Credence

It’s not raining.

I thought that was how it was supposed to be during a funeral.

Like in the movies. It always rains.

The shadows of the trees glide over the windows of the black limo as we ride through Glendale, on our way to the cemetery. I lean against the door, Mirai sitting across from me as the procession carries my parents to the chapel first, our car following.

Of course, it’s a beautiful day. The sun never failed to shine on my mother.

But then I roll my eyes behind my large, black glasses, letting out a quiet sigh. Yeah, I should totally say that in my eulogy. I’ll have the whole congregation rolling with laughter at all the cheese.

Jesus.

I stare out the window, rubbing my gloved hands together, but still, nothing comes to mind. Not in the thirty-six hours since I’ve been back in California. I can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t sound like a lie.

I mean, they weren’t without talent and beauty. Why can’t I muster a single heartfelt word to offer up at that podium to fulfill my final duty as their daughter?

I should be able to do that.

But no. Every sweet, saccharine lie makes me feel like a fraud, and I can’t utter the words, because I’ve lost the stomach to live in a way that isn’t genuine.

“You’re tan,” Mirai says.

I turn my eyes on her, seeing her sunglasses dangle from her fingers, her hair pulled back in a tight, low ponytail.

I love how she looks. She wears a black pencil skirt and a black jacket, a shiny black belt secured around her waist with high heels. Our personal shopper, on the other hand, seems to think I’m still twelve in the dress they prepared for me. I’m covering it up with a long black coat, and since I have gloves on, Mirai must be talking about my face, the only visible skin.

I nod.

“Did you like it up there?”

“Yeah,” I murmur.

I liked them.

The empty seat next to me weighs heavy, and I wish Jake was here. He offered, didn’t he? I had to open my big mouth and refuse.

I haven’t eaten much since I arrived, either. The food here tastes different.

“I spoke to him on the phone while you were there,” Mirai tells me. “Your uncle, I mean. I was afraid he’d be a jerk.” She laughs a little. “He had a real attitude.”

I smile to myself, looking back out the window. “Yeah, he does,” I whisper.

But I’m full of pride. I like him that way.

“I invited them,” she says. “I offered to bring them out.”

“They’ll never leave Colorado.”

Noah, maybe. Jake, unwillingly. And Kaleb…I can’t see him anywhere else.

My breathing turns ragged as I think about what time it is there and what they’re probably doing right now. Noah would be off doing his test runs, wasting way more time than he was allowed, and Jake will yell at him when he gets back before ordering him inside to help me with lunch…

But no. I drop my eyes.

I’m not in the kitchen. Noah will make lunch himself.

Or run to town for cheeseburgers.

I wonder if he got that stain off the seat. Knowing Noah, he just left it. He’s so lazy about some things.

“The reverend will speak first,” Mirai speaks up, “followed by me, George Palmer, Cassidy Lee, and then Delmont Williams.”

I sit back in my seat and look out the front windshield, past the driver, to see the hearse carrying my parents. First to the funeral. Then to the crematorium.

My throat swells.

“The reverend will then ask if anyone else would like to say something,” she continues in a slow, soft voice. “If you decide you want to speak, feel free to go ahead then, okay?”

Her voice is like she’s explaining this to a child. Like she’s afraid I’ll wake up screaming if she’s too loud.

“You don’t have to do that,” I tell her. “You don’t have to talk like that. I’m not asleep.”

She stares at me, drawing in a deep breath as her eyes start to glisten. And then she turns away, so I won’t see.

“Do you remember your night terrors?” she asks, staring out the window. “We talked about them when you were little.”

They came back in Colorado. I haven’t told her that, and I won’t.

“It happened every night,” she explains. “We would wake you up, stop your screaming, and then put you back to sleep.”

I vaguely remember it. I was so young.

She swallows. “One night, I just waited for you to fall asleep,” she says, “and I crawled in next to you.”

She looks back at me.

“Nothing. No terrors,” she tells me. “And the next night, the same thing. No terrors when I slept with you.”

My chin trembles, and I clench my jaw to stop it.

A tear falls down her cheek as she can only manage a whisper. “You just needed what everyone needs,” she tells me. “A home.”

I tighten my fists, trying to keep my breathing steady.

“It’s not a place, Tiernan. It’s a feeling.” Her voice shakes. “Even when you grew out of the terrors, you still only managed four or five hours of sleep a night in that house. With them. That’s why I wasn’t upset when they sent you away to school when you were only eleven.” She sniffles, a sob escaping as she looks away. “Maybe, finally, you’d sleep.”

The car stops and the door opens, Mirai quickly putting on her sunglasses and wiping tears away as she climbs out.

