Page 113 of You Had Me At Thirteen

‘She’s worried about you,’ Carla says.

‘Good for her.’

She sighs. ‘All I’m saying is maybe talking to her will help—’

‘I don’t need any help.’

‘Jesus, Wren. Can you at least look at me?’

With a groan, I roll over onto my back and cross my arms over my chest. ‘Happy?’

Carla’s eyes are brimming with tears. ‘Can you just talk to me, at least? I’m worried about you.’

‘Well, don’t be. I’m fine.’

‘Wren, you’re not fine. You haven’t even, you know… cried.’

I throw my hands up. ‘Is that what I’m supposed to do? Christ, I didn’t realise there’s a protocol for grieving. Besides, you’ve done enough crying for the both of us, anyway.’ I run my hand through my hair. That’s a low blow, and I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth.

‘Wow,’ Carla says, standing. ‘I’m sorry for giving a shit. I’ll leave you to it.’ She heads for the door, but pauses in the doorway. ‘I’m sorry your mum died, Wren, but it doesn’t give you the right to treat everyone who loves you like shit.’

I throw an arm over my face. ‘Close the door on your way out.’

Carla hovers for a moment longer, then disappears, closing the door behind her. I can’t even stop the shit coming out of my mouth. I know I’m hurting people, but I’m hurting too. All I want to do is stay in this bed. And I want Matilda’s warmth pressed against me as she holds me and tells me everything is going to be okay.

But I’ll never get what I want because I’m too fucking stubborn to talk to her. What’s the point of doing anything at the moment? I won’t survive getting my heart crushed again when things don’t go her way and she blames me. Even if she was upset and disappointed, she had no right blaming me. She made her choice to be with me. No-one held a fucking gun to her head.

I scrub my hands over my face. Jesus, I’m doing the same thing, pushing everyone away because I’m hurting inside.

* * *

Staring at the golden timber casket containing my mum’s lifeless body while it lowers into the ground, I beg myself to feel something other than anger.

Carla sobs beside me, her hand full of tissues as she wipes her nose. Her body shakes and she buries her head into my arm, gripping the sleeves of my dark grey dress shirt.

Jordan stands on the other side of her, his hand holding onto her free one. I’m not sure what’s going on there, but I don’t really care. If he breaks her heart, I’ll break his face. That’s all I know.

Matilda and Clive huddle together to my right, with Audrey and Koby. Seeing Matilda cry makes my heart break more than it already is, and all I want to do is wrap her in my arms and kiss her tears away.

Emerson and Will stand to my left, their heads down while my mum’s favourite song, “Spirit In The Sky” by Norman Greenbaum, plays. I’m not sure if it’s appropriate considering the upbeat tune, but even in death, Mum is still telling me what to do.

I undo the top button of my shirt, feeling as though I’m being choked. Carla grips my hand, her sobs now easing as the song comes to an end. The celebrant asks all those here to take a yellow tulip – my mum’s favourite flowers – and throw it into the hole on top of her coffin.

My dad failed to show up to his own wife’s – ex-wife’s – funeral. He doesn’t deserve her, anyway. She was too good for him. She was too good for me.

Most of these people knew my mum, but where were they when she lay in her bed, cancer eating at her insides until she was nothing more than literal skin and bone? Hypocrites, the lot of them. All so fucking full of shit.

Sue, Matilda’s mum is here. And, some guy I’ve never even seen before stands behind her. He nods at me, his hands folded together in front of him. Something about him sets off my fuckwit radar, but right now I’m trying to find something, anything, else to focus on besides the fact I’m at my mum’s funeral.

As everyone else around me picks up a tulip, I stay planted in my spot, eyeing the creepy guy when he passes me. But he avoids any eye contact and takes his place in the line.

‘Come on, Wren,’ Carla says with a tug of my hand.

I take a deep breath and follow her. Carla takes a tulip and hands it to me before taking another for herself. As she stands at the edge, her tears falling onto the coffin when she leans forward and throws the flower down into the hole, I beg my feet to move forward.

It’s my turn next, the last of everyone, and all their eyes are on me. I feel their pity, their pain, their sorrow. I feel it all, yet I still haven’t shed a tear. Maybe I am a heartless prick, just like my father.

I twirl the tulip around in my fingers, remembering the way my mum would nurture hers in the garden. How am I going to maintain them now she’s gone?

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