Beautiful Graves(63)

Sarah feels the need to fill the silence, because she is a doctor and because she was there during his last hour.

“He didn’t feel it.” She puts the mug to her lips, letting the steam create a condensation mustache above her lip. “Any of it. He suffered from a penetration injury. The impact forced a part of his skull into his brain. He was very much out of it. Didn’t know what was happening. I know it’s little comfort, but I thought you should know.”

“So why did it take hours? The surgery?” I ask.

She looks up at me, surprised that I’m talking to her. Her eyes drop to my engagement ring, and tears fill them again. I tuck my hand under my thigh, embarrassed.

She clears her throat. “He didn’t die immediately. They tried to stop the bleeding and to assess the damage of the ruptured brain tissue.”

“So even if he survived . . .” Gemma presses a mangled tissue to her nose. Some of it is stuck to her cheeks and lips, but no one says anything.

“Yes,” Sarah says gently, reaching to touch Gemma’s knee. “The recovery would have been extremely long, and although this is not my field of expertise, I would say the damage to his brain would have been substantial. He wouldn’t have been able to lead the life he’d had before.”

“Thank you . . . for explaining all this,” I say. Because in a way, it is a little comforting. To know Dom was spared the destiny of being in a long coma.

Gemma completely breaks and takes both our hands and says, “I’m so sorry, girls. I know how hard it must be for you to sit together in the same room. But can I just say, seeing how the two of you are dealing with this complex situation just shows me why Dom was struggling to make a choice.”

Sarah and I exchange horrified looks. I’m sure she doesn’t like being talked about like she is a pair of flattering jeans either. My acceptance of Sarah has nothing to do with my love for Dom and everything to do with the fact that she, personally, didn’t know of my existence and therefore didn’t do anything bad to me.

“This is fine,” Sarah says curtly. “It doesn’t matter. We all loved Dominic.”

Eventually, Joe gets out of Dom’s room and fills his parents in about all kinds of bureaucratic stuff. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “You should call someone. I’m not letting you out of here until I know there’s someone to take care of you.”

Though I dread this phone call, I also know that it is necessary. I take my phone and lock myself in Dom’s room. A fresh wave of tears hits me at the scent of him. Of his bed, his aftershave, his laundry, his life. It seems so surreal that I’m not going to have him anymore. That his scent will fade, and his possessions will be tucked away or donated. That his body will no longer be warm and strong and vital.

I call Dad before Nora, thinking he is for sure not going to pick up. Why would he? I’ve been nothing but a shit kid to him over the past six years. But maybe parents have a sixth sense, because this time not only does he answer, but he does so on the second ring. Before I can tell myself that it’s okay to hang up. That I’ve tried.

“Everlynne,” he clips out.

At the sound of his voice, I break. With reckless abandon. I moan in pain, not even recognizing my own voice. I sound like an animal.

His tenor immediately changes. It is soft now. “Oh . . . don’t . . . don’t cry. I . . . um . . . Everlynne, please, tell me what’s going on. I hate to hear you like this.”

This, of course, only makes me cry harder. Because I’ve given up on this amazing father. Who read me stories and learned how to dance from watching YouTube videos with me, and always maintained that I was talented and beautiful and could do whatever I wanted if I put my mind to it.

“What happened? Tell me.” I hear the door to his office click shut.

“Dad, I’m so sorry. So sorry for the way I’ve behaved . . .”

I can’t seem to finish the sentence. He clears his throat, soothing me again. “I’m your father. I can be here for you, even if I don’t necessarily agree with your behavior at certain times. Now, tell me what happened so I can help you.”

But he can’t help me. No one can. I lost Dominic and no one can bring him back.

“I-I-I had a fiancé,” I hiccup.

“A fiancé?” He sounds stunned.

“Y-yes.”

“And . . . you broke up with him?” He sounds confused. Cautious. Put off.

“N-n-no.” Each word falls out of my lips like it’s a hot potato. “H-he—he—he died.”

Putting this as a statement makes me lose it all over again. As if there is anything left to lose.

“Your fiancé died?” Dad asks. I can tell he is lost and shocked.

“Yes.”

There’s a pause while he digests the information. Finally, he speaks.

“How did he die? When?”

“C-c-car accident. Yesterday. A few hours after we got engaged. I don’t know what to do.”

This is the truest thing I’ve ever said. I do not, in fact, know what to do. Not in the next ten minutes, next hour, next week. I have no idea how I’m supposed to behave right now. There is no protocol to what happens next.

There’s silence on the other side of the line. For a moment, I think maybe Dad has hung up. I don’t know if I can blame him, after everything that’s happened.