Forgotten Promises (The Promises Series Book 2) (29 page)

“Oh…oh…oh, yeah. That’s it…mmmmm,” Casey moans and I sink low into my seat and grab a menu to shield my face.

Brie busts out laughing and for the life of me I can’t understand how they are both not mortified. I peek over the menu to see two guys staring over with huge grins plastered on their faces, and a woman with two little boys next to them shooting us daggers.

“What the hell was that?” I exclaim in a whisper-shout. “Everyone’s staring.”

“Relax,” they both answer at the same time.

“Jinx! Jinks again!” they shout and then proceed to punch each other in the arm.

“Ouch, that’s going to bruise!” Casey whines and Brie smirks.

“Have you never seen
When Harry Met Sally
?” Brie asks through a mouthful of whipped cream and I wince back into my seat.

“Yeah, I have. I just wasn’t expecting a reenactment in front of a bunch of kids!”

“Chill, Blair…we’re only messing around. It’s not like we’re drunk and cussing up a storm.”

I groan but concede the fact and sit up taller in the booth.

Brie purposely drips cream on her chest and then scoops it up slowly and sucks it off her finger, the two dudes mesmerized at her display. She flashes them a devilish smile and I elbow her in the side.

“What the hell, I thought you and Jackson were dating?”

“We are!” she laughs. “Those guys have been looking over at us since we came in so I thought I might as well give them something worth staring at.”

Casey shakes her head, smiling at her as I sit here utterly perplexed.

“You’ll get a reputation acting like that,” I say. “I bet that’s something Della would do!”

“Ohhh, no you did not!” Casey says finger snapping.

I’m startled out of my stupor by the sound of my cell and I have to slide out of the booth to retrieve it from my back pocket. My smile slips as the screen flashes ‘Moira’ and I can’t help but feel instantly disappointed. I’ve been waiting for Ethan to call for hours now.

“Hi Moira, how are you?” I turn from the girls and head to the doorway, away from all the hustle and bustle of the other diners so I can hear better. The line is completely silent and I pull the phone from my ear and look down at the screen to make sure that I hit accept, or that I haven’t accidently cut her off. It’s lit up like the call is still active. “Hello? Moira, are you there?”

I hear a sniffle and then her voice, quietly on the other end of the line.

“Yes, Blair I’m here, I…I…”

She’s crying and my stomach churns. This can’t be good.

“Are you okay? Has something happened to Frank?”

“No honey, um…it’s Ethan.”

I freeze mid-step and my stomach lurches, threatening to expel the truckload of ice cream I just consumed.

“What do you mean it’s Ethan? What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

I know before she answers that whatever she needs to say is bad, and I brace myself for it. I’m waiting for,
‘He’s left and won’t speak to Frank,’
or
‘We’ve had an argument’
to come, but it doesn’t.

“Sweetheart, he collapsed in the hospital and…and…” she’s sobbing so hard that I can’t make out what she’s trying to tell me.

“Moira, I can’t hear you!” I shout into the cell. I’m not sure why I’m the one shouting, she seems to be able to hear me just fine but the anxiety and fear she’s causing has me jittery.

She proceeds to tell me something about a subdural hematoma and I fall to the ground. An old man with his grandchildren rushes to help me up and I feel overwhelmingly dizzy.

“Are you alright there, miss?” the old man asks as I stare at him blankly, not quite understanding what’s going on.

“She dropped her phone, Grandpa,” a little girl with chocolate sauce smeared all over her face says pointing to my cell, still licking her cone.

The gentleman picks it up and passes it back to me as Casey and Brie rush over and assure him they’ll take over. I grab my cell and look back and forth from them. Casey’s hunched over me, her long raven hair falling in my face. She pulls it to one side and holds it back as I’m frozen, trying to process what’s going on, wondering if this is all some twisted sick dream. The buildup of tears and hammering in my chest let me know that it’s not.

I CAN HEAR soft piano music filtering through the muggy afternoon air as I cross the threshold, making my way down the cold stone aisle towards the altar. I can feel people staring, their gazes penetrating my skin as if each one physically presses upon me with the intensity of a searing hot branding iron. I’m all too conscious of the hushed whispers floating around in the desolate space. I’m shivering as I make my way to the front; I can’t get a hold on my nerves. Voices that I don’t recognize are uttering, “Is that the girlfriend? She was in the accident too, wasn’t she?” They infiltrate my senses. Are these people really so ignorant that they have all forgotten this place is designed to carry noise? Each comment I catch as I near my destination feels more scathing than the last. I focus my attention on the vast grandeur of the stained-glass window at the front of the church and watch as the sun’s midday rays pass through the colored panes, casting a rainbow that cascades down over the congregation of mourners. The bright hues are a stark disparity against the sea of black suits and white-collared shirts. There doesn’t seem to be a single fleck of color on anyone’s clothing, except the gold and red of the police decorations pinned proudly to the uniformed officers sporting them. Their brightness a welcomed break in the monotonous army of glum clones.

