I was arranging white lilies in a mason jar when the phone rang. Blaine’s favorite flowers—I’d picked them up at the H-E-B thinking maybe I could bring them to the hospital the next day. The doctors had said he was stable.
Critical, but stable.
There was time. “Hello?” I said, still holding a lily stem.
“Opal.” Nola’s voice was flat. Not hoarse from crying, not trembling the way a young widow’s voice should sound.
Just flat, like she was calling about a utility bill.
“I’m calling about the funeral arrangements.”
The lily slipped from my fingers and hit the worn linoleum with a soft, wet sound. “Funeral?” My tongue felt thick. “What funeral?
The doctor said Blaine was—”
“When did you last talk to a doctor, Opal?” Her tone sharpened, impatient.
“Yesterday morning. Dr.
Henderson said the surgery went well. That Blaine was resting.”
“That was two days ago,” she cut in.
“Blaine died yesterday evening.
Complications from the infection.”
The kitchen tilted. I grabbed the counter to keep from falling. “No.
Why didn’t you call me?
Why didn’t someone—”
“I tried calling. You didn’t answer.”
My hand flew to the cell phone in my pocket.
I yanked it out, scrolling through recent calls. Nothing.
No calls from Nola.
None from the hospital. “There are no missed calls from you,” I said, my voice scraping out. “Well, maybe your phone was off.
Doesn’t matter now.” I could hear her moving around, cupboard doors opening.
“The point is, I need to know what time works for you for the funeral. We’re thinking Thursday at two.”
Thursday.
It was Tuesday evening. My kitchen clock read 6:47 p.m.
“That’s very soon,” I managed.
“Don’t we need more time? Blaine has family, friends from high school—”
“It’s already planned,” she said. “Small ceremony.
Immediate family only.”
“Nola, please.
Blaine was my son. I need to be part of this—”
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, her voice going colder.
“It might be better if you didn’t come.”
The words hit like a punch. I actually stepped back, bumping the kitchen table.
“What did you just say?”
“You heard me.
It would be too emotional. Too complicated. Blaine wouldn’t have wanted a scene at his funeral.”
A scene.
As if a mother grieving her only child was a spectacle to be managed.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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