If You Only Knew(122)

“Oh, Rach!”

“No, it’s good. He was really... It’s good.”

I seem to be crying. Rachel fishes a tissue out of her clutch for me—always prepared, that’s her motto. I blot my eyes. Here I wanted nothing more than for Adam to crawl away to a cold and slimy hole, but all of a sudden, I feel so bad for him. He glances over and meets my eyes, then gives a sad smile. “I’m sorry, Rachel,” I whisper.

“Yeah. Me, too. But I feel...lighter.”

“I’m glad, too. Sorry and glad.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” She smiles, and she looks so peaceful and so sad at the same time. “I’ll need you a lot the next few months.”

“You’ve got me.”

Rachel gives me a quick hug, then obeys the photographer, who’s trying to herd the bridesmaids together.

“Jenny!” Mom calls. “Let’s go in, honey. I want a good seat.”

Light floods in through the tall, clear windows of the Congregational church. Mom and I sit near the front. I wonder if this is a preview of how things will be—me as Mom’s escort for the various funerals and weddings and fund-raisers, the years passing by.

But before too much longer, there will be another one of us... My foster child. It won’t be happening too fast, since I don’t have a permanent residence just yet, but the social worker said she didn’t foresee a problem. My background check cleared, and I’ve already been looking at cases and pictures online of kids who need a home, imagining each one as mine.

“You look very pretty,” Mom says. “Yellow usually makes you look like you need a liver transplant, but not today.” That’s my mama. Unable to give a compliment without somehow insulting me, too. She herself is in her “don’t look at me” uniform—black pants, white man’s dress shirt.

“I love you, Mom,” I tell her with a smooch on the cheek.

Jared goes up to the altar with his best man. His father stands there in his minister’s robes, smiling. The music starts and my nieces earn a universal sigh of rapture as they walk down the aisle, Grace solemnly and methodically scattering her rose petals, Charlotte following too closely behind her, Rose hamming it up by tossing handfuls of petals into the air. They join Adam at the front, and he kisses them, smiles and wipes his eyes.

He’s a good dad. Since forgiveness seems to be the order of the day, I find myself forgiving him, too. He’ll suffer enough without me adding to it. The best thing I can do for Rachel and my nieces is be friendly. And so I shall. I’m incredibly mature, it seems.

The bridesmaids file in, smiling. My sister is the prettiest, of course.

And then the doors open, and in comes Kimber, holding her mother’s hand.

Mrs. Brewster’s mouth falls open. Not in shock and joy, either.

But everyone else, it seems, heartily approves.

Kimber’s dress is a sleeveless minidress now. Bateau neckline, the crystal-beaded belt accentuating her voluptuous curves, the skirt of the dress poofing out with the same light ebullience that radiates from the bride. Her tattoos are on full display, and as she walks down the aisle, the scoop back of the dress shows off her angel wings. From the front, she looks almost demure; from the back, like a sex kitten. The dress is bright and fun and fresh, just like the bride herself, and sure enough, I glance at Jared and, yep, he’s a weeper, God bless him. He looks absolutely gobsmacked by love.

Kimber is beaming. Almost floating.

Rachel turns to look at me and gives me the thumbs-up.

“Now that’s a dress,” my mother says.

* * *

When the ceremony is over and I’ve gone through the reception line and been thanked by Jared and Kimber and complimented by dozens and glared at by Mrs. Brewster, I slip off to my car. “Where are you going?” Mom asks.

“I’ll catch up later. I have an errand to do,” I say. “Save me a seat.”

I have to pay a visit to someone.

My father is buried not too far from a stand of pines, on a little knoll in the cemetery. My heels sink into the rain-softened grass, and the sharp, rich smell of pine fills the air.

I forgot how beautiful it is here. Rachel has planted purple-and-pink petunias on Dad’s grave, their colors bold and cheerful.

I put my hand on the warm granite of his gravestone. “Hi, Daddy,” I say.

The wind brings the smell of smoke and meat; someone not too far away is having a cookout. Dad, too, loved to grill.

I’m glad my father didn’t suffer. But oh, how I wish I could’ve said goodbye.

“Thank you for everything,” I whisper now.

Then I stand up, my knees creaking a little. I look over toward the grave of Leo’s wife and unborn baby, but I won’t go there. It’s not my place.

But I will go see her mother. Leo said he was the only one left, and that’s just too damn sad. It won’t matter if she knows me; I’ll at least be there. I’ll tell her I’m her son’s friend, and that will be enough.

The nursing home is just on the other side of the cemetery, a two-minute walk. The sky is so blue today.

Inside the air is heavy and stale, despite the flower arrangement on the coffee table. The receptionist, a different one from the day I trailed Leo, is on the phone. She waves me in. Room 227 was Mrs. Walker’s room, as I recall.