I returned to the obituaries. Am I really considering crashing another funeral? What is wrong with me? I was intrigued by my reaction of that morning. I had no connection to the deceased or the mourners. I cried out my own grief, and I felt better in the end. Was that really such a bad thing? I didn’t hurt anyone. If anything, I helped the family by letting them think someone else cared about their beloved husband, father, brother…
Nikki knocked on the doorframe, and I startled. “Huh?”
“What has you so spaced out?” She rested her hip against my desk. “You don’t have any evening appointments. Want to get a bite to eat and tell me how your meeting went with Thomas the Transvestite?”
“He’s not a transvestite. He’s…gay.” I gagged on the word. Not because I have anything against anyone who’s gay. Only against my husband, who now thinks he’s gay. “I don’t have much of an appetite, and I need to catch up on paperwork. Then I’m going home.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. Get some sleep. You start the morning with Borderline Barbie. I’ll lock the front door as I leave.”
Her footsteps faded and the lock clicked behind her. I thought about my soon-to-be-ex-husband and our meeting earlier that morning with our respective divorce attorneys.
It was hard enough to be displaced from one’s rightful place in a marriage. But for a woman to be shoved aside for a man? That hurt more than anything. I had met Francisco, many times. I’d welcomed him into my home, served him dinner, offered him drinks. What I hadn’t served him was my husband. He took that all on his own.
Once I had recovered from the initial shock of Thomas’s announcement, I had suggested he and I get counseling together. When he agreed because he thought it would help me come to terms with his new lifestyle, conjoint counseling didn’t seem like such a great idea any longer. I wanted someone to take my side, to show Thomas what he stood to lose, how wrong he was. Though I knew no therapist worth his or her salt would take that position.
I finished my notes, put away the files, and sat again at my desk. I needed to go home. I didn’t want to go home. Wasn’t sure where home was. Unable to remain in the house Thomas and I had shared, I’d moved in temporarily with my sister, Audrey. Other than Nikki, only Audrey knew about the disaster I’d called a marriage.
Three years my senior, Audrey was an authority on just about everything. She was always brighter, faster, and more socially appropriate. My high school friends and I had called her ‘Oddity’ instead of Audrey. And, oddly enough, she enjoyed having a nickname—even that one. I think it made her feel included. Audrey remained single, by choice, she claimed. She’s attractive, if you peel away the layers under which she disguised herself. Audrey is an accountant. No surprise there. She had the dark-rimmed glasses and pocket calculator to prove it. Audrey saw everything in black and white. If it walks like an eight and looks like an eight, then it’s an eight. To Audrey, Thomas was simply an eight. I wouldn’t have rated him that high.
Audrey opened her arms and spare room to me when I knocked on her door at eleven-fifteen p.m. on a rainy Friday night to tearfully declare my marriage over. She did all the right things. She held me while I cried, brewed me a cup of herbal tea, and then sat and listened to my account of the story several times—all without yawning. Repeatedly reassuring that it was not my fault and reminding me I’m a beautiful woman. What can I say, she’s my sister. She made up her guest room, but then offered to let me sleep with her, if I needed to. Just like when we were kids.
Audrey was a wonderful big sister. And I wondered why it’s always been so hard for me to tell her so. Maybe it’s because of her one flaw: She has virtually no emotion. And, these days, I am an emotional monsoon. I cry. Audrey hands me a tissue and pats my arm. It’s the thing to do. Then she asks what I want for dinner. She’s like our mother in that way—fill the void with food.
I glanced at my watch. Time to go home…to Audrey. I sighed and reached for my rain slicker. It was too cheerful, and I couldn’t put it on. I draped it over my arm, picked up my briefcase, and turned off lights as I made my way to the front door. Only my stupid BMW and one other vehicle, an SUV with shaded windows, occupied the parking lot. A misty shroud hovered over the asphalt, reminding me of those foggy murder scenes in scary movies. I set my finger on the emergency button on my automatic lock fob as I headed toward my car.
A door opened and closed, and a voice called, “Megan. Wait up.”
