In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(96)
It’s been almost a week since my father’s spirit left this earth, and I have yet to cry. I’m not sure I believe in spirits anyway. I didn’t think my old man did, but for all of his practicality, the man insisted on a grave. The service was basic—the plan the least expensive I’m sure, but he wanted there to be a place where my mother and sisters could go. Somehow, he knew they would need it. Whether his spirit is there or not doesn’t matter, I guess—it’s about what they believe and need.
He’s been in the ground for twenty-four hours, and I’ve been under this tree—yards away from the fresh dirt and simple marking stone—without sleep for twenty. I left only to take Murphy home. She has been by my side through it all, running errands, making calls, placing announcements in the newspaper, graciously accepting food and help from neighbors I don’t know. I could see the worry in her eyes when I took her back to her home this morning—I haven’t cried. I told her I’m just being strong for my family, that I would let myself feel whatever I needed to when I knew they would be okay.
That time has come.
It’s harder than you think.
My emotions are so mixed when it comes to this man who gave me life. Everything more confused now that I’m starting to understand his twisted logic, and the fact that his ideas are starting to make sense scares me. I still don’t entirely believe he was right, but I’m beginning to see that his way wasn’t meant to be cruel.
I talked about the man a lot with my mom and Houston while he was with us during the week—he’d seen me on the other side of many of my memories, the rebellious and jilted teen who didn’t think his father gave a damn. My mom’s perspective, though—it was a little eye-opening. My father lived a life of selfless decisions, and they weren’t the flashy kind like when wealthy families donate money to institutions or fund scholarships or build a house for the homeless. They were understated—cloaked in a hard exterior easily mistaken for self-righteousness. He gave up everything to make sure she had it all—family, a home, security. He sat up worrying that we were all going to be okay…that I was going to be okay. That revelation, that he worried about me at all, is something I’m still trying to swallow.
My grandfather scarred the man who would become my father with the worst kind of mental poison. He led him to believe that following his heart would kill everything else that was good in his life, that he could only have one dream—a career he loved or a family that was cared for and safe. My father chose the latter—all the way to this very spot on the outskirts of town near a beautiful garden and the Oklahoma state route, a place my mom could easily drive to when she needed to talk.
She’s been sitting there next to his grave ever since he went in. And seeing that—the way she runs her hands along the cold concrete carving of his name, breaks me slowly. The tear is a surprise. I don’t touch it. I don’t pretend it isn’t there, and I let it fall to my lips where I taste its saltiness.
“It isn’t fair,” I whisper, my eyes frozen open on my mother’s form, my lips parted with breath that comes with great labor. The bricks on my chest are invisible, but they are heavy. I want to scream those words—that none of this is fair, what was stolen from him, the relationship I missed out on, the role I was forced to have to take in the end—but my mom can’t handle hearing them. She has her own words in her own head.
My phone buzzes, and I slip it to my leg, expecting to see Houston or one of my sister’s names. When I see the familiar area code from Nashville, I pull in my brow and let the phone ring again. I’m not sure why Noah Jacobs is calling me today, and I’m not sure if I’m in the mood to talk to him. I glance up and watch my mom hold her fingertips to her mouth then press them to the ground, and my eyes sting again. He was her life—even if it wasn’t the kind of life I wished it was. He lived for her.
I answer and think of Murphy.
“Let me guess…you want a second chance to see if my tip was right?” I say, not bothering with hellos. I’m too tired for them. I smile, though, thinking of how good and amazing she is, and the unnatural movement hurts my mouth.
“Your girl never called, Coffield. I was starting to think you were toying with me after all,” he says. I sit up, pulling my legs in and covering my ear from the faint sound of the highway traffic.
“You went to Paul’s,” I say.
“I did,” he confirms.
Why hasn’t she told me? That was a week ago, and she hasn’t said a word.
“I left it in her court, just so you know. You were right about that one; she has it. And the fact that you’re just giving her to me means you know it too and believe in her. That’s why I’m calling, because I thought you should know—I’m in, if she’s willing…in case you want to nudge,” he says.
“She does have it,” I agree, a real smile casts lightly over my face for the first time in days. It hurts a little less, and I think it’s because of her. Why hasn’t she told me though? Why is she pretending? What is she afraid of? My mind races to put puzzle pieces together, to understand why my girl would give up on her dream. I know she wants it—I saw it in her eyes that night on my parents’ porch after she played at Paul’s. She loves this life, this potential life. She’s meant for it.
“Things didn’t work out with John I’m guessing,” Noah leads. I figured he would do his research.