Rose Petal Graves

CHAPTER TWO BROKEN HEARTS

"Cat?" Dad hollered from the kitchen where he was banging cupboards. "Where's the Tylenol? My head is killing me."

"In the drawer."

"Which one?"

"Same drawer it's always been in," I said with a sigh.

Mom babied Dad, cooking all of his food, fetching him glasses of water before he even asked for them. He got used to it, and now he was going to have to get unused to it, because I would be heading back to college right after the funeral.

I pulled the drawer open, took out the pillbox, and shook out two tablets into his palm. Dad swallowed them without water.

"You should really eat something," I told him. "You want me to make you an omelet? Or reheat some of that bread pudding Bee dropped off?"

"I'm not hungry, honey, but you should eat. You're getting too skinny." Said the man whose middle was still concave in his mid-forties. He patted my shoulder as he walked past me. "I'm going to bed."

"The medical examiner arrived last night."

Dad paused on the stairs. "He did? Wasn't he supposed to get in tomorrow?"

"He was, but he's here now. Don't you want to meet him?"

Dad's eyes were bloodshot. "Not really in the mood. Can you show him around? Show him"—a sob caught in his throat—"show him where I...where I put your mother?" he whispered the last part.

My eyes heated up, but I reined in the tears until Dad had climbed the rickety wooden steps. Those stairs had gotten me into so much trouble when I was in my early teens, sneaking out to parties and coming home past curfew. Even though I tiptoed, one would always creak and give me away. And Mom would come out of her bedroom, with her reading glasses on and a paperback dangling from her fingers, and ask if I was all right. I'd thought it was her way of guilt-tripping me, but now, I believed she was just worried about me. I pressed the heels of my hands into my closed eyes to squeeze out the tears, and then, when I sort of had myself under control, I headed to the closet where we kept the cleaning supplies.

I grabbed a rag and a bucket that I filled with soapy water and then headed out to the hearse. The fresh air stung my cheeks and blew against the wind chime, making it swing back and forth. The noise was deafening. Dropping the bucket and rag, I dragged one of the wicker chairs toward Mom's last creation and climbed up to unhook it.

The bells were as cold as icicles and prickled my still-warm palm. They hadn't served their purpose; they hadn't kept evil out. Maybe Mom had gotten it wrong. Maybe bells above a doorway were an invitation to malevolent spirits. I tore the chime off the big hook and walked over to the dumpster. Without hesitating, I flung them inside, and then I just stood there and stared, half expecting our garbage can to burst into flames, or the bells to start careening, but neither happened. Only the wind whistling through the bare branches of the rowan trees disrupted the otherwise blissful silence.

I returned to the porch, pushed the wicker chair back against the wall, and picked up the cleaning supplies. Old snow crunched underneath my boots as I plodded toward the hearse. I placed the bucket on the hardened earth and dragged the passenger door open. The rag I was still holding slid through my fingers and fell into the bucket, settling on the filmy surface.

The car was spotless. Not a splatter of vomit remained. I checked the seams of the leather seat, but found nothing to sop off. I sniffed the air, but even that was clean. I popped my phone out of my pocket to text Blake a thank you when Cruz's car rumbled down our long driveway. He came to a stop inches from me.