My fingers are closed tightly around the stem of a single white rose. I didn’t know if I should bring flowers or not, but now I wish I hadn’t. I need to walk over to his coffin to lay it down; I hadn’t thought of that. Bile rises in my throat, and the tears that have formed are threatening to fall. I’m holding my breath, eyes wide, willing them to dissipate as I return my focus once more to the window instead of the casket. It’s too soon to be doing this again. The painful memory of Emily’s funeral, still raw and exposed, sits unwelcomingly at the forefront of my mind. It’s playing on an agonizing loop, taunting me, reminding me. The aesthetics couldn’t be more different from hers, though; Emily’s funeral service was akin to walking into a child’s birthday party. Balloons adorned the ends of each pew in varying shades of shiny pink and purple latex. Cheerful, bright gerberas had been placed on every available surface, and there wasn’t a single solitary piece of black clothing to be found. We had been given explicitly strict instructions to wear ‘happy clothes’ or she would ‘haunt our asses for all eternity.’ Em’s words, not mine. There was to be no gloomy piano music, either; no nineties power-ballads of heartache and pain. Instead, the church was filled with dubiously dulcet tones from One Direction’s
Story of My Life
. I’d practically scoffed when Em announced to me that she’d found the perfect funeral song. She proceeded to tell me that she’d narrowed it down to 1D or Bon Jovi’s
Sleep When I’m Dead
. In any other circumstance, I’d have voted Bon Jovi all the way, but I had to concede on this one. I almost smile at the memory before realizing where I am and what I’m doing.

I slow my pace down, not wanting to reach my destination, but there’s no avoiding it. In the next three steps I’ve reached the coffin. I can’t prolong the inevitable any longer; I look down at the long mahogany box laid before me topped with what must be hundreds of roses. My whole body trembles as I reach out to place my flower amongst the other tributes. I catch my reflection against the highly polished surface of the wood and begin to feel dizzy. I blink attempting to refocus my vision as my fingers loosen their grip on the rose. My hand brushes against the cold hardwood and I pause briefly, wondering if it’s time to wake up yet. Wishing for a different reality to the one I’m in at the moment. I hear Ethan’s mom softly call out my name, but I can’t move. I’m frozen in place by…I don’t even know what, fear? Memories?

“Blair, honey…come sit by me.” It’s an order rather than request; suddenly she’s by my side and ushering me to take a seat. I let her lead the way; it’s just her sitting upfront.

“My mom couldn’t find a parking spot; she’ll be here any minute, is it okay for her to sit here too?”

“Of course, it is,” she says and smiles weakly. “You’re family.”

I take in her appearance: her eyes are puffy and tired, and she looks completely worn out and defeated- her cheeks look hollow, her hair is sitting limply on her shoulders and her lips are cracked and set into a thin line, She’s a shadow of the woman Ethan first introduced me to months ago. The piano music stops and a minister approaches the lectern. I look wide-eyed at Moira and then glance at the empty seat where my mom should be right now. I need her here; I can’t do this without her. I can’t bear to sit through another funeral. Moira senses my anxiety and runs her hand down over my hair; she squeezes my shoulders and then pulls me into her side like my mom would do. The minister starts to speak, but I don’t hear any words through the sound of the blood rushing in my ears. I can’t do this. I’m not ready. I blink and let my first tear fall, no doubt carving the way for more to follow. I had agreed to come for Moira. I felt bad that she would have to face this alone. I look blankly towards the front but I can’t see anything past my pain.

I’m drawn out of my trance by the shuffling beside me. I let my eyelids drop closed as I say a silent prayer thanking God for answering my pleas and not making me endure this alone. The gentle feel of fingers lacing through my own calm my racing pulse and muffle the drumming of my heart against my chest, dulling it just enough for the discomfort to begin to subside. I squeeze my hand slightly as an indication of my gratitude. My anxiety wanes enough to allow my other senses to take purchase on my surroundings. For the first time I become conscious of the sound of the minister's voice leading the service and I straighten my back and sit taller in my seat, deciding that I’m not going to be defeated by today. I allow myself the belief that I’m stronger than I give myself credit for.

The minister begins a reading that elicits an audible sigh from my lips, and it escapes into the air in a short sharp burst. The reading is the same one I gave at my father's funeral. There’s no way that Moira could have known that this one passage can undoubtedly break my all-too weak resolve, the one I’d found only seconds ago. I couldn’t stop the tears from falling now, even if I wanted to, as I listen to the verse being spoken, my mind tracing each one of W. H. Auden’s words.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let airplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves;

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest.

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now, put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood,

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

I know the verse as if I’d penned it myself. I was the one to pick it for my father. I’d heard it spoken in a film that Em once made me watch. I remember thinking how powerful it was, and it never really left me. When my dad died, Mom was a mess. She handled everything with grace and left nothing undone, but when it came to choosing the readings; it was as if the weight of what had happened descended on her all at one. She was sitting at the kitchen table, going through the order of service and then suddenly she was smashing glasses and screaming
‘why’
. We sat for hours amongst the broken pieces just holding one another. When she finally stopped sobbing I told her that I would organize the reading. She looked so relieved that I didn’t dare tell her I was terrified. Instead, I spent hours Googling passages that were deemed suitable for funerals, and then I came across Auden’s piece and recognized it immediately. I read it over and over for the next two days until I could practically recite it in my sleep.