The Dead Romantics (71)

Even though he couldn’t interact with the world, even though no one else could see him, even though I was the one who was supposed to be helping him . . . “You’re very thoughtful.”

“You’re hurting. It’s hard to see.”

“Am I that ugly a crier?”

“No—I mean yes, but no—I mean . . .” He pursed his lips. “I wish I could do something. Anything. Take you in my arms and hug you and tell you that things are going to hurt for a while, but it gets better.”

A knot formed in my throat. The grooves on the front door pressed into my back, I leaned so hard against it. Isn’t that what I had wanted to tell him, what felt like eons ago? “Does it? Get better?”

He nodded. “Bit by bit. I lost my parents at thirteen in a car accident, and my grandmother adopted me. This is my dad’s ring,” he said as he took off his necklace, felt the ring between his fingers. “I keep it with me so I don’t feel so alone. She told me that you don’t ever lose the sadness, but you learn to love it because it becomes a part of you, and bit by bit, it fades. And, eventually, you’ll pick yourself back up and you’ll find that you’re okay. That you’re going to be okay. And eventually, it’ll be true.”

“Your grandma sounds like my dad,” I said, and sniffed, wiping my eyes with the backs of my hands.

He curled his fingers around his ring and put it in his pocket. “I’m sorry, Florence. I know you’ve heard those words a lot today, but . . .”

“Thank you,” I replied. “You’ve been really great.” And then I couldn’t help it—I laughed. “Oh, god—I just realized. Ben and been, get it? Your name? It’s a play on—I’m sorry, you’re trying to have a serious moment and I’m . . . a mess.” I scrubbed my face with my hands, mortified.

“You’ve Ben waiting to make that joke, haven’t you?” he commented wryly.

“I’ve Ben resisting, honestly.”

He sighed, and then gave the smallest chuckle. It cracked the sides of his face, and there was a smile. I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. I bent toward him to get a better look. “What?” he asked.

“I wanted to see if you were actually smiling, or if I was hallucinating.”

“You’re so strange.”

“Absolutely. Don’t you wish you’d never let me walk out of your office?” I joked.

“Yes.” He said it so resolutely, it made me blush.

Was that your wish? The one from the Ridge? I wanted to ask, but it wouldn’t do any good. I was here to help him move on, and he was here to leave.

Ghost stories never had happy endings.

“Well, you got off lucky, then,” I replied, grabbing the tiny trash can from beside the door, and I started picking up trash the guests left behind. Plastic champagne glasses and napkins from the finger foods outside. It was like people forgot trash cans existed.

For the next twenty minutes, I walked around the funeral home in the silence, righting everything, cleaning the tables, closing the guest book.

When I rounded to the red room where Carver stood, looking down at Dad in the coffin, I paused. He was muttering quietly under his breath, and slowly reached out a hand to Dad’s, folded so neatly over his chest, and rested it there for a moment.

Quietly, I backed out of the room.

Ben leaned against the doorway, looking into the room with my dad’s coffin. He said, “I like your Dad’s style. Great tux.”

“It was his favorite,” I replied.

Carver gently closed the lid of the coffin. For the last time. Then he moved out of the red parlor room where Dad was and gathered up the cups from the end table. I lugged the trash can with me, and held it out for Carver to dump the cups into.

A stereo sat atop the table, usually reserved for some sort of somber organ music during wakes and visitations. I couldn’t remember if we had it playing today.

My brother gave a sad sort of smile as his fingers skimmed across the stereo buttons. “Remember when Dad played music while we cleaned up?”

I groaned. “He had Bruce Springsteen on repeat.”

He chuckled. “Remember that time he pulled his back out wailing on an air guitar to ‘Born to Run’?” His eyes squeezed at the edges, prickling in the only way he knew how to cry. His voice was thick as he said, “God, Florence, I wish he was here.”

“Me, too. And—I do need help. With the will thing. Mostly the crows. And your . . . cherrywood birdcage.”

He gave a mock gasp. “Oh. My. God. Is Florence Day actually asking for help?”

“Please don’t make this a big deal—”

“Al!” he called to our youngest sister, in the blue room. “Florence actually asked for our help!”

Alice poked her head out of the doorway. “Fuck that,” she replied.

“So that’s a yes?” I rebutted, and my sister stuck out her tongue and withdrew into the blue room again.

Carver bumped his shoulder against mine. “Always a yes.” Then Mom called him from the third parlor to help her move some vases, and he scrubbed me on the head as he went. I smoothed down my hair again, muttering to myself.

“Question,” Ben said, coming back to me as I finished cleaning the table with the stereo. “Did Lee get anything right?”