I whirled around at Thomas’s approach. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” It was a rhetorical question, however. He’d already attacked my heart.
“I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he said with sincerity in his voice and, I saw as he came nearer, in his eyes.
“I’m just peachy. What the hell is wrong with you? Am I okay?” I shouted. “You’re unbelievable. You traipse out here in the fog, in the dark, with your damn gay lover driving, to ask me if I’m okay?”
He stood with his head bowed, hands shoved into his pockets. The soft rain continued to fall, beading on his jet black hair. I instinctively lifted a hand to brush off the moisture, but then recoiled.
“I’m sorry. But you’re not answering my calls,” he murmured.
I took a breath. “And that would be because I don’t want to talk to you. We have nothing more to discuss.” I paused. “I do have one question, though.” I looked past him to the darkened SUV. “What does he do for you that I didn’t?”
Thomas closed his eyes for a moment, then looked directly into mine. “It’s not you. It’s me.”
“Oh, please. Don’t even go there. Thomas, it’s over. As soon as the paperwork is filed and signed by a judge, you’re free to be with…” My gaze wandered again to the SUV hulking like a dragon in wait of its prey. “…with him.”
“I was hoping we could remain friends. You know me better than anyone.”
I laughed, but it came out as more of a bark. “No, I don’t think I do. Please. Francisco has seen a side of you that I had no idea even existed. I’m sure the two of you had a few laughs about that. Poor Megan, clueless that her husband prefers men. All those times I smiled and welcomed Francisco into our home. It must have been a helluva joke between the two of you.” I had never felt so totally alone, disconsolate.
Even in the shadows, I could see color deepen in his face. Then it hit me. The one thing I could count on from Thomas was no longer available to me. Consolation. He wasn’t consoling me. He was seeking forgiveness.
I swayed, and he enveloped me in his arms, echoing the words he had used the night he shattered my heart. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
My cheek fell to rest on his chest, a familiar place. “You know what hurts the most? That you kept this secret. You kept it from me.” I lifted my face to his. “You know all of my secrets.”
He took a step back and stared at his shoes. “I was ashamed.” Unshed tears glimmered in the light that cut a swath across his dark features.
I gazed into his liquid brown eyes where I could once easily lose myself. But I was not lost. I was simply a stranger there. Shrugging out of his embrace, I hoisted up the shoulder strap of my briefcase. “I have to go.” With a shaking hand, I opened the car door and took one last look back. “I’m trading in my car this weekend.”
“Something wrong with it?”
“Yes. It reminds me of you.”
Chapter Four
“Meg? Is that you?” Audrey called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
The aroma of garlic assaulted my nose when I entered the apartment. Audrey refused to accept the fact that my husband’s betrayal had left me without an appetite. Everyone must eat dinner. That was just a fact, and Audrey thrived on facts.
“No, it’s a serial rapist.”
“Not funny.” Her voice had an odd edge to it, but I dismissed it as Audrey being Audrey. I wondered when my sister had had her sense of humor surgically removed.
She then asked with a lighter tone, “How does chicken parmigiana s
ound to you?”
Like forcing a bowl of nightcrawlers down my throat. “Great. Thanks.” I dropped my bag and slicker and checked the stack of forwarded mail on the coffee table. “Aud, you don’t have to cook for me every night. I don’t have much of an appetite lately.”
She appeared and handed me a glass of dark red wine. “I like having someone to cook for. It gets old, cooking for one.” She retreated back to the kitchen.
I would know what she meant soon enough. I couldn’t stay at her place forever. My insides quaked. I took a sip of wine and choked.
“You okay?” She stuck her head around the corner.
I nodded, gasping. “I’m fine.”
Over dinner, Audrey asked about my day. I decided not to tell her about talking with Thomas. “I had a busy day. You know, the same old stuff. People with issues.” I cut a piece of chicken into five tiny pieces, unable to put a single bite into my mouth. I couldn’t imagine swallowing.
