Chapter 8 - The Dress Still Smelled Like Lilies
I locked the apartment door behind me and stood there with my back against it for a long time.
The rideshare taillights had already gone past the parking lot by the time I flipped the deadbolt. My place was dark except for the microwave clock glowing green in the kitchen. It smelled like old coffee and laundry I hadn't folded that morning. I hadn't even left a light on when I left for the funeral. I hadn't thought I'd come back alone.
I slipped my shoes off by the mat and walked slowly down the short hall. My arms ached where their hands had been. Not bruised, just sore from being held up. I could still feel the pressure when I moved.
In the bedroom I turned on the small lamp by my bed and laid everything out.
First the dress. I peeled it off carefully, like it mattered how I handled it. The black short-sleeve dress was damp under the arms and wrinkled across the front where the suit jackets had pressed in. I shook it out and hung it on a padded hanger instead of dropping it in the hamper. I wasn't ready to wash it. I hooked it on the closet door where I could see it. It looked plain under that yellow light. Just a dress. The one I'd worn to sit in the back row.
Then my bag. I pulled out the folded program from the funeral. The edges were soft now from my hands. The paper had that thick, expensive feel. I smoothed it flat on my nightstand and set my phone on top of it so it wouldn't curl back up.
Then the phone itself. I sat on the edge of the bed and opened my videos.
My hands were shaking a little. The thumbnail showed the blue glow of the screen. I pressed play with the sound low and watched the few seconds I'd managed to get before one of the men shifted and blocked me. It was shaky. You could see the black border of the memorial screen and part of his suit. You couldn't hear much. Just room noise. But I had it. The time stamp was there. That evening.
I backed it up to my cloud drive and then emailed the file to myself. I watched the little progress bar fill twice to make sure it went through.
After that I just sat there.
I thought about the last time he'd come by this apartment. It was two months ago, late on a Saturday. He hadn't called first. He'd just texted from the parking lot that he was downstairs for five minutes. He'd brought groceries in paper bags because he said my fridge was always empty. Cereal, milk, fruit I didn't ask for. He carried them up himself even though I told him I'd come down. He didn't stay long. He stood in my kitchen and checked that the lock on my window worked. That was what I kept coming back to. How ordinary it was. No speech. Just him making sure I had food and the window latched right before he left for a dinner downtown.
The support had always been like that. Quiet. A check for textbooks when I started classes. Rent help that first winter when my hours got cut. Nothing with paperwork spread out. Nothing he made a show of. Just deposits and short visits.
I pulled the lawyer's contact card from my jacket pocket and set it next to the program. The card was still bent from where I'd been holding it in my fist in the car.
I wasn't going to wait for them to decide if I got to know anything. That was the thought that settled while I looked at the dress and the program and the video. If his video was part of something official, there had to be a reading. There had to be a record. I could ask for that myself.
I picked up my phone and searched for the funeral home number. The service coordinator's name was on the back of the program.
It rang three times before a man answered. Overnight desk, tired voice. I gave my name and the date of the service and said I was calling about the private security detail inside the room.
I kept my voice steady. I asked who had authorized the escort.
He put me on hold. I listened to soft piano music and stared at the dress hanging on the closet door. My breathing slowed down while I waited. I counted the hangers to keep from hanging up.
When he came back he was careful with his words. He said the funeral home didn't employ those men directly. He said the detail had been requested and paid for separately by a private client connected to the family.
I asked if he could give me the name on that request.
Another pause. Papers moving. Then he said it. The older woman. Brown hair pulled back. The one who'd spoken to them first.
I thanked him and ended the call before he could hear my voice change.
May you like
I wrote her name and the date and the words private client paid detail on the back of the program in pen, under the service time. Then I set the pen down.
I wasn't going back to ask permission to grieve.
