Beyond the Pale

by Jennifer Millikin

  “Did you give it to her?”

  Wilma nods.

  I smile. “I like her too.”

  “I don’t know what your plans are after today, but don’t leave without saying goodbye. Please. She’s fragile these days.”

  “I won’t.”

  The sanctuary reeks of flowers. They are everywhere, and it’s like a choking, thick fog. Near the front, sitting in a pew, is Laine. She styled her hair the same as mine today. When we met in the kitchen this morning, she smiled at our hair and called it the proper funeral bun.

  Brady and Finn sit beside Laine. When I approach, Finn scoots over, making space between him and Brady.

  I sink down, my gaze flitting over to Laine. She winks at me and reaches across Brady to brush a hand on my arm. Finn winds his fingers into my right hand, and Brady does the same to my left.

  Tears spring to my eyes. From my first day in a new school to my mother’s funeral, these guys have been by my side. Their love is sewn into the fabric of my soul.

  Pastor Thomas walks to the pulpit, and I catch his gaze. He nods at me and steps up to the microphone.

  My mother’s funeral is a blur. Literally. I cry the whole time. It’s unexpected, and I’m unprepared. I don’t even have tissues. Laine, thankfully, has thought ahead. She hands them to me.

  Why am I even crying? It makes no sense. This woman was awful to me. But she was so wonderful to everyone else. That’s what triggered the tears. Hearing about her work with the children’s ministry. The positive effect she had on countless people. Who was this woman? Why was she cruel to me and kind to everyone else?

  The funeral ends on a song and a prayer. At Pastor Thomas’ urging, I form a one-woman receiving line. I recognize all but a few faces. Of the people I recognize, only a handful do I remember their names. My mascara is running, my eyes red, my face splotchy. Looks of pity pour in, as do the intrigued gazes.

  Elliot steps up and hugs me. When she pulls away, I inspect her hair. If Wilma hadn’t told me about the wig, I never would’ve known.

  “Your grandma said you asked for my number. I want you to use it, okay?”

  Elliot smiles and hugs me a second time. She’s holding up the line, but that’s fine by me. She peeks back and mumbles an apology to the person behind her, then quickly moves on.

  When the last person has come through and shaken my hand, and I’m so full of condolences I could vomit them up onto the brown carpet, I go in search of Laine.

  She, Brady, and Finn stand off in a corner. I was upset when I walked in earlier, and I didn’t notice what Brady and Finn were wearing. Brady’s suit is black, traditional for a funeral. It’s obviously expensive, well-cut, molding around his body. He looks better than any man has a right to.

  As I watch, he slips his hands in his pockets and rolls back on his heels, laughing quietly at something Finn has just said. It’s a practiced move, something Brady has done a million times. Brady wears this suit and dress shoes like they are as comfortable as his pajamas and slippers.

  Not like Finn. Finn’s suit is a midnight blue, his shirt white, and he doesn’t wear a tie. He fingers the fabric at the back of his neck with a hooked finger, grimacing. Finn looks every bit as handsome as Brady, but far less confident.

  “Hi,” I call out, approaching them.

  Finn is facing me, so he sees me first. He breaks away at the same time Laine and Brady turn around.

  In three long strides, Finn reaches me. He pulls me into his arms and places a warm, supportive hand on the back of my head.

  “Tell me something I’ll never believe,” I whisper into his neck.

  “Quail mate for life,” he whispers back to me.

  I look up at him. My heart hammers in my chest. He’s so close, and he’s warm and familiar. It’s everything I need in this moment.

  “My love,” Laine’s voice is suddenly in my ear. Stepping away from Finn, I turn right into Laine’s arms.

  “You finally cried,” she says, her tone relieved.

  I pull back, shaking my head and wiping my eyes, even though no tears have fallen in twenty minutes. “Probably not for why you think.” I glance at Brady, into his curious eyes, and my heart melts a little. “Why did everybody love her? Why was she so wonderful to everyone but me? I was her daughter.”

  Brady purses his lips and looks away as if even speaking about it angers him.