She shook her head. “I don’t know how you do it. I’d probably just tell them ‘The past is the past. That’s life. Sometimes it sucks. Get on with it.’”
I smiled. “Ah, the Dr. Phil technique.”
She cocked her head and furrowed her eyebrows. The reference had gone over her head. I chose not to explain. “I’m trading in my car this weekend. Want to come and help me pick out something new?”
“What’s wrong with your car?”
“It was a gift from Thomas.” My voice hitched at his name.
“Yeah, but it’s practically new. And it’s a beautiful car.”
I gritted my teeth. “Audrey, it was a present from my cheating, gay, soon-to-be-ex-husband.”
“Oh,” she said. “I guess it reminds you of too much.”
“Ya’ think?” I reined in my growing rage. I wasn’t angry with Audrey. She exasperated me at times, but still, my life turned inside out wasn’t her fault. “Sorry. I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at…him…at them. I’m just mad.”
She patted my hand. “You’re better off without him. Now you can find the right man and have the life you’ve dreamed about.” The past is the past. That’s life. Sometimes it sucks. Get on with it.
I opened my mouth to respond, but closed it again. It really was that simple to Audrey. Just as I did when we were teenagers, I decided to push her around a little to distract myself. “How come you don’t date?”
Her eyebrows lifted practically to her hairline. “Me?” she squeaked. “I’ve dated. I…I like being single.”
“Yeah? What’s so great about it?” I propped my elbows on the table and held the wineglass with both hands.
Staring down at her plate, she fiddled with her unused teaspoon. I’d made her uncomfortable. And I wasn’t sorry. I wanted someone besides me to feel uncomfortable. I wanted Audrey to feel anything.
She cleared her throat. “I don’t have to clean up after someone else. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. My money is my own.” She gave me a laundry list of the top reasons for not being married.
“Doesn’t it get lonely sometimes? You know, like those long nights alone in that big bed. Don’t you ever just want someone to cuddle up against? Someone to flip your switch, give you a screaming orgasm every now and then?”
Her color matched the beets in the salad. I had embarrassed her. And she wouldn’t look me in the eye. “I haven’t met the man I want to…to spend my life with.”
“Are you telling me you’ve never slept with anyone? You’re a virgin? You’re thirty-four!”
I thought her head was going to explode, but I couldn’t let up. I was finally distracted from my own pain by inflicting misery on my sister.
“I’m not a virgin. And how is that your business, anyway?” she asked almost in a whisper. Her eyes widened in a trapped look.
I felt awful. I’d been like a cat that had a mouse cornered, batting it back and forth before the kill. “Sorry. You’re right. It’s none of my business.”
She blinked rapidly, then used her napkin to dab her eyes. Standing abruptly, she picked up my dinner plate and hers. “I have angel food cake with sliced peaches for dessert. You want coffee?”
And, just like that, we moved on. I wondered what would happen if I showed up on Thomas’s doorstep—my former doorstep—with three plates of angel food cake topped with sliced fruit. What the hell? I’d add whipped cream. Would Thomas, Francisco, and I be able to move on? “No coffee. I’m having a glass of milk. Want some?” I stood and edged around her in the small kitchen to open the refrigerator. “It’s good for your bones.”
“Okay.” She turned to rinse the plates and set them into the dishwasher.
Shame washed over me. I was failing as a sister, too, torturing her to take the focus off my own discomfort. I’d make it up to her, I vowed. She loved opera. I hated opera, but I’d stop by the Benedum and get tickets for the next Civic Light Opera production. Even throw in dinner. I owed Audrey that much, and so much more. I had been merciless to her. Perhaps I feared I’d become her. And as I watched my humble, guileless, generous big sister prepare my dessert, I wondered if that would be such a bad thing. “Sis, I don’t know how to thank you for all you’re doing for me.”
“Start by not picking on me. I’m not your enemy.”
Chapter Five
Emmaline Davis, age ninety-one, died quietly in her home on Wednesday. Mrs. Davis, the widow of Robert N. Davis, is survived by six children, fifteen grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren. Viewing will be held from 2 p.m. to 8 p.m. at the J.W. King Funeral Home. Burial at 10 a.m. Saturday in Homestead Cemetery. Donations may be made to the American Heart Association.
