Caffrey Flashback

Chapter 13: Let It Be

Neal's apartment. Tuesday morning. February 24, 2004.

A/N: Content warning for a funeral. If those are triggers for you, consider skipping this chapter.

Despite his intention of sleeping in, Neal woke at his normal time. Hearing his own breath as he lay in bed in the silent apartment reminded him too much of listening to Byron's final breaths. That sound haunted him every night when he tried to sleep and every morning when he woke up.

Needing to hear something else, he listened to his MP3 player as he made coffee and started to put the finishing touches on the painting on his easel. Around 10:30 June knocked on his door and asked him to join the family who had gathered for brunch.

"I'm not really..." Neal gestured toward his paint-splattered shirt and jeans, but walked to the sink to clean up.

"You're fine," June said. "The girls are still in their pajamas."

Even with the granddaughters in pajamas, brunch was a somber affair, and as the only non-family member there Neal felt awkward. Half of these people he'd met for the first time at Sunday's open house. Thirty minutes later when his phone vibrated he was so glad for an excuse to get away that he didn't pay any attention to who was calling. He stepped into an unoccupied room and said, "Hello?"

"Neal, hi, it's Angela. Are you... Is this a good time to talk?"

"Um, sure." He'd met his younger cousin as an adult for the first time a couple of days after Christmas. Since she was in her senior year of college in Seattle, they didn't exactly run into each other or have much in common beyond a love of music and friendship with their older cousin Henry. He'd heard enough stories from Henry that it felt like he knew Angela, but actually talking to her was another matter.

"Aunt Noelle asked me to call you," Angela sounded as uncomfortable as Neal felt, "about, um, the funeral."

"Why?" Neal asked. He stood at the window sill, staring at the fog outside. It shrouded the house and blocked out the bustle of the city, providing an unusual sense of isolation.

"She thought I should tell you about what happened at my father's funeral last year." No wonder Angela seemed reluctant to have this conversation. "They asked me to sing."

"Yeah?"

"I thought it was no big deal. I've been singing forever and I've performed for bigger audiences, right?"

"Right." Neal had had similar thoughts ever since June asked if he'd sing at Byron's funeral.

"Wrong. I had no idea what I was getting into. There I was at the piano, playing the entrance to one of Dad's favorite hymns. I couldn't stop thinking about him, remembering his voice and how much I'd loved singing with him, and I lost it. I kept playing, but I was crying and too choked up to sing a single note." She laughed, but sounded choked up again from the memory. "I remember thinking that Henry would never let me live it down. He's such a perfectionist when it comes to performances."

"Tell me about it," Neal agreed. "He never lets up."

"I knooow," Angela said. "He's the worst." Then she sighed. "But then he goes and does something sweet. At Dad's funeral, he was standing in the sacristy."

"The what?"

"A room off to the side, where they store the priests' robes. The entrance was a few feet from the piano. My eyes were so blurry from tears I didn't even see him there, you know? But just as I realized I couldn't sing, he walked over and took the first verse. Sang it like that had been the plan all along. I joined him for the choruses, but I honestly doubt anyone beyond the first two pews could hear me. When it was over and I stood up, I was so blinded by tears I don't think I could have made my way back to the pew where I'd been sitting. Henry led me into the sacristy, and shut the door before I bawled my eyes out on his shoulder."