ONE

September 3rd

A pair of scuffed black loafers creak across the wooden floor and slow to a stop in front of me. Sturdy, practical, and straight out of the Librarians “R” Us catalogue. I know without looking up that they belong to one of the bazillion old ladies who’ve descended on my house today — all claiming to be old friends of my Aunt Su’s.

“Are you all right, dear?” a soft, grey voice asks from above. A sudden image of afternoon tea, lace doilies, and raspberry scones fills my head. I nod and keep my eyes on the floor. The voice is nice enough, but I know if I say a word, I’ll start to cry. And once I start, I might never be able to stop again.

Ever.

“We’re all so sorry about your aunt. Such a shock.”

My hands instinctively curl into fists at my sides. If one more person tells me how sorry they are, I’m going to have to start throwing some punches. A fistfight at a funeral reception — Aunt Su would have loved that. Hockey was the only thing she ever watched on her fuzzy old tv, and I happen to know she only enjoyed it for the blood. I glance sideways at the small, pomegranate-shaped jar perched on the mantle. The sight of it sends my stomach plunging into my socks.

After a moment, the loafers give up and retreat back to the herd of sensible shoes that are whispering and shuffling around the dining room table. My shoulders sag with relief as I watch them go. I don’t want to share stories and tears with any of Aunt Su’s childhood friends. I don’t want them telling me how sorry they are and hugging me to their thick, perfumy chests. I don’t want any of these strangers to see how broken I am inside. All I want is for this day to be over so I can have my house back and grieve alone.

A trickle of sweat dribbles a path down my back. With all these extra bodies crowded into our house, the air is unbearably hot and stuffy. I fan myself with my hands as the old ladies’ hushed words blow across my ears like a slow breeze.

“… so sudden … accidental overdose … how much do you think … such a strange little niece …”

I squeeze my eyes shut and will away the sudden rush of tears that’s threatening to burst out and tear me to pieces. When I open them again, there’s another pair of shoes parked in front of me. I know right away these shoes won’t be so easy to get rid of. Black patent leather, sharp three-inch heels, and one pointy toe tapping the floor with obvious impatience.

My mother.

“Lily?”

I keep my eyes on the floor and pretend not to hear. Lily. I still don’t know what possessed my parents to name me after a flower. A girl named Lily should be sweet and delicate with a voice that rings like a bell — dontcha think? Pretty much the opposite of me. I have nothing even remotely delicate going on (unless you count my puny height, which my mother insists on calling “petite”) and my voice is more of a gong than a bell. I know it’s technically wrong, but I like to think of myself as an oxymoron.

And no, that’s not a brand of zit cream.

“You haven’t eaten a thing today, Lily. You’ll make yourself sick if you’re not careful.”

“I’m not hungry,” I manage to say without imploding.

“Honey, you’re not the only one hurting here, you know. We miss her too.”

No you don’t. Not like I do.

A soggy-looking tuna fish sandwich suddenly appears in front of my face.

“I brought this for you. Eat. It’ll help.”

My eyes flick up to Mom for a second. Her forehead is scrunched up like an accordion and her blue eyes are all dark and squinty. She actually looks worried.

“Eat,” she says again, pushing the sandwich so close it almost squishes my nose.

Brilliant, Mom — like some goopy canned fish and day-old bread will solve all my problems. I know my mother means well, but whatever maternal instincts allowed her to give birth to me have long since gone on a permanent leave of absence. Shoving some smelly fish into my face is the best she can muster up in the way of comfort. I shouldn’t be surprised; when I was little, instead of kissing my cuts and bruises like the other mothers did, my mom used to tell me to toughen up and shake off the pain. Epic mom-fail, right?

But even though she’s clueless and sad, you kinda have to love her for trying. Mom is an accountant, but I honestly believe she missed her true calling by not pursuing a career in the military — she would have made an A1 army officer. Sometimes I call her General MacArthur in my head.

“Eat,” she commands in that certain tone that tells me I’m out of options.

“Okay, fine.” I accept the sandwich and take a small bite, because I know she’ll never leave me alone if I don’t. For every second I chew, the black pointy toe taps a bit slower. After another bite of the sandwich, I hear a loud sigh, and then my mother’s shoes turn and clack away towards the kitchen. As soon as they’re out of sight, I drop the sandwich onto the empty couch cushion beside me, close my eyes, and wish for the millionth time that Aunt Su was here to get me through this heinous day.

I mean, how messed up is that? I’m actually wishing for my dead aunt to come and help me get through her own funeral reception. But she’s truly the only person who could do it. The only person who’s ever been able to make me feel better on the absolute worst days. And today definitely is a gold-medal contender for the worst of the absolute worst!

When I open my eyes again, I see that a couple of familiar size thirteen runners have planted themselves in front of me. In Dad’s hurry to get to the funeral on time, his left pant leg’s been tucked deeply into his fashion-deviant white gym sock.