  “Because she was fucking fake, Lennon. She might have done all the shit those people” —Finn jams a finger in the direction of the sanctuary—“say she did, but there was something else inside her she showed only to you. And it wasn’t about you at all. It was about her. Remember that.” Finn’s voice is strong, his meaning reverberating through his words. He’s defending me, and it feels amazing.

  “You only have to get through this luncheon, and then it’s over.” Brady’s gentle voice, in such contrast to Finn’s, washes over me.

  “You don’t have to go at all,” Finn says.

  Brady shoots him a warning glance.

  “What?” Finn asks him, his tone challenging. “She doesn’t.”

  “It’s tradition.”

  Finn shrugs. “So?”

  Brady sighs and lowers his chin, head shaking.

  “I’ll go.” I place my hand on Finn’s forearm. “Brady’s right.”

  Finn says nothing, instead reaching around me and steering me in the direction of the reception room.

  Casseroles everywhere. Deviled eggs, which made me laugh. Fruit salad, potato salad, macaroni salad. Sandwiches. Cupcakes I’m certain are store-bought. Not that I care. I don’t have an appetite right now.

  The four of us sit on one side of a round folding table covered in a white tablecloth; the other half is taken up by two older couples, all of whom have been asking me polite questions about my life since I moved away. They are nice, but cautious. Which is to be expected.

  David approaches our table and asks me for a word. He leads me out of the room and down the hall to a set of chairs. Other than a rowdy cowlick at the crown of his head, his hair is perfectly styled.

  “Great sermon,” I say, settling beside him on a yellow slip-covered chair.

  He eyes me dubiously. “I get the feeling you’re being sarcastic, but thank you.”

  Maybe I was being sarcastic. I’m not sure. It seemed like an appropriate thing to say to him, although I definitely didn’t mean it.

  “I noticed an abundance of deviled eggs on the buffet table. Are those allowed in here?” I can’t help my smirk.

  He narrows his eyes, but his mouth is upturned. “Now I know you’re being sarcastic.”

  Raising my hand, I make a pinching gesture with my pointer finger and thumb. “Just a little bit.”

  “You’re funny. I never thought I’d have a funny sister. Or a sister at all.”

  I frown. “I’m not your sister.”

  “You kind of are.”

  “Not at all.”

  David laughs again. “Just let me pretend, okay? I’ve never had a sibling.”

  “Me neither.”

  He leans back against the chair and pulls at the knot his tie makes at the base of his throat. “I pulled you away because I wanted to thank you for giving me that box. I’m not sure what happened to make you hate my dad, but you giving me those things,” he pauses, his voice thickening. He shakes his head as if to clear it. “It means a lot to me.”

  I nod, acknowledging his words. Every time I came across something of Ted’s, I’d wanted to throw it out. Touching my stepdad’s old baseball glove, the leather soft and supple, made my stomach curl. Every item I tossed into that box made me nauseous. Before I’d thought about giving it to David, that box was headed for a landfill.

  Seeing the gratitude on his face makes me feel happy, and that’s a hell of a lot better than the sick enjoyment I’d get from dumping Ted’s belongings in the garbage.

  “It’s no problem. Of all his belongings, those are things my mother saved, so they must’ve meant a lot to hi
m too.”

  “Are you almost finished clearing out the house?”

  “Nearly. Salvation Army comes Monday to pick up all the furniture and kitchen stuff. Her clothes. Stuff like that.” All that’s left is her desk. I’ve saved it for last, but I don’t know why. The idea of sifting through her desk feels ominous. My desk at home holds old CDs I can’t bear to throw out even though I no longer own a CD player. Stamps, my collection of colored Sharpies, old notebooks. None of it anything anyone should feel trepidation over finding. But this is my mother. The woman who reinvented herself to be with a man. The rest of the house hasn’t revealed one scrap of evidence that underneath her tough exterior, she loved me. I don’t know what I’m looking for; maybe a photo of her smiling and bouncing me on her knee? A messy finger paint, or a Thanksgiving project with my handprint decorated like a turkey and the words I’m thankful for Mommy written in childish letters. The only things I have from my childhood are things I saved, and I didn’t start doing that until I was older.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Lennon, but—” David shifts, his discomfort obvious.

