Nowhere But Here
Page 8
I force myself forward on the red velvet industrial carpeting of this outdated house of death and rethink this entire situation. Badly painted landscapes hang every few feet over the black-and-white peeling wallpaper. My muscles twitch as if a million spiders crawl over my skin. And the smell! I cup my hand over my nose to smell something other than tragically scented potpourri and wilting lilies.
Thankfully, there’s only one viewing room, which means only one dead person to avoid. The fine hairs on my neck prickle as if eyes are trained on me. I glance back and my heart stutters when I spot black hair and a dangerous grin. The guy who called me out hangs near the door and he’s watching me. His jeans ride a little low. Low enough that his boxers peek out and it’s hard to tear my eyes away, but I do.
Not eager for anyone to touch me, I tuck myself in tight as I duck through the crowded hallway. If anyone runs into me, I’ll recall being eight and enclosed and the feel of cold skin, and me spazzing out is not part of the plan.
“...playing at the bar tonight. Plan on taking the girl...”
“...hit that hard...”
“...and she said I don’t want that trash on my property and I said I ain’t trash, bitch...”
Trash bitch woman wears skintight jeans, a tank top that exposes her midriff and, holy mother of God, flip-flops. She steps back and nearly knocks into me. I sidestep her, but I collide with someone else.
Cold skin with black markings grazes my arm and my heart lodges in my throat. I flinch and suck in a sharp breath while twisting my feet. I stumble back, completely off-balance, and my arms flail in a poor attempt to stay upright.
A warm hand grips my elbow and halts me from ramming into anyone else. My head snaps up and I’m greeted by dark blue eyes. The guy who was watching me is now touching me. Remember to breathe. Yes, he’s pretty, but bad things come in gorgeous packages—at least that’s what Mom says.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I whisper and immediately return my attention to the guy I crashed into. He’s not dead. He’s very much alive and he’s taking a swig from a beer. Wait. A beer? My gaze switches from him to the bottle.
“Would you like one?” He motions to a cooler full of ice on the floor.
I shake my head. Major WTF.
Black hair guy releases me and motions with his chin to the left. “Eli’s in the viewing room.”
Viewing room. Right. I mumble a thank-you, but he doesn’t notice as he’s bumping fists and accepting a beer from the guy with the tattoos.
The viewing room is beyond crowded. Like the-fire-marshal-should-be-notified crowded, which means it will be difficult to find Eli. People laugh, shout and talk as if they’re attending a pep rally instead of a funeral.
I rise to my tiptoes and clutch my purse. I haven’t seen him in a couple of months, but Eli always looks the same: dark brown hair cut short, plugs in both ears, T-shirt, jeans and a smile that, for some insane reason, can make me smile.
My stomach sinks like the Titanic as I catch sight of him. Just no...why-does-it-have-to-be-so-difficult no. His back is to me, but I know it’s Eli. A tattoo of stars runs the length of his arm. Like most of the other men here, he wears the black leather vest. And of course, he stands next to the one spot I want nothing to do with—the casket.
Reminding myself that I’m here for Mom, I squeeze through the mob. Eli stares at the body. The body I’m trying desperately to avoid, but it’s kind of hard to so I focus on my biological father.
He doesn’t seem to be upset. He’s not crying or anything, but it’s not really Eli, either. His hands rest in his jeans pockets and his typical grin doesn’t grace his face. He appears...thoughtful.
Until he does something that makes me shiver. He touches her. The dead body. My grandmother. The one I’ve never met. Eli gently readjusts the blue scarf covering her hair, or where her hair would have been. Oh, God...cancer.
What’s odd—other than that he’s willingly touching a dead person—is that the casket is open. Completely open. Legs and all. Weird. Very weird. Now that I’m looking, I take a deep breath and permit myself to study the woman that brought me to the outskirts of nowhere.
My grandmother is dressed in blue jeans and a white silk sleeveless top. A sad rush of air escapes my lips. She’s young. A lot younger than I expected. Why this surprises me, I have no idea. Mom and Eli were young when they conceived me. Teenagers still in high school.
I hurt for Eli. I’ve never lost someone I was close to. He must have loved her and she’s dead. Gone. I’d die if I lost Grandma or Gramps or Mom or Dad. “I’m so sorry.”
His head whirls in my direction and my dark eyes stare back at me. “Emily?”
Yeah, I forgot. This visit is unexpected because he didn’t answer his phone. “Hi.”
He’ll say “how are you,” I’ll say “fine,” and we’ll be done with conversation for the year.
Eli flicks out his arm, pulls me closer to the casket and him, lifts me off the floor and hugs the air out of me. “How did you know? What about school? Does Meg know you’re here?”
Wow. A lot of questions in a short timespan. He kisses the side of my head and shakes me from side to side like a rag doll. My leg bumps into the side of the coffin and I swallow a dry heave. “Um. Dad, it’s over and duh.”
“What?” he asks, still hugging and shaking me.
