Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Her closet looks thinner than I remember it ever being. As much as she liked to get bargains, she did like to shop, and her wardrobe always reflected her frequent trips to department stores.
I grip the small handful of hangers from the closet and carry them to the bed, so I can see better.
I’ve never done this before. I’ve never picked clothes that were so important. I’m not married, so I’ve never donned a wedding dress, arguably what most women would consider the most important outfit a woman will ever wear.
Those people obviously haven’t stood before a layer of clothes, wondering if they should go dark because of the somberness of the event or go brighter because no one wants to be sad forever. As if this task isn’t stressful enough, it makes me wonder who will do this for me. If I were to die, who would sort through clothes for my burial? Who would take care of the kids?
I shake my head, shoving those thoughts away, just like I’ve done with the horrific thoughts of how hard it’s going to be to be responsible for two little boys who didn’t even recognize me a few days ago.
I know I’ll have to grab the boys something to wear to the funeral, and the idea of that hurts even more. I figured they’d have a ton of questions, but they didn’t even recognize me when I got the call and had to pick them up from school. It was frustrating at the time because the school wanted a million forms of identification that they only deemed enough when the caseworker from children’s service was called. I guess it’s a good thing they won’t let just anyone pick the kids up. The craziest thing about that situation, and the first hint that things hadn’t been right for a while, was that the boys were no longer in their private charter school but at the public school—Luca in kindergarten and Jace in first grade.
Come to think of it, Janet’s car wasn’t in the driveway either, making me think they were down to one car.
Had he lost his job? Was money so tight they had to start selling things off, including her clothes?
She never called me. She told me when I walked out that night over a year ago that I was being petty, and not to bother coming back around if I was so quick to get mad when I wasn’t getting my way. How do I remember that part but not the actual subject of the argument?
I decide to grab the royal blue dress, knowing it was always one of her favorites, and then grab the hanger with Carlen’s suit on it.
I know I’ll have to come back here eventually. I know it would be best for the boys to be in their own home, or maybe I’m wrong, and this is the last place they should be. It’s one more damn question I’ll have to ask the therapist the caseworker promised me the boys would start seeing to deal with their grief. I know I can’t afford the mortgage payment on this place, so deep down, I’m hoping to be told starting fresh is best for everyone.
At any rate, I’ll have to clean the house up before any of us can think about moving in here.
I don’t make any detours. I cleared out the dressers in the boys’ room the first time I came, although I realized many of the clothes they had didn’t fit them very well.
I keep my eyes straight ahead, laser focused on just getting out of the house. There are no answers to be found here, and the longer I stay, the more questions arise.
Guilt is thick and heavy inside of me when I step out onto the porch, shifting the clothes in my hands so I can lock the door.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up and all of this will have just been a horrible nightmare.
Chapter 3
Stormy
The funeral home is somber when I walk inside. The mood is thick in the atmosphere, but that still doesn’t stop people from chatting and gossiping in the corners.
As I look around the room, it makes me wonder who is here because they genuinely cared for Janet and Carlen, and who is here to try and get more information than the two-sentence story the local paper provided about their deaths.
I nod at people I don’t know as I walk deeper into the room, but I’m carrying a serious air of don’t fuck with me right now.
The guilt I felt for not speaking with Carlen for the last year or so and the miles between us for the last three have transitioned into anger, becoming a rage inside of me that wouldn’t take much to draw to the surface.
I lost my friend, but more tragically so, two little boys lost their parents.