  “What?” I press. A sentence started out that way almost always ends in something offensive being said.

  “You don’t seem very sad?” He palms the air in front of him, already defending his observation. “That sounded bad. I didn’t mean it that way. People show their grief in different ways. Maybe you wear yours on the inside.”

  I sigh and look down at my shoes. How do I respond? The only way I know how, I guess. Honestly.

  “I don’t seem sad because I’m not. Not in the way people are usually sad when a parent dies.” I look up into David’s shocked face and open my mouth to explain. “My mom and I weren’t close. Ever. To you, she was a kind, helpful woman. To me, she was hateful. There was something about me she abhorred.” David opens his mouth, probably to refute me because it shouldn’t be true, but I shake my head and he stops. “I know you’re having a hard time believing that, but it’s true. I’m not telling you this to ruin your image of her. You asked, and this is my answer.”

  David’s mouth falls closed, and he nods once. “I guess I can respect that.”

  Chuckling lightly, I tell him, “You’ll have to.”

  “Are you ever going to tell me why you hated my dad?”

  Would I feel good if I told him the truth? Maybe. Would I feel vindicated? Maybe. Would I ruin his image of Ted? Probably.

  “No, David.”

  He nods, but I can see his disappointment. His gaze falls on something over my shoulder. To me, he says, “Your friends are looking for you.”

  Twisting, I see Brady, Finn, and Laine. I lift a hand and wave. The rustle of heavy clothing beside me tells me David is getting to his feet, so I stand too.

  “Everything okay out here?” Finn asks, his eyes on David.

  “Everything is fine,” I assure him, taking a few steps away from the chair and meeting him halfway. “Perfect timing. David... er, Pastor Thomas and I just finished our conversation.”

  David steps up behind me. “Thanks for letting me borrow her for a few minutes.” His tone is friendly and good-natured.

  Finn nods his head, and Brady steps up and offers his hand. He introduces himself, and he and David spend a few minutes talking about people they both know. The people they have in common are all members of the congregation, and Finn and I know them too, but we stay quiet while Brady and David make small talk.

  Laine loops her arm through mine, locking us at our elbows. “Please don’t tell me there’s a third man vying for your attention.” Her whisper is so soft, I can barely hear her.

  Shaking my head, I whisper back, “Not at all. I’ll fill you in later.” David asked me to keep his connection to my stepdad a secret, but I don’t think telling Laine counts.

  “Lennon, I’ve got to get back in there.” David points to the room he pulled me from. “Good luck with everything.”

  And then, in a move I didn’t see coming, he wraps me in a hug.

  My surprise makes me stiff, and I feel bad about that. I think David could use a good hug, but it’s awkward with Brady and Finn looking on.

  David pulls away and clears his throat. He looks around at the three onlookers and nods, then hurries away.

  Finn’s the first to speak. “What the hell was that about?”

  I shake my head as I watch him disappear through the double doors that have been propped open.

  “I’ll tell you another time.”

  The four of us walk out of the church and into the blinding desert sun.

  19

  Then

  This is bullshit.

  I can’t believe I have to go home to him. I wish some kind of black magic could carry him away from this town, from this country, maybe even the planet.

  Before I go into the house, I turn and watch Brady’s car disappear. My stomach feels sick, a result of nerves and the sugar from eating two and a half donuts. Finn ate three. So did Brady. We waited for Mr. and Mrs. Sterling to leave for their tee time, then I climbed into Brady’s car and he drove me home. The boys were quiet this morning, but then so was I.

  I place my hand on the door handle, but I can’t bring myself to open it. I let it go and back up a couple feet to the edge of the front walk where the concrete meets landscaping rock. Bending, my fingers sift through the grayish-tan rocks until I find the largest one. I place it in my pocket. Just in case. I can’t go in there without a way to protect myself. Too bad I don’t have a slingshot.

