In Sight of Stars(25)

We sit in silence for a minute, until she says, “Hey, you’ve got wood, Klee. Get it?”

“I get it,” I say, feeling my ears redden, but she leans in and says, “No, I mean it. You’ve got Wood. As in me. Sarah Wood. Klee has Wood. See?”

She takes my hand and sits back, satisfied. I breathe deeply, wanting to keep it from sinking in. I need to pace myself. Be wary. Be steady. Because, as much as I want to believe her—to trust anything up here in Northhollow—by the time we reach the top of the long gravel driveway to her house, a strange distance has wedged its way between us, and she tells me to drop her there.

No inviting me in.

No plans for hanging out again.

“Here is good. Thanks. Good night, Alden,” is all she says, then she heads down through the darkness without another word.

Day 5—Morning

“I was thinking we might talk about your parents today. Your mother, and your father.”

Dr. Alvarez looks down, thumbs through the papers on her clipboard. I close my eyes and think about Sarah. More and more things have been coming back to me. That day in the city. The train ride. The piece of tape I found wrapped around my portfolio handle the Monday after.

KLEE HAS WOOD, in her scrawled handwriting, like a salve for any doubt I was feeling.

And, the way she smiled at me when I finally noticed it was there.

“I know it’s difficult, Klee,” Dr. Alvarez says, “but I think it’s important that you try.”

I swallow and nod. I like Dr. Alvarez a lot, but I wish she wouldn’t keep bringing up my mother. She doesn’t know her the way I do. If she did, she’d understand. Talking about my mother isn’t going to help me. My mother is the main reason I’m in here.

“I get that you may be angry with her, but she’s genuinely worried about you. She calls often, to check in. Even though she understands there isn’t much I’m able to tell her. Still, I can see how badly she wants to help. She’s on board with doing anything that might.”

“A little late for that,” I say, trying to stay focused on Daubigny’s Garden, but the room is starting to reel again.

“Klee?”

“Yeah?”

“You are my patient. This needs to be very clear. Your mother and I discussed nothing of substance. She just wanted to check in on you. If there is something I should know, please, tell me. And know anything and everything you say in here is confidential.”

*

“… You’d think … confidential … are they going to sue…?”

My mother’s friend Annette is whispering to her a little too loudly in the corner, while the priest chants up front and sprinkles holy water and waves incense over my father’s mahogany casket. My mother responds, but her voice mixes with the priest’s and the organ music, so I can only make out every third word.

“Nothing … yes … insurance…”

I don’t care. It’s not like I want to know.

The priest raises his arms, his white sleeves trailing beneath like angel wings. “Let us sing now the Song of Farewell.”

We’ve been standing in the back since we got here. My mother refused to sit. I was happy enough to be back here, too, out of the line of all those prying eyes. The looks of pity, of horror. As if to ask, “How are you all making it through…?”

The wake was brutal, if strangely surreal. I felt disconnected, like I had walked in on someone else’s nightmare. At least there wasn’t an open casket. They say it can help to see the finality of it all, but the finality was pretty clear last week when I opened the shower door. And, when you’ve done what my father did, there’s no way to fix up the body for viewing.

“… shall dwell in the land of the living…” the priest sings.

“… do with the letters?” Annette whispers.

My mother nudges her friend and lowers her voice even more. “… rid of them.”

“Jesus … kidding?… Whatever you need from me, I’m here for you, Marielle.”

The priest and organ finish abruptly allowing that last part of Annette’s stage-whispered answer to break through the sudden silence remarkably loud, intact, and clear. Causing Aunt Maggie to turn from the front row and glare. But she should know better. My father wouldn’t care. He hated religion. He hated the church. He’d think this whole ceremony was a bogus waste of money just for show. I’m surprised my mother agreed to it. Now, I think both of us just want to be done with it and out of here.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the priest says, crossing himself.

“… mustn’t ever find out…” my mother says.

*

I press the heel of my hand to my forehead, and Dr. Alvarez watches me, concerned. The headache that’s hung consistently in the background spreads sharply from my sinuses to my eyeballs.

“She’s a fucking Ice Queen,” I say. “An expert at seeming concerned.”

“Tell me what you mean.”

My eyes well with tears. I’m angry. Furious. Because now I know what that stupid conversation must have been about. I saw the letters. I wish I hadn’t, but I did. I found out. And this is what I’m sure of: The days of my mother worrying about anyone else, helping anyone but herself, are gone. I grab the water bottle Dr. Alvarez left for me and drink it down.