Page 7 of For Wrath and Redemption
He doesn’t acknowledge my question, which is fine. I don’t particularly care about the answer. The words that do leave his mouth, though...
They hit me like a freight train.
I have to shake my head a few times before I can ask for clarification. There’s no possible way I heard him correctly.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that? I think I misheard.”
He sighs. “Your mother has died. There will be no funeral. I’ve handled everything and she will be moved to the cemetery this afternoon. You do not need to come home as there is no will to review. I wanted you to know before it hit the news.”
My mouth falls open twice, and I have to force a swallow before I can form words.
“When? How?”
He sighs again. This time there’s a hint of sorrow. It’s barely noticeable, but I hear it. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m still very attuned to his emotions.
“I learned about it yesterday. It was accidental. A misdiagnosis of medication...They believe she went in her sleep.”
A wave of nausea rolls over me. I taste bile on my tongue as the lunch I just ate threatens to come back up.Accidental. I know what that means. It’s the word families like mine toss out when they don’t want to admit the truth. When they’re in fucking denial.
It means it was anything but an accident.
“Were you with her?”
I ask the question despite already knowing the answer.It fuels my rage and redistributes my shame.
“You know she’s been upstate.”
“So she was alone. She died alone.”
“Mari saw her three times a week. Your mother wasn’t alone.”
I scoff and shake my head. Mari. The housekeeper.
I bite my tongue at the urge to lash out at him. To tell him exactly what I think of him. To point a finger at him so I don’t have to point it at myself.
“Anyway. Now you know. I have to?—”
I hang up. Then I stand, shove my wallet and passport in my pocket, and head for the door. There’s a security guard in the hallway, and I give him a casual nod.
“Gonna smoke. Be back in five.”
He nods back, and the tension in my shoulders lessens when he makes no move to follow. Thank God we’re not under twenty-four surveillance anymore. Instead of going to the roof to smoke, I push the button for the lobby and then hail a cab.
I’ll text Ham from the airport and tell him to play the Paris shows without me. Rocky Halstrom, the guitarist from Caveat Lover, could do it easily. My band will be pissed that I left without talking to them first, but they’ll understand. I’ve got to do this. Even if it fucking sucks, I have to be there. I’ll deal with the fallout later.
I tip the cabbie, then buy my way onto the next flight to New York. It’s not hard. I offer to upgrade a traveling college kid’s seat to first class if he takes a later flight, and he jumps at it. I don’t even have to play the dead mom card. I just sign his backpack, then take his seat in economy.
I shoot Hammond one text before I fasten my seat belt.
Me
My mom died. Heading back. Will text when I land. Have Rocky finish Paris for me.
Then I turn off my phone and shove it into my pocket, determined not to look at it until my feet are on American soil.
For the next eight hours, I try to ignore the buzzing in my ears. The tingling in my hands. The way each sound, each sensation, grows more intense with every mile of distance the plane covers. The memories invade, intrusive and persistent as ever. The left side of my stomach throbs. My heart races, and my vision blurs, but no attempt to sleep is successful.
The first time the attendant offers beverages, I turn it down because I try not to mix pills and booze anymore. I spend the next hour cursing myself for not bringing a book, or headphones, or some fucking nicotine gum. The second time the attendant passes, I ask for vodka, and she brings me three airplane bottles. I down them immediately.
