Page 124 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
Listening to a man cry is one of the most terrible things in the world. Their tears seem so much more devastating than female tears. Maybe because they so infrequently shed them.
“Was it a heart attack?” the Colonel asked, his voice choked with shock.
“I don’t know. She didn’t want an autopsy, so we won’t know the exact cause of death, but the chemo was really hard on her system.”
There was a stunned silence. “Chemo?”
“She had lung cancer,” I whispered. “She’s been on chemo for weeks. She was scheduled for surgery on Wednesday.”
The Colonel’s small cry of distress pierced me straight through my heart. “Cancer? My God! She never said a word—I thought she had the flu!”
“I know. I’m sorry. That’s what she told everyone.”
It was a minute or two before he composed himself enough to talk. “You know what I think?” he said in a ragged whisper.
“No. What?”
He drew in a long, shuddering breath. I imagined him on the other end of the phone, wiping his eyes and pulling himself up straight into that ramrod posture he was known for. He said, “I think she was just tired of bein’ without your daddy, and now that you’re settled, she decided it was time for her to be on her way.”
A sob broke from my chest. Fighting tears, I clapped a hand over my mouth.
“I loved your mama, Bianca. She was a good woman, and I’ll miss her somethin’ fierce. But I always knew she’d given her heart away a long time ago. I knew she’d never stop loving your daddy, but I’m grateful for the time we spent together because she made me happy. She made the world a better place.”
> I didn’t know how I was still standing. Strange, strangled noises gurgled up from deep in my throat.
The Colonel asked gently, “Is there anything you need, darlin’? Anything I can do for you?”
I managed to tell him no, but it was someone else’s voice who answered. Someone with a whiskey-soaked growl and a broken heart. We said good-bye and hung up, but before my coffee got cold the phone rang again.
It didn’t stop ringing for hours.
In between phone calls were the visitors.
They came in a constant stream, friends and neighbors and members of Mama’s church, bearing casseroles and weeping into crumpled-up tissues. Everything became a blur. All the faces began to blend together. I was simultaneously exhausted and energized by all the people who came, their grief piling on top of my own, their voices like the angry buzz of wasps inside my head. I started to feel disconnected, numb again, and was grateful for it.
Numb was better than the alternative. With any luck, numb would get me through the rest of my life.
I spoke to the church and set Mama’s funeral for Wednesday at noon. So the day she was supposed to have life-saving surgery was the day she’d be buried. I didn’t want to examine the coincidence.
When Jackson called, I told him I needed to stay at Mama’s house for now to deal with everything that had to be done. When he asked if he should come over to help, I said no. After the awkward pause that followed, he said he’d send some of my clothes over. I think he was hoping I’d say don’t bother, I’ll be coming to live at Rivendell soon, but I was so tired I just said, “That’s fine.”
When we hung up it felt like I’d been untethered. I was a little boat who’d lost her moorings and was drifting aimlessly out to sea.
For the next two days, I didn’t eat. I barely slept. I survived on coffee and adrenaline, forgetting to shower until Eeny told me I smelled like a goat. By Wednesday morning I was a wreck. I didn’t know how I’d make it through the funeral without collapsing.
But once again, Jackson’s strength shored me up.
Then he gave my little boat a hard push into rough waters and set me free.
THIRTY-SEVEN
BIANCA
It was a bracing fifty-eight degrees, the sky a clear, brilliant blue above our heads. Eeny stood to my left, crying softly into a handkerchief. Jackson was to my right, stony as the inside of my heart.
The church service was beautiful, attended by almost four hundred people. A gospel choir raised the rafters in song. Hoyt arranged for a jazz funeral procession from Saint Augustine’s to the cemetery. Two dozen musicians in black caps and white dress shirts slowly led the mourners on foot through the streets of New Orleans to the sound of hymns played on trumpets, drums, saxophones, and clarinets. At the grave site there were so many flower arrangements the bees came out in force, adding a gentle hum to underscore the priest’s final blessing of farewell.
Then Mama’s casket was lowered into the ground, and it was done.