Mom must have been supremely distracted not to have noticed that unforgiveable breach of funerary dress code. For about the millionth time, I wonder how my parents ended up marrying each other. Seriously, the only thing those two have in common is me. It’s probably a good thing they divorced before I was old enough to talk. Just the thought of them living in the same house together makes me want to slam my head against a brick wall. At least they’re decent to each other at times like this when they’re forced to co-parent.

“I can tell your mother’s worried about you,” Dad says. “She only pushes food into your mouth when she’s freaking out.”

I swallow the hard lump that’s rising in my throat and battle to keep my voice from leaking into a whine.

“Whatever, Dad.”

“But if you don’t get that sandwich off the couch PDQ, I’m going to start worrying too. She’ll make you do push-ups if there’s a stain.”

Tragically, he isn’t joking. I pick the sandwich up and hand it to him.

“Here. I’m not hungry.”

Dad inhales the remains of my sandwich and plops himself down on the couch beside me. I can tell he’s distracted because he doesn’t even stop to pull the trusty little bottle of Tabasco sauce out of his pocket. He leans forward, elbows on his lap as his blue eyes scramble to catch mine. “Come on, Sweetness — it’s going to be okay.”

I shake my head hard, refusing to look at him. “No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it will. You’ll see. The sun will shine again. Just give it time.”

I feel his strong arm wrap around my shoulders and pull me into a tight hug. “We’ll get through this together, Lil.”

Yeah, this sorry little pep talk is the best my dad’s going to be able to do. And as you’ve probably already guessed, it isn’t nearly enough to help. I mean, for Pete’s sake — the only person on the planet who’s ever loved me has been reduced to a tropical fruit– shaped jarful of ashes and he’s talking about sunshine?

Okay, before you get the wrong idea, yeah, I know my parents love me — but they kind of have to love me because they’re my parents. It’s not like they ever had much of a choice. And honestly, I don’t always get the impression that they like me all that much. Not that I blame them, mind you. I can admit it: I’m not always the easiest kid in the world to like. But Aunt Su was different. She loved me and liked me and knew me and heard me and got me. If you’re ever lucky enough to have someone like that in your life, never let them go. Trust me on this one. Chances are you won’t ever find a person like that again.

“So any idea who invited the sewing circle?” Dad asks, nodding toward the convention of black-clad denture models still hovering in the dining room.

“I think they’re old friends of Aunt Su’s.”

Dad snorts. “They don’t exactly look like the type of people Su would choose to hang out with.”

I shrug. What can I say? He’s right. Aunt Su was my mother’s much, much older half-sister. She was twenty-four years old and already graduated from university when Mom was born — they’d never even lived in the same house. But even though Aunt Su was technically old enough to be my grandmother, she was one of those adults who never really grew up. She lived alone in that shambly old cabin by the lake, where she wrote all day and churned out trashy romance novels by the dozens. I’ve always wanted to read one, but Mom says they’re pretty racy and won’t let me until I’m sixteen (which is only five months away, so I don’t know what the big deal is). Aunt Su was the kind of person old people like to call “eccentric.” Unpredictable, unreadable, and, well, wingdingish. She dressed exclusively in purple and green (when she bothered getting dressed at all), only dated men who were half her age, drove a moped around town from spring to fall, and smoked pot daily to help battle writer’s block. And she would drop everything and come running any time I needed her. She loved me like a best friend, sister, mother, and aunt all rolled into one big hug that never ended. She was the world to me. Since she died, the days have lost their shape. But the nights are so much worse.

Leaning forward, I peer out the living room window into the blackening sky. There isn’t going to be a moon tonight. I know this for a fact.

Releasing my shoulder, Dad lets out a tired sigh and tilts his head back to rest on the couch pillows. His hairy hands come together to cover his face like a small, dark tent. “God, I don’t know why funerals always wipe me out. Tonight of all nights, I could really use a good sleep. When do you think this crowd is going to take the hint and leave already? I want to go home.”

Sleep.

Just the thought of it brings a gross wave of panic crashing through my stomach. Counting the red seconds flicker by one at a time as the hours stretch in front of me like kilometres of empty grey highway.

“I don’t know, Dad. Hopefully they’ll leave soon.”

“How’ve you been sleeping lately, Sweetness?”

“Um, fine,” I lie. “About three or four hours a night.”

“Okay, that’s good,” Dad replies. He doesn’t even look up. That’s because three or four hours of sleep sounds halfway human, which is pretty much all he wants to hear. If adults think everything is going okay, they leave you alone. All most parents want are kids that are semi-normal.

Not nocturnal mutants like me.

I stare back up at the pomegranate jar and let out a long, slow breath.

Aunt Su is gone forever.

Merde!

How the hell am I ever going to get through the nights without her?