Étienne curses under his breath. “You are thirty-nine.”
“I am aware. We share the same birthday.”
“Doesn’t this routine become tiresome?”
When you’ve seen what I’ve seen? Never.
We all have specific positions in life, and when we detour from those positions, the people closest to us notice. Hence, why my brother is here. Étienne recognizes I’m no longer the jovial Livingston at all times. He wants things to go back to normal, but it’s less for me and more for himself. And if it was that easy, I would be the Livingston I once was. God, would I ever.
“I am perfectly fine. You can go, Étienne.”
My brother takes his time to scrutinize me. To get him to leave, I stare back even though my body is begging to lie down on the nearest flat surface. “Very well. I’ll go. We’ll speak soon.” Étienne walks toward the door, and I give his retreating form a weak wave.
At the last second, he turns and looks at me. “You need to find somethin’ that gets you out of this house. You’re goin’ to drive yourself mad livin’ in the past.”
“I will get on that first thing tomorrow mornin’. Right after I bathe and eat.” Although, just the thought of eating makes my stomach churn.
Étienne’s eyes harden. Just when I think he can’t respect me less, I set the bar even lower for myself. “Denial builds a prison stronger than iron bars,” he replies.
I open my mouth, but the sound of the slamming bedroom door stops the retort from sliding from my tongue. Closing my eyes, I rub my temples. Moments later, the house rattles from the force of the front door slamming. Étienne may be displeased with me now, but he’ll compose himself soon enough.
I cannot say the same for myself. I realize my brother is right. I need to find something in this world that sparks my interest or keeps me busy. But I don’t have the energy or the will. There seems to be no fight left in me. And that’s why I drink. So all my todays can fade into tomorrows … and the days after that.
I haven’t lived long enough to drink the way I do, but I can say I have seen enough to make a man go mad. My headache shows no signs of abating, and for me, the best cure for pain is to drink more alcohol.
My stomach chooses that moment to churn. I can’t decide if I’m going to be sick or just belch. Quickly, I roll to my side, closing my eyes tightly, waiting for my body to decide what it needs to do. Loudly, I belch. My chest sags, and for several seconds, I remain unmovable. I’ve had many low moments in my life, but this might be the lowest.
Dragging all ten fingers through my hair, I sigh. I need a miracle. I don’t care what form it comes in or in what way God saves me.
I just need something to hold onto.
CHAPTER TWO
Rainey
A funeral is only for the living, never the dead. It forces loved ones to say good-bye even when they don’t feel prepared.
Since I was child, I’ve never been adequately equipped to face death or entirely comfortable with funerals. I’ve seen far too many for one person.
However, my brother’s memorial was beautiful, with every close friend he’s had through the years in attendance. All except for one person. I could have sworn I saw Livingston at the beginning, but when I blinked, the image of him was gone. Maybe it was the trick of my imagination. Perhaps I wanted to believe Livingston would try his hardest to be there. Maybe I got him confused with his brother, Étienne. There are times the two of them make very similar expressions.
Of course, Étienne attended with his wife. Momma didn’t care much for Serene. Said she was uncouth. Many people in the circle Momma surrounded herself with thought as much. I enjoyed Serene’s presence and considered her a close confidant. Her straightforward opinion was refreshing to me. Serene Lacroix was no wilting wallflower, and she made no apologies for it. It seemed to me as though the mommas trying to marry off their daughters and any single woman above the age of eighteen resented Serene because she did something no woman had ever done before: she tamed a Lacroix man.
There was also the matter of her background. No one had ever laid eyes on her family. In passing, I’d heard Serene mention her brother Ian. And Nathalie confirmed Serene had two brothers. Serene said her family lived in the Midwest, but there was no deeper explanation. I didn’t care to pry because we all had a past.
I was simply overjoyed we got along so well. And as of now, I needed all the support I could get. Because now there was the matter of the will.
I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about today. Even though I was a child when Daddy passed, I still remember his funeral and flashes of the days following. It was incredibly difficult to accept he was gone. Perhaps that’s why I dug my heels in this morning at the prospect of going to Miles’s memorial. I didn’t want to begin the process of my mourning.
The methodical ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall is the only sound that can be heard.
Across from me sits Momma with an embroidered handkerchief clutched between her hands. Momma has been beside herself all day. Miles’s body was found in May, but they believed he died in March. Once they found him, it took months for his next of kin, Momma, to be notified. The entire time he remained missing, Momma never gave up hope that he would come home. It was nothing short of inspiring. In my heart, I knew he wasn’t coming back to us. It felt as though a candle had been snuffed out, and I was blindly trying to find my way around. Momma’s faith, no matter how fruitless, was far easier than facing the truth. Once we received the news, she started crying and hasn’t stopped. Lips that once readily moved upward to smile now curve downward and resemble two upside-down commas. She’s in a perpetual state of sadness and cannot be bothered. The light has been extinguished out of her eyes.
She lost a husband many years ago, but there was faith and promise. And that lay within Miles and me. I would be the sweet, Southern lady, and Miles would be a smart, handsome fella every woman set her eyes on.
Then Miles passed, and her promises were gone. But there’s still hope for me. One out of two isn’t bad, if you ask me.
Sitting at the head of the table is our family’s attorney, Mr. Parson. He’s indifferent to the strained silence and continues to methodically flip each page upside down, creating a neat stack beside him.
Beneath the table, my leg nervously bounces up and down. I’m desperate to leave the room. I need air. The sweltering July heat is making this black dress unbearable, and the walls feel as though they’re closing in on me. I focus on my laced fingers on my lap and breathe through my nose. When my vision started to blur, I would focus on Mr. Parson’s jowls. It gives him a grandfatherly appearance, but he can’t be but a few years older than my daddy. If he had lived long enough, would he have jowls, too? My nails dig into my skin as I fight to maintain my composure. The very last thing I need to think of right now is Daddy.
After several agonizing minutes, Mr. Parson clears his throat. I lift my head as he straightens the stack of papers against the table. I’m not as rigid with Southern traditions as other residents in Charleston are, but it does feel awfully tasteless to read the will less than twenty-four hours after my brother’s memorial. I express my thoughts to Momma before Mr. Parson’s arrival, and while she dried her tears, she said, “I don’t care when it’s done, just as long as it’s done.”