It takes a moment to get my limbs moving.

It’s a feeling.

A feeling. Not a place.

I close my eyes a moment, feeling the sun on the peak on my face. And my arms around my uncle as I sit behind him on the horse.

I step out of the car, barely registering the cameras and the chatter from the reporters as I blindly follow Mirai up the steps of the church. People are talking to me, taking my hand and giving it a little hug with both of theirs, but I can’t think.

I don’t feel good.

Why did I come back? I thought I needed to do this. Be here. It’s only right, right?

I swallow the sickness rising up my throat.

People crowd us, all hungry for something, and even though I couldn’t stomach opening up my social media when I got into town, it’s clear my parents’ suicide is still top news.

Hell, some director is probably already pitching the story to a production company, so my parents’ death can be lamented in some TV movie where they’ll be portrayed as perfect and in love from the moment they met. And me, their loving daughter—the product of their Shakespearean tragedy—will only be a significant character at the end… as I stand at their headstone and smile that they’re finally safely together for all eternity.

I take a seat in the front pew with Mirai, the only good part of all this is no one expects much from the grieving daughter, so I can sit quietly without looking weird for once.

I close my eyes behind my glasses again. Two days ago, I was making toys for the horses—milk jugs stuck with carrots and apples they could play with to get their treats. Were the jugs empty by now? Kaleb doesn’t care, and Noah probably wouldn’t notice.

I don’t know when the funeral begins, but when Mirai nudges me and whispers in my ear, “Glasses,” to remind me to remove my eyewear, I open my eyes and see the caskets in front of me.

I take off my glasses, folding them gently and slipping them into my pocket.

The speakers go up, one by one over the next hour, telling stories I’d never heard and painting a picture of people I didn’t know. I sit there, listening to Mirai talk about what a pleasure it was to be a part of their lives and support their work, while Cassidy (no double e) and Mr. Palmer tell stories of their youth and early careers, their charitable work a large part of the narrative the publicist probably asked them to push to remind people that how they left this world wasn’t the most important thing.

As Delmont, my father’s closest friend, stands up there and talks about their college football days and summers backpacking in Turkey or Chile or wherever, Mirai puts her hand on mine to alert me it’s almost time.

My stomach churns. I could talk about their work, I guess. How they were an inspiration to me, and I could lie about all the cards and presents they surprised me with at school, even though it was Mirai, and I always knew it was her, even though she gave them the credit.

I could talk about what I’ve learned from my uncle and cousins. And then say I learned it from my parents instead.

I don’t want to be quiet anymore. I want to prove to them that they didn’t break me. That I won’t let them affect my voice and my ability to be brave.

But as I try to steady my feet under me to get ready to stand up, I can’t.

I don’t want to lie.

“Things change, life moves on, and the world with it,” Delmont says. “But death? Death is as sure as night.”

I look up at him, listening to his words.

“It’s a part of us all.” He looks around at the audience as he starts to wrap up his speech. “The only thing we really leave behind is the work that we do and the people who love us.”

The people who love us…

“Amelia and Hannes didn’t leave anything on the table,” he concludes. “They always knew the answer to the most important question in one’s life—where do I want to be today?”

I stare at my parents’ caskets, closed, so we all would remember them the way they were.

And the tears start falling down my cheeks, now after days.

I hate them.

I hate them, and I’ve wasted too much time hating them.

This isn’t where I want to be.

You loved each other. I wipe my tears, looking over at them and the words I couldn’t muster before finally coming. You were luckier than most.

At least they had each other.

You were capable of so much when it came to love. I drop my eyes, staring at my lap, my fists clenching around my coat. And you considered what it would be like to live without love, because you decided not to live without each other. Did you consider what it was like for me—all these years—living without you?

Tears fall silently, and everything is blurry. I close my eyes, all the years of anger rising up as I grit my teeth.

I hate your house, I tell them in my head. I hate the stench of your perfume and your candles and your hairspray. I hate the feel of your clothes and the white walls, the white carpets, and the white furniture. I try to calm my breathing. The library full of books that have never been opened and how nothing was ever warm.

I hated you.

I can’t catch my breath. The air just feels too thick. I’m cold.

I hate how I never told you any of this. How I never fought or said anything or called you out. How I never walked out to look in the world for what I needed. How I let you win.

How I never let you know that you devastated me.

That’s where I wanted to be when they died. Standing.

That’s all I want.

But I was too much of a coward to talk to you, I mouth to myself, my tears now gone as I draw in a deep breath. Cowards always live to regret, because it’s only too late that they realize the journey is filled with people who are afraid.

They didn’t have to walk alone.