Page 13
Dana
* * *
“I need your John Hancock.”
Paul hands me a clipboard with an order form itemizing this morning’s produce he delivered, as he’s been doing every week for as long as I can remember. Except, this morning his usual smile is missing.
I sign the form and he tears off a copy, handing it to me as he shakes his head, a somber expression on his face.
“I still can’t believe it. I sure am sorry for your loss, I’m gonna miss her.”
Aren’t we all?
It’s been four days since I sat by my mother’s bedside and held her hand as she left this world. Pops had just gone to grab some coffee from the coffee shop in the hospital lobby, when she simply stopped breathing.
I’m not sure what I expected, something a little more violent, I guess, when the most important person in the world is ripped from your life, but instead she silently slipped away.
She never regained consciousness. There were no heartfelt goodbyes or meaningful last words—not that my mother would’ve had the patience for those anyway—there was only a soft breath of air and then … gone.
And with it every dream she never realized. The elusive trip to Europe, the cute little house on Elm Street she’d envisioned herself retiring to, the lingering hope for grandmother-hood. All gone along with her.
“So much time wasted,” was the first thing Pops said after the funeral home came to collect her body.
She worked every day of her life until this godforsaken disease ended it abruptly, as well as any plans she had for her future. In all honesty, I’m not sure she would’ve ever been able to walk away from the pub, but that should’ve been her choice. Hell, she’d probably be pleased as punch The Kerrigan remained open every day.
So, I’m here this morning, receiving deliveries and prepping for lunch, while Pops is at the funeral home finalizing arrangements for Mom’s service on Thursday.
“Need a hand?”
I jump, dropping some of the vegetables I was getting from the cooler.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Rick apologizes, crouching down to retrieve an onion that rolled under the prep island.
“It’s okay. I…I was lost in thought,” I mumble as I grab a large bowl and go to my haunches as well to collect the rest of the veggies.
Rick grabs the bowl from me and holds out his other hand to pull me to my feet. His hand feels warm and strong wrapped around mine, and for some damn reason the tears that have eluded me for the past days suddenly make an appearance.
I pull my hand free and turn my back to him, trying to look busy with my kitchen prep.
“Did you happen to walk by again?” I ask in a far too chipper voice.
“Not really,” he admits. “I bumped into your father outside the funeral home and he told me you were at the pub. I wanted to tell you too how sorry I am about Stella’s passing.”
I’m not sure what it is about that term that hits a nerve, but just like that my tears turn into anger as I swing around.
“Passing? What does that mean anyway? Passing? Like someone walking by you on the street? Like she was just here passing through? My mother wasn’t just passing through, someone to be forgotten. She was a presence, a force, she was bigger than life! She didn’t pass, she was uprooted, ripped away. She was—”
The tears that really never stopped now blur my vision as I’m suddenly pulled against a broad chest, two arms closing firmly around me. I lose it then, the past days pouring from me like a tropical rainstorm after a week of hot, building pressure. There is no holding back now, my fragile control shatters as my body violently expels the grief I’ve tried to keep contained, leaving me a limp noodle, barely able to stay on my feet. If not for the unmovable vise holding me upright, I’d be a puddle on the floor.
I’m not entirely sure how long it takes the storm to wane, but by the time a clear thought is able to penetrate the avalanche of emotions, embarrassment sets in. I’m a right mess. I never was one of those pretty criers, so I don’t need to look in a mirror to know my face is red and blotchy, wet with tears and snot. Hanks of hair escaping my ponytail are stuck to my forehead and cheeks.
Mortified, both at my emotional display and my appearance, I abruptly try to disentangle myself from Rick’s firm hold. I barely even know the man and feel exposed to the core.
“Easy,” he rumbles, slowly sliding his arms from around me and placing his hands on my shoulders. “Find your feet.”
He’s been silent this entire time, just letting me blubber all over him. I keep my head down, but can’t help notice the giant wet stain I left on his shirt. Wonderful. He must think I’m an absolute basket case. First, I failed to respond to his concerned message from several days ago, inquiring how I was holding up, and now I have an absolute meltdown on him.
“I’m okay, I just need a minute,” I whisper as I turn and escape the kitchen, aiming for the bathroom.
