Deliver Us (The Sinful Duet Book 2)

by Skyla Madi

  “What?” I glance at my hand. My ringless hand. Oh no. “It’s not…I had to…”

  Caleb turns his back, leaving me standing there, my chest burning like I’ve smoked an entire packet of cigarettes. Helplessly, I watch him slide into his truck, slam the door, and speed off.

  I stare at the road for what feels like an eternity, until most of the neighbors’ lights turn off. Sadness creeps through my system like a sickness, and I blink tears away, trying not to take Caleb’s behavior personally. He lost the only maternal figure he’s had since he was young. He’ll need space, maybe someone to take it out on. Thanks to Nick’s unwanted presence, I guess I’m that someone for now. The deep rumble of Nick’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. My ears twitch, his low tenor sounding more and more like fingernails on a chalkboard with every word. Screwing my face up, I slowly turn around, uncaring that my heels sink into the grass. I glare at my father as he helps Nick to his feet and down the steps. I grit my teeth and storm forward. How can he help him? He’s ruined everything! My chest aches with hurt—with betrayal. This is worse than physically being slapped in the face. As I reach the path, Dad shoves Nick onto the grass.

  “Get off my property before I call the police.”

  Grunting, Nick loses his footing and falls at my feet. Clenching his face and panting heavily, he looks up at me. “I fucking hate you.”

  A pang of sympathy and guilt strikes my gut. If only he listened to what I’ve been trying to tell him. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

  Nick rolls onto his side and spits on the grass. “Thanks, Captain Obvious.”

  “Come on, Cassia,” Dad says, extending his hand. “Leave him.”

  Exhaling, I step around Nick and climb the steps, slipping my hand into my father’s. I gasp as he pulls me to him and wraps me up in his arms. A familiar smell wafts over me—a rich, woodsy cologne and my mother’s baked shortbread. Tears well in my eyes and spill over the rim, dripping onto my cheeks. I’ve missed him so much. I didn’t realize it until now, and this hug means everything to me. It absolves any conflict we’ve ever had, as quick as powder in water, and for the first time since I left Paradise Valley, the deepest part of me, the part that’s still connected to the little girl I was, is finally at peace.

  Chapter Eighteen

  C A L E B

  Dad, Penelope, and I stand six feet away from Mom’s grave, neither one of us confident enough to approach the beautiful slab of grey granite that marks her final resting place. I shift uncomfortably, my hands stuffed into my pockets, as Penelope kicks her black flat against a small stone buried in the dirt. Beside Mom’s grave is Penelope’s. I’m surprised it’s still here. It’s eerie to look at now I know she’s very much alive. Dad has been fighting the authorities to have her grave exhumed since before I left for New York. God, it’s creepy. This whole place is creepy. I shiver. I’ve never liked coming to the cemetery. Dad’s aware of this, but he brought me here anyway. If I’d known this was where he was headed, I never would’ve let him drive. A few miles from Cassia’s house, I pulled over to throw up. I gagged a whole lot, but nothing came out. According to my father, I was too distracted, too sad, to drive carefully, and since tonight has been a fucking whirlwind of pain, I didn’t argue it, but only because I thought we were going the fuck home.

  Bree told my father going to the hospital is off-limits until the doctors finish whatever they need to finish with Agnes. My heart aches at the thought of her. I don’t want to be here. I should be at the hospital getting married, making Cassia my wife and Agnes’s wish come true.

  Fucking Aggy…

  You said you were fine…

  I stare at my mother’s grave. These days, after all her secrets have been aired like dirty laundry, it’s harder to put a face to her name. The woman I remember was in love with her family—my father, especially—and her faith. She valued honesty, rewarded good behavior, and condemned violence of any kind. She was a good Catholic woman, the perfect wife for a priest, the perfect mother for Penelope and me. Then she took her life instead of facing the music for the mistakes she made, leaving me to pick up the pieces, scared and alone. In the end, she didn’t love me, Dad, or her faith enough to be faithful to any of us. She abandoned the honesty she valued so much, indulged in bad behavior, and then chose self-inflicted violence to end it all. Sometimes, when my mind is clear enough to feel the devastation she left for me to shoulder, I think the only thing she valued was herself…her own image. Standing in front of her gave, thoughts like this make me feel guilty. I’ll never understand how her mind worked.

