Page 3 of Dom

I just wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold my heart inside my body.

What is going on?

My eyes are looking forward, but I’m stuck somewhere else. The look on Dad’s face when I asked if I could live with him. The way he shook his head. How he would only come by every few months.

I blink, finally taking in the number of people here.

He lived here.

My dad had to have lived here, in the cities.

It only took us twenty minutes to drive here today.

He was this close the whole time.

He was this close and only visited every few months.

My throat starts to burn.

He would call me his little Valentine. His perfect girl. He would tell me he loved me.

And I loved him so much.

But he lied.

He tricked me.

Tears roll down my cheeks. And I don’t know if I’m crying for Dad or for myself.

Why would he lie to me?

Mom lied to me, too. But that thought comes and goes, hardly leaving an impact. She’s always been a liar, always been mean. She was always nicest when Dad was around. But he won’t be around anymore. Not ever again.

I wipe my nose on my sleeve.

Mom can pinch me all she wants for doing it. I don’t have any Kleenex.

The man up front says something, and everyone stands.

I’ve seen this in movies, too.

I stand and sit and kneel and stay silent when everyone chants things they’ve all memorized but that I don’t know. And I do it all with tears on my cheeks.

This morning, I asked Mom if I could use her makeup. She snapped at me, saying no.

I wanted to look my best for Dad, but now I’m glad she wouldn’t let me. I’d have ruined it. At least this way, the sleeves of my plain black long-sleeve shirt—that’s too tight since I grew another two inches this year—are only damp, not stained with makeup.

We stand a final time, and the man in the robe tells us togo with god, and if my face wasn’t so numb, I’d wrinkle my nose.

Didn’t he say earlier that Dad was with god now? So isn’t telling us to go with god kinda like telling us all to die?

A sharp finger in my side makes me focus, and I see that everyone is starting to leave, so I turn and face the aisle, waiting for our turn to go.

The front rows are excused first, and my throat tightens as a woman with a black veil covering her hair walks down the aisle toward the big doors that have been swung back open.

She must be Dad’s wife.

I think the words, and a second later, her eyes snap over to meet mine.

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