Page 9 of Heart Sick

A giggle bubbles from me and both Trista and Joy look at me as this is hardly an appropriate time to be laughing. But how dare she think she knows my son better than me. From what Misha told me, Trista was just someone to have fun with.

She was a little on the possessive side and Misha was thinking of breaking it off.

So to hear her say they were something serious when I know he never saw a future with her, has me wishing to gauge out her eyeballs and to rip out her deceitful tongue.

This violence frightens me, but when I suddenly see a flicker behind Trista, a flicker of Misha in his football gear, I wonder if maybe that’s what I need to deal with this insufferable pain.

“Trista, I’m taking Luna home.” It appears Joy is sick of Trista’s theatrics too.

“Oh? You’re not attending the wake? That’s probably a good idea. I will let everyone know.”

Of course, she sees this as her opportunity to shine and brag about her time with Misha, hoping to gain whatever sympathy she can. I don’t know who died and left her in charge. I suddenly wish I used a different phrase.

What is the matter with me?

I am suddenly so fucking angry. The sadness has subsided and made room for…this.

“When you’re feeling…better—” I try not to scoff as there is no better in this scenario. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about Misha. He was…”

But she never gets to finish as Joy cuts Trista off. “This can wait. Weareat her son’s funeral.”

Trista nods, appearing genuinely sorry for bringing up whatever she wanted to say.

Joy senses my shift in demeanor and quickly ushers us from the chapel and toward her black Mercedes which is parked out front. People watch me closely and I hate it. I don’t know what they expect to see.

Joy takes off while I sigh in relief. Thank God that freak show is over with. I do wonder what Trista wanted to say.

Joy tries to make conversation, but eventually gives up when I simply stare out the passenger window, silent. The landscape passes me by and the dismal gray weather is a perfect reflection of how I am feeling inside.

I trace the raindrops on the window with my finger, leaving a pattern in the condensation. I know Joy is watching me closely, concerned by my behavior.

When we pull up at my house, I open the door and without a word, I take off my heels and make my way toward the front door. Joy’s quickened footsteps behind me reveal her worries, but I just want to be alone. I unlock the door and make clear I don’t want Joy to come in.

“Luna, are you going to be okay?”

Turning to look at her, I smile. It’s strained, but I don’t want to worry her any more than I have. “I just want to go to sleep. Thank you for everything.”

She chews on her pink stained bottom lip. The shade looks striking on her. But Joy is beautiful in whatever shade she wears. She’s been my rock in more ways than one. We met when her son, Kyle, and Misha were in the same class together.

She never judged me for being a young, single mother who took off her clothes to care for her family. She opened her home and heart to me and made sure Misha and I were fed. She is older than me and I think in some ways, she took on the mother role toward me. God knows where I would be without her.

I owe her so much. She is the only family I know, which is why if I die and Misha was no longer here, I left everything to her, which is a hefty fortune. She insisted she didn’t want a dime, but it’s the least I can do.

Her bastard husband took off with his secretary, leaving her a divorcee at forty-five. She doesn’t work, so I know she’s doing it tough. But what is mine is hers because she took me in when no one else did.

She treated Misha like her own son and I know she loved him dearly. He also loved her. I often found them cooking dinner together when I was working late. I loved that they were as close as we are.

“I will call you later. I’m sorry I couldn’t—”

“Shh, don’t you worry. I’ll take care of it. You just look after yourself. I will check in tonight. But I’m worried about you. You were talking to yourself again during the service.”

Joy has mentioned this a few times. I don’t see anything wrong in talking to my dead son. But she clearly does. I know she’s very worried about my mental health. So I try to put on a happy face.

“Are you going to be all right?”

All I can do is nod and hold back the tears. When will they end?

Joy gives me a warm hug and I try to return the gesture, but I just feel so numb. She doesn’t take offense and eventually leaves, but not before looking over her shoulder at me at least a dozen times as she walks toward her car.

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