Torture to Her Soul
Page 111
"Not a problem," the preacher says, taking his hand to shake it, seeming damn relieved to have somebody else show up. "We're glad you could be here."
My father nods, turning away from the man, and places the flowers on top of the casket before stepping back. He clasps his hands in front of him, refusing to meet my eyes as he stands there, waiting.
The preacher starts.
There isn't much to say.
He reads off the skewed facts of Carmela's life, making the woman a caricature none of us standing here recognize, before clearing his throat and looking at the three of us gathered, struggling for something more to say. "Do any of you have a story you'd like to share about Carmela?"
"I got one."
My father's voice draws my attention back to him. The preacher waves his direction, giving him the floor.
"I knew Carmela since she was just a little girl," he says, motioning toward his knees. "She was about this high, you know, a short little thing, and spunky. She used to come by the deli every day on her way home from school and I'd ask her how her day was, and it didn't matter how good of a day she had, she'd always tell me something bad. She was a complainer, that one. And I'd give her a cookie, you know, one of the ones we make fresh. I'd tell her no worries, tomorrow will be better. It's been a lot of years since I saw her… last time, she came by the shop, and I asked her how her day was and she said she'd just found out she was having a baby, so she wasn't gonna complain even if she could. She took a cookie and left. Never saw her again. To this day, every time we make Snickerdoodles, I think about her. Those were her favorites."
Tears stream down Karissa's cheeks, but she smiles. "She used to make them for me."
Silence overcomes the air around us again. The preacher clears his throat before moving on.
It's over as quick as it starts.
Afterward, my father approaches, taking Karissa's hands in his own. He kisses her cheeks, smiling, giving her the warm greeting she didn't get last time.
"Come by the deli sometime," he tells her. "I've got some cookies with your name on them."
"Thank you," she whispers. "I will."
He lets go of her, motioning toward me with his head. "Just leave this one at home next time."
The preacher pulls Karissa away then, and my father turns to me, meeting my eyes. He stares me down for a moment, not a stitch of apprehension.
"Pink roses," I say.
He shrugs. "They're your mother's favorite, so I figure I can't go wrong with them."
He turns, hesitating when I call out to him. "Look…"
He holds his hand up to stop me. "Save it, Ignazio. Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it." His gaze flickers to Karissa briefly before he turns to glare at me. "Just don't make me visit another woman's grave because of you."
My father walks away, and I think, as he disappears from the cemetery, that this is probably one of the last times I'll ever speak to him.
"Naz?"
I turn around when Karissa says my name and immediately pull her into my arms, hugging her tightly.
"Are you ready to get out of here?" I ask.
"Yes."
She gives one last long look at where her mother will forever rest before turning away. We head to my car and climb in, and I watch the rearview mirror as we pull away, waiting for the police cruiser to follow me, but it turns the other way.
They don't come after me.
Someday, but not today.
I breathe a sigh of relief, reaching over and taking Karissa's hand, giving it a squeeze.
I don't go home.
Karissa doesn't question it.
I drive north, out of the city.
She watches out the side widow, still holding my hand, but she remains silent. Maybe she's afraid to ask questions. Maybe she just trusts me to take her somewhere safe.
I don't know, but I appreciate her silence.
It's more comfortable than I expect it to be.
Dr. Carter's place is dead quiet, no cars around, no people anywhere. I pull the Mercedes right up front and cut the engine as Karissa eyes the building with confusion. There's only a small sign along the side, but her eyes zero in on it.
Dr. Michael Carter
Veterinary Services
"You're kidding me," she says, her eyes turning to me. "I thought he was a doctor."
"He is," I say. "A doctor of veterinary medicine."
"You got shot, you nearly died, and instead of calling 9-1-1, you made me call a fucking vet?"
Her disbelief makes me laugh, but I don't comment. Instead, I open the car door. "Come on, there's something I want to show you."
She gets out of the car after me and I lead her straight out back. The moment I round the corner, I hear the growling and pause, glaring down at a pair of beady brown eyes as they glare at me.
"Killer!"
Karissa gasps, pushing away from me to run to him. His growling ceases instantly as he grows excited at the sight of her, jumping up and down. Karissa drops to her knees, wrapping her arms around the dog as she starts sobbing.
She loses it.
She cries long and hard.
She's in pain.
Torture.
I can feel it emanating from her.
It exists deep down in her soul.
It's not about the dog, I know. It isn't even really about her mother, and it certainly isn't her father. It has nothing to do with him. It's not about me, or her, or anyone else. Not about Daniel, or Paul, or Ray. It's about life, and how cruel it can sometimes be.