  I walk into a quiet house. Pausing, I strain my ears for any sound. There’s nothing, and then after a moment, I hear something in the kitchen, like a paper being moved. I creep through the foyer and peer around the wall into the kitchen, my body on high alert.

  When I see my mother, the breath I’ve been holding seeps out. She’s sitting at the small breakfast table beside the window. Her back is to me as she flips a page of the Arizona Republic, a piece of buttered toast in her hand.

  “Mom.” I walk in and go to the table, placing my hands on the back of the chair opposite her.

  She looks up, her eyes questioning. She has a tiny smear of butter on her chin.

  “Where’s Ted?” I ask.

  “He went back to sleep.” She frowns, worry in the pinch of her eyebrows, and glances back in the direction of their room. “He said he wasn’t feeling well.”

  This is my chance. I take a seat and gather my nerves. She’s back to looking at the paper, so I reach across the table and place my hand on hers before she can turn the page again. She looks up into my eyes.

  “I need to talk to you.” My tone is low and urgent.

  “What is it?”

  Without pausing to relive the memory, I spit out the tale. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.

  And then, my mother laughs. It’s a soft sound, accompanied by a slowly shaking head. “Lennon, you’re mistaken. Ted would never do that.”

  I’m prepared for her denial, because it’s the reaction that would make the most sense from her. “He did, Mom. Last night.” I cross my hand over my chest. “I promise.” I look into her eyes, willing her to believe me.

  Her face hardens and she drops the page of the paper she was reading. “Don’t you dare, Lennon. Don’t you dare! Making up lies like that. Shameful.”

  “Why would I lie about something like this?” As though I would ever want to think about Ted like that long enough to concoct a lie.

  Her hands fly into the air. “How should I know? But I’ll tell you what I do know. Ted didn’t do what you’re saying. He’s a pastor for God’s sake.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh, only mine isn’t soft. It’s loud and incredulous. How is this my life right now?

  My mom pins me with a glare that could freeze the sun. “If I catch you spreading this lie, I’m not paying for college. Do you understand me?” She rises from her chair.

  “Mom—”

  “No! There will be no more talk of this. At all. There’s a special pl
ace in Hell for those who spread gossip and lies.”

  Too late. I’m already there.

  She leaves the kitchen. I spread my palms on the table and let my head droop until it lies on my hands. What was I expecting? Did I think she would be in my corner, championing my story? Did I really think she would whisk me away after she slapped Ted in the face and called the police?

  I should’ve known better.

  I stand, looking down at the newspaper spread open on the table. It devastates me that she didn’t believe me, but it also makes me mad. Very, very mad.

  With a sweep of my hand, I push the newspaper off the table and watch the pages fall to the ground. One section lands on her chair.

  “Bitch,” I mutter. I go upstairs, take a shower after triple-checking the lock, and hope all the soap I’m using can wash off the memories of last night.

  My phone dings with a text. I roll over, glancing at my locked bedroom door before I grab my phone from my nightstand.

  Brady: We’re out front. Can we come in?

  I type out a response. Meet me at the side gate.

  Rolling off the bed, I stand and push the hair back from my eyes. I wasn’t all the way asleep, but I was close. Naps aren’t my thing, but after last night, I could use one.

  I unlock my bedroom door and creep downstairs. I’ve been hiding in my room since my mom stormed away from the table. That was about four hours ago. From the bottom stair, I peer around, taking in as much of the house as I can. Mostly I’m looking for Ted, but a run-in with my mother isn’t high on the list of things I’d like to do.

  When I don’t see anybody, I leave the relative safety of my spot and speed through the living room, stopping to peek into the kitchen.

  Nobody’s there either. Not that I mind, but what is going on? Ted never stays in bed all day. He always mows the lawn on Saturday mornings, and in the afternoons he parks it at the kitchen table with his old, wheezing laptop and works on his sermon for the next day.

  The stillness of the house is eerie. My footsteps on the tile floor are the only sound.