Page 64 of Just Friends

“Your dad died.” The words mowed her down like a runaway tractor-trailer truck. Rebecca jerked her hand away from him. Police training taught him to be direct when delivering such news, but she hated those words and him.

“No.” Rebecca balled up her fists and rammed them into his chest, she flung her arms back for another swing, but he grabbed and held her tightly against him; unable to move, she sobbed into his shirt.

“I got you,” he murmured and let her cry but not loosening his grip on her until the tears slowed. This time when he interlaced their fingers, she allowed him to lead her to the couch. They curled up together, her head lay on his chest; focused on the steady beat of his heart and trying to stop the pounding in her skull.

“How?” she asked after the crying lulled.

“Well, he quit breathing.” She closed her eyes and tried more deep breaths. If she spoke she might scream. It was the most horrific thing she’d ever heard.

“You went there?”

“Yes.”

“And saw him?”

“Honey…”

“He stopped breathing, and they called the police. That’s how you were there.”

Weasel’s face was carefully blank. “Babe, dispatch only called me because of the name.”

Rebecca leaned back against him and sighed. He didn’t want to upset her any more than she already was and wouldn’t give her any details. “What do I do now?”

His arms wrapped around her and he kissed the top of her head. “Did he have a Will and directives on file?”

She nodded.

“Someone will call you in the morning then.”

At some point, she dozed off against him and woke up with him sound asleep, sitting upright. Rebecca roused him enough to undress and climb into bed where he draped an arm over her waist and fell asleep. Slumber for her was fitful. Everything Weasel didn’t say about what happened haunted her. She’d complained many times about the lack of attentiveness of the staff, but those had fallen on deaf ears, and now this.

A pink glow slid through the slats of the mini blinds, and she slid out from under his arm. Weasel had worked for ten days straight and had to be exhausted. Closing the bedroom door behind her, she hoped to avoid waking him. The family needed notifying. She didn’t have the energy to repeat the news to multiple people. She scrolled through her phone contacts and settled on Aunt Janet, Stanley’s sister. Bingo. She’d spread the word far and wide.

“What’s wrong?” Janet answered.

“Dad died last night,” she blinked to hold in the tears.

Janet was quiet for a minute. “Are you all right?”

“Not really…”

“I know. What do you need?”

“Call everyone for me.”

“I will…you call Ellen. I don’t speak to––”

“I know. That’s a given.” Rebecca cut her off knowing an insult was coming. Janet did not like her mother, not that she blamed her.

“Let me know when you make the arrangements. I’ll get there as soon as I can get a flight.”

“Why don’t you sound surprised?”

“It’s been nearly five years dear,” she replied. “No one should live trapped in their body that long.”

Rebecca looked down at the phone in her hand for a long time after disconnecting the call. Weasel had been vague about how it happened. He must have his reasons. That scared her. Without a clue, she sat there with the notion that she should do something—call her mother or make breakfast. It was too early to handle Ellen. What did she have in the kitchen she could cook? She should call Morgan. She’d need to take time off of work. The thoughts flew around her head, but none of them landed on an action. She stared at the darkened, quiet television.

Weasel in a pair of boxers appeared. “Hey, babe, it’s still early, come back to bed.”

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