My father nods, turning away from the man, and places the flowers on top of the casket before stepping back. He clasps his hands in front of him, refusing to meet my eyes as he stands there, waiting.
The preacher starts.
There isn't much to say.
He reads off the skewed facts of Carmela's life, making the woman a caricature none of us standing here recognize, before clearing his throat and looking at the three of us gathered, struggling for something more to say. "Do any of you have a story you'd like to share about Carmela?"
"I got one."
My father's voice draws my attention back to him. The preacher waves his direction, giving him the floor.
"I knew Carmela since she was just a little girl," he says, motioning toward his knees. "She was about this high, you know, a short little thing, and spunky. She used to come by the deli every day on her way home from school and I'd ask her how her day was, and it didn't matter how good of a day she had, she'd always tell me something bad. She was a complainer, that one. And I'd give her a cookie, you know, one of the ones we make fresh. I'd tell her no worries, tomorrow will be better. It's been a lot of years since I saw her… last time, she came by the shop, and I asked her how her day was and she said she'd just found out she was having a baby, so she wasn't gonna complain even if she could. She took a cookie and left. Never saw her again. To this day, every time we make Snickerdoodles, I think about her. Those were her favorites."
Tears stream down Karissa's cheeks, but she smiles. "She used to make them for me."
Silence overcomes the air around us again. The preacher clears his throat before moving on.
It's over as quick as it starts.
Afterward, my father approaches, taking Karissa's hands in his own. He kisses her cheeks, smiling, giving her the warm greeting she didn't get last time.
"Come by the deli sometime," he tells her. "I've got some cookies with your name on them."
"Thank you," she whispers. "I will."
He lets go of her, motioning toward me with his head. "Just leave this one at home next time."
The preacher pulls Karissa away then, and my father turns to me, meeting my eyes. He stares me down for a moment, not a stitch of apprehension.
"Pink roses," I say.
He shrugs. "They're your mother's favorite, so I figure I can't go wrong with them."
He turns, hesitating when I call out to him. "Look…"
He holds his hand up to stop me. "Save it, Ignazio. Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it." His gaze flickers to Karissa briefly before he turns to glare at me. "Just don't make me visit another woman's grave because of you."
My father walks away, and I think, as he disappears from the cemetery, that this is probably one of the last times I'll ever speak to him.
"Naz?"
I turn around when Karissa says my name and immediately pull her into my arms, hugging her tightly.
"Are you ready to get out of here?" I ask.
"Yes."
She gives one last long look at where her mother will forever rest before turning away. We head to my car and climb in, and I watch the rearview mirror as we pull away, waiting for the police cruiser to follow me, but it turns the other way.
They don't come after me.
Someday, but not today.
I breathe a sigh of relief, reaching over and taking Karissa's hand, giving it a squeeze.
I don't go home.
Karissa doesn't question it.
I drive north, out of the city.
She watches out the side widow, still holding my hand, but she remains silent. Maybe she's afraid to ask questions. Maybe she just trusts me to take her somewhere safe.
I don't know, but I appreciate her silence.
It's more comfortable than I expect it to be.
Dr. Carter's place is dead quiet, no cars around, no people anywhere. I pull the Mercedes right up front and cut the engine as Karissa eyes the building with confusion. There's only a small sign along the side, but her eyes zero in on it.
Dr. Michael Carter
Veterinary Services
"You're kidding me," she says, her eyes turning to me. "I thought he was a doctor."
"He is," I say. "A doctor of veterinary medicine."
"You got shot, you nearly died, and instead of calling 9-1-1, you made me call a fucking vet?"
Her disbelief makes me laugh, but I don't comment. Instead, I open the car door. "Come on, there's something I want to show you."
She gets out of the car after me and I lead her straight out back. The moment I round the corner, I hear the growling and pause, glaring down at a pair of beady brown eyes as they glare at me.
"Killer!"
Karissa gasps, pushing away from me to run to him. His growling ceases instantly as he grows excited at the sight of her, jumping up and down. Karissa drops to her knees, wrapping her arms around the dog as she starts sobbing.
She loses it.
She cries long and hard.
She's in pain.
Torture.
I can feel it emanating from her.
It exists deep down in her soul.
It's not about the dog, I know. It isn't even really about her mother, and it certainly isn't her father. It has nothing to do with him. It's not about me, or her, or anyone else. Not about Daniel, or Paul, or Ray. It's about life, and how cruel it can sometimes be.
