’d vowed to myself to always protect her after that night. She was mine to keep now, this beautiful, mysterious girl who made me excited to wake up in the morning, who showed me the art of being.
“You’re safe now,” I’d promised her.
How many times had I failed to keep that promise now?
But she’s entrusted me with her body, and I won’t fail her. She deserves to be laid to rest. She’s earned a quiet, peaceful sleep. I can only hope that, on the other side, she’s found it, and that’s why she hasn’t come back to me yet.
“I’m ready,” I say barely above a whisper.
As if reanimated, everyone stirs into motion. Zoey goes into the kitchen, while Ozzie and Montrose come to my side.
“Before we get started,” he says apologetically yet businesslike, “it is my job to inform you that burying someone on your property without the necessary permits in California is illegal.” He clears his throat. “Now, that aside, Ozvaldo says you’ve prepared a resting place, which I’m sure you have the proper paperwork for, and the payment cleared, so I’m happy to assist you with whatever burial practices you might need.”
I nod, giving myself a moment to choose my words carefully. “I’ve got it all sorted. There’s a mausoleum built; it’s all up to code.”
“Okay, then. We’ll get set up there, then move her.”
“I want to be the one to wash her and dress her.” I hold up a hand, feeling his objections building behind me. “I will allow you to do your work, but I won’t leave her in the hands of a stranger. She’s been through too damn much.”
He holds his hands up, conceding. “I’m here to provide a service to you. Of course, you can be there every step of the way if you can stomach it. I just want to help you lay her to rest and ensure she’s taken care of.”
I don’t mean to insinuate that I don’t trust him, but the thought of handing her off to someone just doesn’t sit right with me. Especially not considering her aversion to new people. She would want it this way.
“I’m going to help him get everything set up, then we’ll come get you.” Ozzie’s hand on my shoulder tightens meaningfully before they depart.
While I wait for them, I brush the tangles from her hair, running my fingers through it, careful not to tug. She always did have a sensitive head. It’s full and glossy in my hands. It doesn’t match with the hollowness of the rest of her.
I’ve removed every knot twice over by the time Ozzie taps me on my shoulder.
“We’re ready for you.”
“One minute, I just need to grab something.” Retrieving the box, I thought I wouldn’t need for many years from my closet, I nearly miss the reddish-brown garment lying out on our bed. I admire the lush velvet fabric and the fine craftsmanship of the chain that runs down the bodice of the dress, the tailoring of the wrists. There’s an understated drama to it that is quintessentially Solaneen.
We always bonded over our mutual devotion to personal style and coveting unique pieces. Something about the way her face would light up when she pulled a rare find off the thrift rack made me fall for her harder. She wasn’t someone who chased the popularity of a label or found more value in something because of how many zeroes were on the price tag. Everything in her wardrobe had a place there because of the story it told, the way it brought her a little closer to the truest representation of herself.
I pick up the dress, bringing it to my nose and greedily inhaling the lingering scents she’s left behind—autumn leaves, cinnamon, and vanilla. The warmth of it makes me want to crawl into bed with it. But it has another purpose.
Gathering everything, I go back downstairs. When I return, I feel slightly more prepared—if anyone can be.
There’s a sense of finality as I cross the threshold of the back door, like I’m the one leaving for the last time. Maybe because a part of me is.
We take our time carrying her across the vast backyard, moving her with dignity onto the currently empty slab that is supposed to hold my coffin.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Ozzie reassures me. “Let me know when you’re ready for the photographer. They’re on their way.” I’d almost forgotten about the mourning photos I’d plannedfor her passing–per Sol’s request. She always thought it was a beautiful sentiment.