~ * ~
Emmaline. I loved that name. It sounded like a name from another era. I read the list of survivors. Emmaline left quite a legacy. I tore out the announcement and stuffed it into my pocket. Even as I did this, I questioned if I should be sitting in the other chair in my office, letting Schizo Sam analyze my actions. Besides, I didn’t have time to go to a funeral. And I certainly didn’t have a reason.
That evening, after devouring a second helping of Audrey’s baked lemon sole, I settled in the small living room with my sister to watch TV. My appetite seemed to have returned, full force. Maybe it was the new therapy I’d tried out. Nothing works up an appetite like standing by an open grave and imagining your husband’s lover being lowered into it. I left the TV program selections up to Audrey. I turned to the real estate rentals section of the paper to look for an apartment. It was time to get my own place, but none of the listings spoke to me.
After two hours of Law and Order, I said goodnight and headed to my room where I laid for hours, staring at the shadowed ceiling, trying to not cry myself to sleep. I turned over and punched the pillow, resolving I’d save my tears for tomorrow. For Emmaline.
The next morning, Audrey was already in the kitchen when I came out of my room. “You’re all dressed up. Where are you going so early?”
I smoothed my hands over my conservative black pantsuit. “Uh…I have to go to a funeral.”
“A funeral? Anyone I know?”
Not even anyone I know. “No.” I crossed my fingers behind my back. “A friend’s… grandmother. I promised I’d make an appearance. I’ll be home by noon then we can do the car thing. Lunch is on me.”
“But we have leftovers in the fridge.”
“And we can eat them later. See you at noon.” I picked up my purse and car keys.
“Wait.” She filled a travel mug with coffee and handed it to me.
“Thanks. Bye.”
I passed abandoned steel mills and snaked my way through the narrow streets of Homestead. I entered the cemetery at nine-forty a.m., and I waited. My coffee turned to a murky grey in the travel mug. My stomach revolted at the smell, and I pressed the cap on tightly. The parade began shortly—a black hearse, followed by two stretch limos and a mile-long trail of assorted vehicles. Emmaline would have been happy with the turnout. While I waited for them to pass, I shopped for my nex
t car, jotting down brands and models I might like. I did not stop to question my sanity.
When the end of the line passed me by, I started the engine and eased in behind the last car—a very nice champagne-colored Lexus. I made a note. The caravan followed the remains of Emmaline to her final resting place on a small rise in the center of the cemetery. Emmaline did a great job of selecting a place to spend eternity. The burial plot, a gaping hole opened on one side, stood in the shadow of a large alabaster cross and afforded a scenic view of the surrounding graves. I found some odd comfort in that as I took my place on the back edge of the crowd.
I smiled sadly, I hoped, to the woman who turned to meet my gaze. She gave me a puzzled stare, then turned back around and whispered to the man beside her. He looked back, his eyebrows drawn together, then said something to the woman and shrugged. As the minister began the service, I scanned the crowd of mourners. And I understood the confused looks of the couple. In the sea of family and friends come to bid a final farewell to dear Emmaline, I was the sole Caucasian.
I took a small step backward, then another, then another. Unfortunately, I didn’t see that Marcus Williams rested directly behind me. Not until I lay eye-level with his tombstone. A shadow darkened the engraving on the stone, and I looked up at a tall black man with salt and pepper hair.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
Mortified, I reached up and accepted his extended hand. “I’m so sorry I’ve disrupted your service. I seem to be at the wrong funeral.”
He steadied me and smiled. “I thought you might be the manager from Granny’s senior center. But she’s heavier, my wife says.”
I nodded, heat flooding my face. “I’ll be going now. You have my sympathy for your loss.”
“Thank you.” He returned to the gathering of mourners.
I stumbled across the lumpy lawn to my car. My life was pathetic. I was pathetic. A pathetic failure. If I kept this up, I would need therapy.
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