  “Why are we here?” Penelope asks, exhaling sharply.

  Her irritation cuts through the cold cemetery air and, in the distance, spooky thunder rumbles, like a far-off dump truck. She hates Mom for what she did, and who can blame her? I want to hate Mom too…but I’m tired.

  “I promised Agnes I would bring Caleb here following her death.” I lift my head and look at Dad. What’s Mom’s grave got to do with Agnes? Why would she make him bring me here? “Since we can’t go to the hospital, I figured now was as good a time as any to come.”

  Penelope pulls her black coat tighter around her and wraps her arms around her waist. “Can I wait in the car?”

  Dad nods and saunters forward, closing the distance between him and Mom’s grave. I wait where I stand as Penelope marches off to sit in the truck, and I continue to wait until it’s clear Dad’s not going to speak until I join him at the edge of her grave.

  I take a step forward, and my stomach becomes turbulent. I’ve avoided even thinking her name for the past few years, so the thought of reading her epitaph, of processing each letter, spikes my anxiety. I keep my attention on the patch of grass before the slab of granite, not thinking about what’s scrawled across the face of it…

  …until I’m standing a little too close to my father and the gold engraving is all I see.

  ALIVE IN CHRIST AND IN OUR HEARTS

  Claudia Johanna Andrews

  Loving wife, mother, and daughter

  23rd October 1972- September 20th 2004

  I wince, the skin around my eyes crinkling. A strange throbbing in my heart begins to thrum, and it beats away my anger. The woman who gave birth to me, took care of me, is dead in a box beneath my feet. No matter what my mother did, she shouldn’t have felt taking her life was the only way out. What did we do wrong? What did we do to make her feel like death was her only option? It sucks I’ll never know. It sucks I’ll never get the chance to tell her she’s human and we all make mistakes. I would’ve forgiven her. It’d have taken a while…but I would’ve forgiven her.

  “I know you and Agnes were close. I know she helped you through the mess when I didn’t.” He clears his throat. “I guess she knew I’d be useless at comforting you, so she requested I bring you here and remind you that even though things are hard now, one day you’ll wake up and it won’t hurt as much…” He speaks and his familiar words trigger a memory, transporting me back to the day of Mom’s funeral.

  I cling to the old woman, burying my face in her warm, black coat. Through the water in my nose, thick hints of lavender and sweet perfume filter into my lungs. I cry for a long time, until my eyes hurt and the skin between my nose and my top lip is raw. I loosen my grip on Agnes, Dad’s friend, when I can no longer bear my numb fingers, and I peer up at her, my lungs jumping with a hiccup every second breath I take. Her gray curls are tight to her head, and she wears a funny black hat with a big, black bird feather sticking out the side.

  “Can I talk to you like a grown up for a minute?” she asks me, her voice as strong as the wind.

  Sniffling, I nod. “But I don’t know many big words.”

  She gently smiles. “You’re a smart boy. I think you’ll understand.”

  Agnes turns toward me and lowers herself to her knee, making her eyes even with mine. It makes me feel important and visible. I haven’t felt visible since the night I found Mom. It’s almost as if I became a ghost that night
too. Turning my head, I glance at the temporary post that says her name and the fresh dirt that covers her forever bed.

  I miss my mom. I miss my sister.

  “Things will be hard for a little while, but one day you’ll wake up and it won’t hurt as much.”

  “Tomorrow?” I ask, licking my salty top lip. “When I wake up tomorrow?”

  “No, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. You just have to be patient with yourself.”

  “I don’t have patience…and I’m angry,” I tell her, staring into her gray-blue eyes, and I swipe at my nose. “If she didn’t want me to have her beads, she could’ve told me.”

  “Oh, honey.” Agnes’s eyes turn glassy. Tipping her head, she takes my arms in her hands. “I promise this isn’t about the beads. She didn’t do this because of you.”

  “Then why’d she do it? Because I let someone take Penelope?” My voice cracks, and I pout, still sniffling. “I tried to stop them.”

