Hallowed

“Is this you?” I tip my head toward the window.

She smiles this odd, hurt twist of her lips. “Yep. I know it’s a silly human perspective, but I can’t help it.”

“I don’t want to let her go.” It’s one of those sentences I know I will hear echoing around in my head forever, along with the sound of my own ragged, broken voice.

“I know, kid,” Billy says with her own bit of a rasp. “But you’re not really holding her now. You know that’s not her anymore.”

After the initial quiet the phone starts ringing every few minutes, and then the doorbell, and people start pouring in. At first I feel compelled to greet them, like it’s my duty as the only member of my family who actually stuck around for this, as Mom’s child, to let them in and thank them personally for their abundance of sympathy and food. They should warn you about the food. When this kind of thing happens, when someone you love dies, people bring food. So here’s the contents of the Gardner refrigerator: one giant lasagna, three separate and equally disgusting macaroni salads, two fruit salads, one cherry pie, two apple pies and an apple crisp, one bucket of cold fried chicken, one mystery casserole, one spinach-cranberry-and-walnut salad that comes with an unopened bottle of blue cheese dressing, and a meat loaf. The shelves of our poor refrigerator sag under the weight of it all.

Here’s another thing they don’t tell you beforehand: people will bring enough food to feed an orphanage in China, but you won’t be hungry.

It starts to feel like every person who shows up is chipping away a piece of me when they say, “I’m so sorry, Clara. If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to call.”

“She’s suddenly very supportive, isn’t she?” mutters Billy after Julia — yep, that angel-blood who kept asking all the biting questions at the last congregational meeting — leaves one of those macaroni salads and her deepest condolences.

“Yeah, I was tempted to tell her that Samjeeza’s hiding out there in the woods.” Billy’s dark eyes widen. “Is he?”

I shake my head. “No. When Dad banishes someone, I think they stay banished. I just wanted to freak her out a bit.”

“Right. Well, you should have told her. Then we could have seen just how fast she can fly.”

We smile together. It’s the closest we can come at the moment to joking around. The ache is still here inside me, like an open, raging hole in the middle of my chest. I catch myself touching that spot, right in the center of my sternum, like one of these times I’ll actually be able to put my fist in there.

Billy looks at me. “Why don’t you go upstairs? You don’t have to be here for these people. I’ll take care of it.”

“Okay.” Except that I can’t think what I’m going to do with myself upstairs.

When I get to my room I find Christian sitting on the eaves. This might appear strange to visitors, it occurs to me, but I decide I don’t care. The ache is becoming an ugly hollowness that is in some ways worse than the original ache. But at least I can’t feel Christian’s emotions on the other side of the window. Or his memory of our kiss.

When did you get here? I send to him.

Earlier. Around nine.

I don’t feel my own surprise. My mother died at a few minutes to ten.

I told you I’d be here, he says. You can ignore me, though. Whatever you want.

I want to take a nap.

Okay. I’ll be here.

I lie down on top of the covers, not bothering to slip under the sheets. I turn my face to the wall. Christian’s not looking at me now, but still.

I should cry, I think. I haven’t cried yet. Why haven’t I cried yet? I’ve been crying for months now at every little thing, boo-hoo-hoo, poor me, but today, on the day that my mother actually dies, nothing. Not one tear.

Jeffrey cried. Billy wept using the entire sky. But not me. With me there’s just the ache.

I close my eyes. When I open them again I see that two hours have passed, although I don’t feel like I’ve slept. The sun is lower in the sky.

Christian’s still on the roof.

I get the sudden urge to call him, to ask him to come in and lay down with me. Just like before, the night I found out about the hundred-and-twenty-years rule. Except this time, I wouldn’t want him to touch me or anything. Or talk. But maybe if he got close to me I could feel something. Maybe I could cry and the ache would go away.

He turns his head, meets my eyes. He can hear me.

But I don’t ask him in.

It’s late afternoon when suddenly Christian stands up without a word, and flies away.

Then there’s a light knock at my door, and Tucker sticks his head in.

“Hey.”

I shoot out of bed, hurl myself into his arms. He hugs me close, presses my head into his chest, says something I don’t hear into my hair.

Why can’t I cry?

He pulls back. “I came as soon as I found out.”