Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 127476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
"I have a place," I say, running my hands down my face.
She turns her head to look at me. "You have a place?"
"St. John's Catholic Cemetery in Queens. I own a plot there."
"You do?"
"Yes," I say quietly. "I think your mother would like it. Johnny was buried there months ago, so she wouldn't be far from him."
Karissa says nothing, but she isn't arguing against it, so that counts for something.
"I'll make the arrangements for you," I say, standing up. "You shouldn't have to do it."
I start to walk out when she calls my name.
"Naz, why do you have a plot there?"
"I bought it long ago," I say hesitating near the doorway to look back at her. "It's where Maria was buried."
"But don't you—?"
"I don't need it," I say before she even has to ask that question. "I don't belong there. Not anymore. Maria's life was marked by violence… she should be able to rest in peace."
It's two weeks later when Karissa is released from the hospital.
Two weeks later when we stand in the damp grass of the quiet cemetery, in front of the shiny black casket placed over the freshly dug grave. The reality of the situation surrounds the gravesite, a stark reminder of where life led us all. Carmela lived her life in hiding, and her death feels much the same.
Isolated.
There's nobody here.
Nobody to share memories.
Nobody to say goodbye.
Nobody, that is, except me and Karissa, along with a preacher and the guys from the funeral home. In the distance, over the hill, I can see the unmarked police car, but they're not going to come closer.
They're just watching.
Watching me, because despite it all, they're still determined to bust me for something.
"Shall we, uh, get started?" the preacher asks, as the strained silence surrounding us grows thicker.
Karissa doesn't respond. She stands right beside me, wearing a plain black dress, so close her arm brushes mine. Her head is down, eyes fixed on the grass, hands clasped in front of her. She sways a bit. She shouldn't be on her feet. But she's stubborn… so damn stubborn.
She ignored me when I told her to find somewhere to sit.
Tears linger in the corner of her eyes. She just wanted someone to care, someone to show up… somebody else who wasn't me. She wanted her mother's life to matter to somebody other than her.
Sighing, I turn away from her and glance around, freezing when I see someone approaching in the distance. Surprise runs through me.
My father.
He wears his usual work clothes, khakis and a white shirt, his grungy apron still tied around his waist. He came straight from the deli, I realize, and he forgot to take it off in his rush. He's clutching a bouquet of flowers, and when he gets closer I see they're pink roses.
Pink roses.
My gaze shifts toward the adjacent gravesite. The ring is long gone, unsurprisingly, but the roses remain in place. Wilted, sure, but they're still there.
And I think I know who gave them to her.
My father keeps his head down as he walks up, grumbling to himself as he approaches. Karissa's head snaps up at the sound of his voice, her eyes widening as she stares at him.
"Sorry I'm late," he says to nobody in particular. "Time got away from me."
"Not a problem," the preacher says, taking his hand to shake it, seeming damn relieved to have somebody else show up. "We're glad you could be here."
My father nods, turning away from the man, and places the flowers on top of the casket before stepping back. He clasps his hands in front of him, refusing to meet my eyes as he stands there, waiting.
The preacher starts.
There isn't much to say.
He reads off the skewed facts of Carmela's life, making the woman a caricature none of us standing here recognize, before clearing his throat and looking at the three of us gathered, struggling for something more to say. "Do any of you have a story you'd like to share about Carmela?"
"I got one."
My father's voice draws my attention back to him. The preacher waves his direction, giving him the floor.
"I knew Carmela since she was just a little girl," he says, motioning toward his knees. "She was about this high, you know, a short little thing, and spunky. She used to come by the deli every day on her way home from school and I'd ask her how her day was, and it didn't matter how good of a day she had, she'd always tell me something bad. She was a complainer, that one. And I'd give her a cookie, you know, one of the ones we make fresh. I'd tell her no worries, tomorrow will be better. It's been a lot of years since I saw her… last time, she came by the shop, and I asked her how her day was and she said she'd just found out she was having a baby, so she wasn't gonna complain even if she could. She took a cookie and left. Never saw her again. To this day, every time we make Snickerdoodles, I think about her. Those were her favorites."
Tears stream down Karissa's cheeks, but she smiles. "She used to make them for me."
Silence overcomes the air around us again. The preacher clears his throat before moving on.
It's over as quick as it starts.
Afterward, my father approaches, taking Karissa's hands in his own. He kisses her cheeks, smiling, giving her the warm greeting she didn't get last time.
"Come by the deli sometime," he tells her. "I've got some cookies with your name on them."
"Thank you," she whispers. "I will."
He lets go of her, motioning toward me with his head. "Just leave this one at home next time."
The preacher pulls Karissa away then, and my father turns to me, meeting my eyes. He stares me down for a moment, not a stitch of apprehension.
"Pink roses," I say.
He shrugs. "They're your mother's favorite, so I figure I can't go wrong with them."
He turns, hesitating when I call out to him. "Look…"