  “Listen to me, boy. It’s not your fault, so don’t worry about why or how. That’s your mother’s business, something only she can answer. Spend less time worrying about her decisions and more time celebrating her life.” Agnes rubs her strawberry jam-colored lips together, then offers me another kind smile. “Tomorrow is a new day full of new opportunities,” she says, caressing my arms with her soft thumbs. I can’t stop looking into her eyes. They make me feel okay, like maybe I’m not dying too. “From now on, you have me and we can talk whenever you want. I’ll help you find purpose among the chaos because life will go on for you, Caleb Andrews, and most importantly you’re…”

  “…going to be fine,” Dad says, finishing my thought and pulling me back to the present.

  Swallowing hard, I sniff. I always knew this day was coming. Agnes was never going to outlive me naturally, but I honestly thought I would’ve done something permanent to myself long before I’d ever have to watch them lower her six feet deep. I think on it. In hindsight, I’m glad it’s me who’s shouldering the grief, not her. I can’t bear the thought of leaving Agnes out here by herself, sad and alone. Still, that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

  “I should have been there when she passed,” I mutter, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my jeans, my blurred vision on my mother’s grave. “I never said goodbye…and now she’s gone.”

  “She passed in her sleep, Caleb. There are worse ways to go.” Dad turns to me, fondling my keys in his hand. “I shouldn’t, but…” Pausing, he blows air out of his cheeks. “If you want to see her…I can get you into the hospital.”

  I snap my attention to him so quick, a muscle tightens painfully in my neck. I wince. “Really?”

  I’m not sure if I can cope with seeing her, but I’m not going to pass the opportunity up, even if it leaves me an emotional wreck.

  “Stop off at the church so I can grab my vestment and I’ll get you in.”

  He tosses me my truck keys, and I whip my hand out of my pocket just in time to catch them.

  I sit in the uncomfortable chair by Agnes’s bed and stare at her still form, my heart sinking over and over again in a never-ending dive. It’s the first time I’ve been in the same room as her and she hasn’t beamed with pride or rolled her eyes. It’s a bitter pill to swallow. I told myself a long time ago that, when she passes, I don’t want to see her. I refused to see her in death. I couldn’t bear the thought of coming face to face with her only to mourn her kind eyes and vibrant smile. I didn’t want to be in the same space and not hear her voice or laugh at her humor—she got pretty good at being funny—but here I am. There she is. I didn’t want to regret not saying goodbye to her.

  Grief is heavy in my chest, and it’s the worst feeling in the world. I’ve never been good at processing it. I’ve always pulled my pain, and my loss, into my numb bubble and been selfish about it. Tonight, I’m trying to let the bad feelings flow through me, unhindered, for the first time.

  It’s fucking torture, but allowing myself to feel the pain is the biggest part of accepting what’s happened and, subsequently, letting go. Agnes told me that.

  At least she looks peaceful, laying there in her bed, tucked in tight, as if it matters. Her long, slender arms are draped at her sides, and wrapped around her left hand is a purple rosary, her fingers lax, not quite clenching the cross. Exhaling, I lift out of my seat and force myself forward. I accidentally kick Dad’s Viaticum case but pay no attention as it falls flat with a slap against the tiles. He’ll be back with Bree to collect it soon. I have to say my goodbyes.

  I drag my heavy stare from Agnes’s rosary to her face. There’s nothing “deathly” about her. There’s no grayness to her skin, no sunken eyes…simply a lack of pale pink that usually warmed her complexion. I let out a shaky breath, and it’s deafeningly loud in the silent room. I try to speak, to apologize for something, or tell her we’ll see each other again, but all I get is a dry wheeze.

  She’s dead.

  “Christ,” I whisper as my throat clogs with emotion.

  I reach out and grab her hand, forcing her fingers to clench the cross, and I hold tight. I pause for minute, waiting—hoping—for her to squeeze back. Of course, it’s silly. She’s not in a coma or on life support. Agnes has been declared dead for an hour now. A failing heart, intense surgeries, and an infection that wouldn’t quit. God grants miracles every day, but I guess tonight just isn’t my night. Regardless, I look at her chest, expecting something. It doesn’t rise or fall. Why would it?