I pat his shoulder and my nonverbal put-me-down works. The moment my feet hit the ground, his hands go to my shoulders as if the only way to confirm I’m here is by physical contact.
Thankfully, there’s only one viewing room, which means only one dead person to avoid. The fine hairs on my neck prickle as if eyes are trained on me. I glance back and my heart stutters when I spot black hair and a dangerous grin. The guy who called me out hangs near the door and he’s watching me. His jeans ride a little low. Low enough that his boxers peek out and it’s hard to tear my eyes away, but I do.
Not eager for anyone to touch me, I tuck myself in tight as I duck through the crowded hallway. If anyone runs into me, I’ll recall being eight and enclosed and the feel of cold skin, and me spazzing out is not part of the plan.
“...playing at the bar tonight. Plan on taking the girl...”
“...hit that hard...”
“...and she said I don’t want that trash on my property and I said I ain’t trash, bitch...”
Trash bitch woman wears skintight jeans, a tank top that exposes her midriff and, holy mother of God, flip-flops. She steps back and nearly knocks into me. I sidestep her, but I collide with someone else.
Cold skin with black markings grazes my arm and my heart lodges in my throat. I flinch and suck in a sharp breath while twisting my feet. I stumble back, completely off-balance, and my arms flail in a poor attempt to stay upright.
A warm hand grips my elbow and halts me from ramming into anyone else. My head snaps up and I’m greeted by dark blue eyes. The guy who was watching me is now touching me. Remember to breathe. Yes, he’s pretty, but bad things come in gorgeous packages—at least that’s what Mom says.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I whisper and immediately return my attention to the guy I crashed into. He’s not dead. He’s very much alive and he’s taking a swig from a beer. Wait. A beer? My gaze switches from him to the bottle.
“Would you like one?” He motions to a cooler full of ice on the floor.
I shake my head. Major WTF.
Black hair guy releases me and motions with his chin to the left. “Eli’s in the viewing room.”
Viewing room. Right. I mumble a thank-you, but he doesn’t notice as he’s bumping fists and accepting a beer from the guy with the tattoos.
The viewing room is beyond crowded. Like the-fire-marshal-should-be-notified crowded, which means it will be difficult to find Eli. People laugh, shout and talk as if they’re attending a pep rally instead of a funeral.
I rise to my tiptoes and clutch my purse. I haven’t seen him in a couple of months, but Eli always looks the same: dark brown hair cut short, plugs in both ears, T-shirt, jeans and a smile that, for some insane reason, can make me smile.
My stomach sinks like the Titanic as I catch sight of him. Just no...why-does-it-have-to-be-so-difficult no. His back is to me, but I know it’s Eli. A tattoo of stars runs the length of his arm. Like most of the other men here, he wears the black leather vest. And of course, he stands next to the one spot I want nothing to do with—the casket.
Reminding myself that I’m here for Mom, I squeeze through the mob. Eli stares at the body. The body I’m trying desperately to avoid, but it’s kind of hard to so I focus on my biological father.
He doesn’t seem to be upset. He’s not crying or anything, but it’s not really Eli, either. His hands rest in his jeans pockets and his typical grin doesn’t grace his face. He appears...thoughtful.
Until he does something that makes me shiver. He touches her. The dead body. My grandmother. The one I’ve never met. Eli gently readjusts the blue scarf covering her hair, or where her hair would have been. Oh, God...cancer.
What’s odd—other than that he’s willingly touching a dead person—is that the casket is open. Completely open. Legs and all. Weird. Very weird. Now that I’m looking, I take a deep breath and permit myself to study the woman that brought me to the outskirts of nowhere.
My grandmother is dressed in blue jeans and a white silk sleeveless top. A sad rush of air escapes my lips. She’s young. A lot younger than I expected. Why this surprises me, I have no idea. Mom and Eli were young when they conceived me. Teenagers still in high school.
I hurt for Eli. I’ve never lost someone I was close to. He must have loved her and she’s dead. Gone. I’d die if I lost Grandma or Gramps or Mom or Dad. “I’m so sorry.”
His head whirls in my direction and my dark eyes stare back at me. “Emily?”
Yeah, I forgot. This visit is unexpected because he didn’t answer his phone. “Hi.”
He’ll say “how are you,” I’ll say “fine,” and we’ll be done with conversation for the year.
Eli flicks out his arm, pulls me closer to the casket and him, lifts me off the floor and hugs the air out of me. “How did you know? What about school? Does Meg know you’re here?”
Wow. A lot of questions in a short timespan. He kisses the side of my head and shakes me from side to side like a rag doll. My leg bumps into the side of the coffin and I swallow a dry heave. “Um. Dad, it’s over and duh.”
“What?” he asks, still hugging and shaking me.
I pat his shoulder and my nonverbal put-me-down works. The moment my feet hit the ground, his hands go to my shoulders as if the only way to confirm I’m here is by physical contact.
