A Deep and Dark December(93)
“It’ll be all right, chicken.” Aunt Cerie bumped Erin’s shoulder, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’ll come around. If it’s any consolation, he’s pining away for you. When he saw you he thought—”
Erin held up a hand. “I don’t want to know his thoughts. Please don’t eavesdrop on him. Graham’s off limits.”
“He knows I’m listening. He’s worried about you.”
“What part off he’s off limits do you not understand?”
Cerie fluttered a hand. “Fine. Fine. Have it your way. But I think you should give the man another chance.”
“What is or isn’t happening between Graham and me is none of your business.”
The service ended and everyone stood. Erin watched as Graham went to the front corner of his father’s casket and hefted it up with the other pallbearers. They slowly made their way down the aisle while the church organ moaned. Graham stared straight ahead, his back rigid. As he passed, Erin couldn’t resist reaching out and brushing his hand, a silent show of support. To her surprise he grabbed her fingers, giving them the briefest squeeze, before dropping them and moving out into the gray morning.
Erin held her breath, barely managing to stifle a sob. She knew she’d done the right thing for both of them, but the right thing was never the easiest. Unable to tear her gaze from his retreating back, she slipped out after the family and stood to the side at the top of the church steps as the rest of the mourners filed out past her.
Cerie slipped her hand into Erin’s and hugged her arm. “He’s holding up well. Maybe better than you.”
“I didn’t think it would be so hard to see him and not be with him.”
“He’s carrying a burden bigger and heavier than his father’s casket.”
“I wish I knew how to help him.”
“Give him some time. He’ll come around.”
“I hope you’re right.”
*
Graham set Ham’s casket on the metal rails at the back of the hearse and helped slide it in. He’d gone through all the motions of being a good son, doing everything expected of him, and now there was just one more thing to do—lay Ham to an easier rest than he deserved.
He helped his mother into his car and then climbed in on the driver’s side. He’d spent the week making funeral arrangements and making sure she was properly cared for by hiring a nurse and moving into the house with her. Tomorrow he’d start back to work as sheriff of San Rey. He was surprised at how much he looked forward to it. Maybe the day-to-day of police work would distract him from thoughts of Erin, thoughts he’d finally gotten a handle on until he’d seen her in the church.
He’d done a pretty good job of putting up a front and focusing on what needed to be done to get through this day. He saw her and his head got so crowded with everything they’d been and done together, he could hardly breathe. And then she’d touched him and he had to focus hard on getting out the door and down the stairs, each step away from her a pounding reminder of how much he’d let her down.
“That was a lovely service,” his mother said. “Who was it for?”
Her question caught him off guard. Again. This would be the third time he’d have to tell her that her husband was dead. When they’d arrived at the church and she saw the portrait of Ham beside his casket, she’d broken down, beginning the grieving process as though it was the first time. He could shatter her world all over again now or wait until they got to the gravesite when she’d see the temporary headstone and the horrific shock would grip her anew once more.
So he lied and told her that the funeral was for an old church friend of hers who’d died several years ago.
“Oh, no,” she gasped. “Her poor family. Did we send flowers?”
“Yes, Ma.”
“Such a shame. I’m sure going to miss her blueberry pie.”
Every day seemed to bring new punctures in her memory, so it was strange the things that would stick—like blueberry pie. Her memories spun on a roulette wheel with no way of knowing on what time of her life the ball would stop. His mother would be caught in the cycle of forgetting Ham’s death, then mourning her husband all over again for the rest of her life. He didn’t know how many more times he could watch her go through it. She’d truly loved her husband. They’d had a good marriage. Or so everyone had assumed.
And then for some reason Ham had taken up with Deidre and everything had gone to shit. He’d had some time to think through the whys of what Ham had done. Spending so much time with his mother, he began to see how much her illness must have changed their relationship. Still, how had things gotten to where Ham had stepped outside their marriage? That alone was so unlike Ham, almost more than the killing.
He glanced at his mother who had taken out the knitting she always carried with her and was now happily working her yarn as though she wasn’t on her way to bury her husband. Maybe she was better off than the rest of them. Her world stayed calm until reality intruded and she’d have to face all the things her mind had hidden from her with no choice but to go through tragedies over and over again.
Stuck. She was stuck within the prison of her own mind, never moving forward, never fully present. Hadn’t Erin accused him of the same thing, of being stuck in a cycle of guilt and obligation that had no end? He couldn’t make amends for what Ham had done. He knew that. He did. Although he was having a hard time working through his role in what had happened, he was beginning to learn how to live with it and beat back all the could have’s and should have’s of that night.