Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 121054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
* * * *
The purpose of the funeral home visit was two-fold. Neil and his siblings were all meeting the funeral director together to go over the plans their mother had left behind regarding her burial wishes, and Neil, Fiona, Runólf, and Geir would be able to see their mother one last time.
We stood beneath the awning over the funeral home doors. Neil adjusted his scarf around the collar of his black wool coat. He’d been fidgety since we’d left the house. I wondered if that had to do with the Valium and THC still muddling his head. More likely, it was a reaction to facing the unknown. Neil hated doing that.
“Are you ready?” I prompted him, not out of impatience, but cold. It was freezing, even though I’d opted for slacks instead of a skirt.
He nodded, his breath showing in the winter air. “I think so. Best to get this over with, I suppose.”
Inside, Neil’s brothers, Runólf and Geir, stood talking near a fireplace. Their wives sat with Fiona, consoling her.
“Neil,” Geir said with his characteristic gruffness somewhat subdued. Neil didn’t bother to take his coat off before enveloping his brother in a long hug.
“Have you seen her?” Neil asked them both when he stepped back.
Runólf nodded and gestured toward a set of double doors. “Shall I go with you?”
“No, no.” Neil waved his brother off, as though it were far too much to ask of him. Then, he turned to me. “Sophie, would you mind?”
I am not a fan of dead bodies. The thought that we were in a building with one, probably more than one, utterly creeped me out. But he was my fiancé, and I loved him, and he needed me.
The undertaker opened the doors for us, and we stepped into a neat, softly lit chapel. The casket was a shock; it was an honest to god coffin, nothing like the refrigerator shaped ones in the states. Neil’s mother lay in gentle repose, but she didn’t have the waxy pallor of an embalmed body. She looked…dead. Rose was dead. It was hard to believe it, even seeing her there.
A shuddering sound escaped Neil, and I took his hand. I laced our fingers together and squeezed, but I waited for him to speak.
He gave me a very brave, very grim, closed-lipped smile and squeezed back before he let go. He stepped up closer to the casket and reached out to lay his hand over his mother’s folded ones. He pulled back in surprise. With a soft, embarrassed laugh, he looked up at me and said, “She’s so cold.”
I struggled not to cry for him. I couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to lose a parent. Granted, I only had the one, but Neil had been through the loss of his father years earlier. It seemed unfair that people had to do this more than once.
Tears shone in Neil’s eyes, and a muscle in his jaw ticked. “After Emma’s wedding, I promised Mum that we would come visit soon. I wish we would have.”
“I’m so sorry, baby.” I put my arm around his waist, and he turned to me for a hug. There were times when I leaned on him— most of the time, actually—but every now and again, he needed me. I was grateful for each of those moments, because he didn’t display emotional vulnerability to many people.
“I would give anything to hear her call me little bird, just once more.” He wept into my hair.
I hugged him tightly, one arm around his waist, one across his shoulder blades. I hadn’t known Rose well, but I grieved for her, because Neil loved her. And because she was the woman who birthed and nurtured and raised Neil, shaping who he was today. I owed her my entire heart.
He raised his head and stepped back, sniffing through his tears. It somewhat ruined the look of composure he tried to affect. He reached into his coat for a handkerchief and held the square of red fabric bunched in his hands. “You know…” he began, his speech thick with tears, “I’d really rather go back to being numb.”
Since there was nothing I could fix, I put my arm through his and led him from the chapel.
CHAPTER THREE
Rose Elwood’s funeral was dignified and respectful, which made sense because she’d planned the whole thing. After the private family viewing, Rose had been cremated, and her remains sealed in a tasteful bronze jar. A high mass at St. Paul’s Knightsbridge, packed to the brim with mourners, was followed by a dignified reception at Fiona’s townhouse in Kensington. Rose had spent her last days there, being cared for by her daughter.
The house was beautiful, and perhaps a little bigger than our townhouse. The doorways were topped by classical friezes of slender maidens in togas, the floors carpeted in area rugs that probably cost more than a mid-sized sedan. I looked into the parlor, where Fiona sat on a mauve satin chair, accepting the condolences of guests.