  Tears well in my eyes, and this time, I don’t try to hold them back. They drip one by one onto my cheeks and fall from my chin onto her blanket. Even in death, she absorbs my sadness, my hurt, without protest.

  I wish Cassia were here right beside me, comforting me, but I sped off in a rage after beating her fucking pig of an ex. He deserved everything he got, but Cassia didn’t, even though she wasn’t wearing her ring. That slaughtered me. If Agnes were alive, she’d tell me to put my fists away and kill him with kindness, then I’d threaten to throw up. Her scowl pops into my head, and I laugh once. It’s half-hearted, but it’s enough. I swipe at my face, forcing my tears to stop.

  “He deserved it,” I utter, uncaring that I’m talking to her lifeless body.

  Agnes was the opposite of me. Where she was a beacon of light, I’m a dark shadow. She was a clean, summer breeze, and I am thick smoke. Her, soft. Me, abrasive. Good cop. Bad cop. Agnes was my sidekick. My friend. She was the grandmother I never had and the only maternal presence in my life since I was young.

  With my free hand, and blurry vision, I smooth down her hair, sticking her curls to her head, the way I know she likes to wear it. “I’m going to miss you. A lot.”

  The words come out crisp and clear, and I run with it. I tell her everything I’ve always wanted to tell her. I tell her I love her, that I’m thankful for her. I confess every lie, unveil every prank I’ve played on her. I relive my best memories of her, things I hate I didn’t appreciate at the time. I speak freely…but even in death, I don’t have the heart to tell her she misheard me.

  Bending down, I plant a soft kiss to her forehead, then move toward her hand. Though my heart is breaking, I’m happy for her. She’s always coveted the moment she gets to see her husband again. Now they’re together. In peace.

  Clasping Agnes’s hand tighter, I hang my head, and I pray for God to look after Agnes McNamara, a woman who was beautiful, selfless, and funny. A woman who never judged anyone a day in her life, one who has lived eighty-something years, experienced the best and the worst of humanity, and still found reason to smile. Most importantly, I ask God to take the best care he possibly could of a woman who took a lost little boy under her wing and raised him into the semi-functioning man I promise to become.

  Chapter Nineteen

  C A S S I A

  I can’t sleep. How can I?

  It’s been hours since Caleb sped off and an Uber came for Nick. The police showed up as Nick’s driver pulled away from the curb. We told the police what’d happened. They
wrote it down, told us to call them if Nick comes back, and left us alone. Inside, my mother was cleaning the mess Nick made, all while shaking like a leaf. For as long as I can remember, my mother has avoided confrontation. She’s gentle and meek. She’s the kind of person who’d never return a coffee for being too bitter or a meal for being too cold, the kind who’d never point out an incorrect price on her receipt or return something that broke before its time. That’s just who she is, who she’s always been. The only times Mom has grown a backbone is when she’s fighting me, and on the rare occasions she’d argue with Dad—who is the opposite of meek. He’ll fight until he’s blue in the face even if he’s wrong. If his coffee isn’t perfect, the whole café will know about it. If an item scans up incorrectly, the whole check-out will know how frustrated he is. He comes on a little strong, but without him, Mom would never cope.

  She was so shaken up by tonight, Dad had to run her a bath and put her to bed. She went without protest. When he returned, he sat in his usual armchair and drummed his fingers against the TV remote. I could tell he was deciding whether to engage me in conversation or not. I didn’t push. I knew how difficult it is for him to share his thoughts and feelings. In the end, he set the remote on the coffee table and turned toward me. For the next hour, I couldn’t get a word in as he opened up to me. He apologized profusely about what happened between us and how it ended. He admitted that it drove him to drink—excessively. He admitted he went to Confession almost daily and Father Andrews talked him through it.

  Dad held back tears as he spoke about how much he missed me, and loved me, and how he regretted everything. He heard about my life through Caleb, but Caleb withheld the information about Nick and me, so I told Dad everything. It made him uncomfortable, but for the first time ever, he listened without judgment. At the end of our talk, he hugged me tightly and told me he was proud of me.