Indeed, I would have grieved for him right along with all the others, and it occurs to me that in some ways, I already have.
I didn't just lose my family after the explosion. I lost Eli too.
The thought leaves a strange bitterness on my lips as I rest my hand on the wooden pew. A silent offer for my grieving wife. She does not take it. She does not look at me or speak to me, even when the funeral ends, and we follow the procession to the cemetery.
I spared no expense for the theatrics of Eli's fake death. There is even a jazz band leading the way, playing the somber traditional funeral music well-known throughout New Orleans. We walk behind the hearse into the cemetery, where the empty coffin is eventually deposited into a tomb.
Throughout the day, I catch myself looking around at the other mourners, wondering which of them are Abel's men. My own security is well disguised among them, taking notes of every face, every attendee. But Abel would know that, regardless of how well they blend in. Will he be convinced by the charade? Will any of this be worth it in the end?
When the tomb is sealed shut, the music changes to a more upbeat tune, and then the procession relocates to the IVI compound for the reception. The day seems to be dragging on, and it's all I can do to stand at my wife's side while she ignores me, greeting mourners with tear-filled eyes.
She speaks to the guests for two hours as they tell stories about her father before she starts to fade into exhaustion, and I lean in to whisper in her ear.
"It's time to get you home now."
She shakes her head in refusal, but staggers, nearly collapsing into me before I grab her arm and hold her upright.
Unwittingly, she has done her part. She has grieved publicly for all to see. But at what cost? I have never hated myself more than I do when I pull her tired body against mine, forcing her chin up so she must look at me.
"It's time to get you home, angel. There is something you must see."
Her face softens a fraction before she shakes her head, stubbornly refusing to bend.
"The celebration of my father's life isn't over yet. You can go if you want, but I'm not leaving."
"Ivy." My voice is a warning and a plea. If I could just get her home, she would understand.
"I'm going to the bathroom." She yanks away from me. "Please just leave me alone."
29 Ivy
I’m gone before he can stop me, almost knocking someone over in my rush before I finally find a bathroom where I stand at the sink and take a few deep breaths.
I dressed in black lace from head to toe. Santiago chose it. I didn’t care what I wore. I was just grateful the veil was heavy enough that I could hide at least a little.
Eva sat beside me in our pew. My mother occupied the front pew across from ours dressed in a deep blue too-tight dress that accentuated her every curve. Her hat set at an angle, the veil purposely chosen to enhance, not to hide. Because she wasn’t grieving.
I don’t even really blame her. She was forced into this marriage. She was a gift to my father, whom she always considered beneath her.
When my fingers brushed Santiago’s during the service, I was quick to pull away. If he noticed, he didn’t comment. I looked at his hand then, and I looked at the casket again, and all I could think was what did he do to my father for it to be closed?
Eva went home with Marco and two soldiers after the service. I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay, to hear the stories my father’s friends, many of them strangers to me, told about him. I had no idea he was so ingrained in IVI. Had no idea he had so many friends there and true friends at that. I see it in their eyes and hear it in the affectionate way they speak about him. I’m truly glad for that.
And now as I stand looking at my blotchy, tear-streaked face in the bathroom mirror, I think about that closed casket set with an enormous bouquet of lilies spilling over the lid, and for all of my father’s faults, I loved him. I will miss him.
The toilet flushes, and a woman I don’t know comes out of the little room to wash her hands.
“He was a good man, dear,” she says to me.
“Thank you,” I tell her but then am grateful when she’s gone. I feel so sad. So incredibly sad. And the fact that I am alone has never been more obvious to me.
It’s then I feel something. Something strange. I blink, looking down at my stomach. And there it is again. The lightest tapping. Like the tip of the tiniest finger just touching the back of my hand. It’s so faint I almost miss it, but then it comes again. I put my hand over my round belly, and I smile, feel my eyes fill up at this first real contact with my baby, and all I can think is I need to tell Santiago. I need to put his hand on the bump and let him feel this almost fluttering sensation as delicate as a butterfly’s wing.
But then it’s gone, and my smile with it because I won’t tell Santiago. Not now. I can't. He will miss this milestone, and it makes me want to cry all over again.
The door opens again then, and someone walks inside. I busy myself washing my hands. I should have slipped into one of the stalls.
The woman hesitates at the door, and I
