Before they said their good-nights, his mother let him know that she hoped he’d say a few words at the funeral.
Owen would have preferred not. Truth be told, if given the choice, he would have spent tomorrow in bed. The chemo already had him feeling sick to his stomach. So much so that he was worried he might puke if he had to give a eulogy.
He’d asked if he could perform a violin piece instead. He always thought he was more eloquent when playing someone else’s composition than when trying to express his feelings verbally. His mother said that he could do both, but she still thought someone from their family should speak, and she didn’t think she could summon the strength.
“You don’t have to talk long,” she’d said. “Five minutes would be more than enough. But I think, in light of the fact that James was paying for your treatment, it would be appropriate for you to tell everyone that he lives on in you.”
He nodded. His mother was right. James would live in him for the rest of his life. The least he could do was offer up some platitudes about his stepfather at his funeral.
16
James Sommers was laid to rest three days after his murder.
There had been some last-minute procedural snafus that threatened to delay the funeral—the medical examiner’s office hedged on whether they could release the body on time, and the funeral home thought it had double-booked. But in the end, James’s body was released and a vacant chapel was procured.
Jessica and Owen arrived early to the chapel. Owen was wearing the same outfit he had put on for the party, but without Jessica asking, he had worn a pair of James’s work shoes to replace his Nikes.
She held her son’s hand, which she could not recall having done in years. Not since the start of the chemo the first time. Even then, her recollection was that at some point during the treatment, he had stopped. That had been her son’s rite of passage into adulthood—chemotherapy. He began it as a boy and finished it a man (albeit one who was still in ninth grade).
The minister did a slight double take at the sight of a bald teenager but didn’t otherwise comment. He didn’t look the part either. Short, stout, and also bald.
“Would you like to see your husband?” he asked.
For a moment, Jessica thought he meant that James was alive. Then it clicked that he was asking whether she wanted to see his corpse in the casket before the ceremony began.
“Some loved ones find it comforting to say goodbye one last time,” the minister said. “Others, however, prefer to remember how they looked in life. It’s entirely up to you.”
“Yes. I think so. Owen, do you want to?”
“No,” he said. “Is that okay?”
“Of course,” she said. “It’s totally up to you. There’s no right way to do this.”
She followed the minister through a door that led into a small room that contained only the casket. Her first thought was that the coffin was too small for James.
“I’m going to lift up the lid, and then I’ll leave you to be alone with your thoughts,” the minister said.
Without waiting for a response, he did exactly that, lifting the lid, then leaving Jessica alone in the room. She couldn’t see into the casket until she was standing right beside it, peering down. When she did, James looked less like her husband than a wax figure of him.
It was his expression that made the most indelible impression. It looked as if the undertaker had tried to give him a peaceful smile, but the end result made it appear as if James had been on the verge of saying something right before he was killed.
What would he say now? she wondered.
Would she be able to bear it?
“I love you so much, James. And I always will. I’m so sorry that our time together was so short. Please believe that I love you. More than you can even know.”
She waited a beat, even though she knew that he wasn’t going to answer. She’d never hear his voice again.
Wayne took a seat in the back of the chapel. He had considered sitting up front, to be closer to Jessica and Owen, but he worried it might look like he was pushing too hard.
He spotted Jessica at the front. She’d always looked her best in basic black.
Owen sat beside her. Seeing the two of them together, Wayne felt as if he were looking at identical profiles.
There is an old wives’ tale, although some claim it as scientific fact, that newborn babies look like their fathers as a way of ensuring their survival, given that maternity is provable but paternity can be in doubt. Wayne had done some reading on this topic after Owen was born, purely as an intellectual pursuit. What he found was that the science was uncertain as to whether babies actually looked like their fathers, but the research was more definitive that fathers who believed their babies resembled them were more present in their children’s lives.
Wayne, however, had never thought Owen looked even remotely like him. When his son was an infant, Wayne joked that the male figure Owen most resembled was Elmer Fudd. As Owen grew, his maternal resemblance became pronounced. He and Jessica shared the same square jaw, straight nose, and large smile, as well as some other recessive traits, such as blue eyes and left-handedness. Whenever Jessica posted Owen’s picture on social media, the comments poured in. “He’s a little you!” they’d say. In fact, other than Owen and Wayne both having detached earlobes, Wayne was hard-pressed to note a single physical characteristic he shared with his son.
After Jessica’s infidelity was revealed,
