she has always been loving to me. She raised me as if I were her own child. She pestered me about my homework. She encouraged me to join sports teams, to try out for school plays, to sing in the choir at church, to volunteer at the local seniorsâ center, to be, as she put it, a member of the community. To be good. And she listened. Okay, so there were some thingsâthings about my fatherâthat I learned never to discuss with her. But if there was anything else on my mind, she stopped what she was doing and she gave me her full attention. She never told me what to do. Instead, she always asked me what I thought was the right thing. And I always figured things out. But she isnât here with me now. And even if she were, I donât think Iâd talk to her about my father. I would be too afraid of what she might say. And, depending on the words that came out of her mouth, Iâd be afraid that I would hate her. Then I would be alone forever.
Finally, thereâs the question of the funeral.
Itâs Saturday afternoon. Iâve just come back from buying some groceriesâa few apples, a container of yogurt, a can of tuna, a box of macaroni and cheese, some milk, a loaf of bread, some frozen peas andâI canât stop myselfâa newspaper. Iâve put the food away, and I have the newspaper spread out on the kitchen table. Iâm paging through it, scanning for any news about my father.
Thereâs nothing.
But my eye catches sight of a familiar name. Newsome . On the obituary page.
Itâs a death notice for Tracie Newsome, âbeloved wife of Robert Newsome, loving stepmother to Finn Newsome.â Thereâs a picture of her. Sheâs pretty. Was pretty. The little article doesnât say she was shot to death. Instead, it says she died âsuddenly and tragically in the prime of life.â It mentions her passion for her friends, her love of an afternoon or evening on the town, her support for charitable causes.
Someone knocks at the door.
Itâs the woman detective. Detective Sanders.
âI was on my way home,â she says. âSo I thought Iâd drop by instead.â
Instead of what? I wonder.
âTheyâve released the body,â she says. âYour father, I mean. They want to know where to send him.â
I stare at her. Where to send him? What is she talking about?
She looks at me like sheâs studying for a test.
âCan I come in for a minute, Lila?â she asks.
I step aside to let her pass. She closes the door gently behind her.
Now that sheâs inside, I feel I have to offer her somethingâtea or coffee. But she shakes her head.
âIâm fine,â she says. She glances around ourâmyâbare apartment. âThey want to know what funeral home to send the body to,â she says in a soft voice. âHave you given any thought to the arrangements?â
I shake my head and feel like an idiot. I have no idea what I thought was going to happen, but, no, I havenât given any thought to the arrangements.
âLila,â she says, âIâm sorry to have to ask this, and I donât mean any offense by it, but do you have any money to pay for a funeral? Did your father have an insurance policy or anything like that?â
âI donât think so,â I tell her. Knowing my father, I doubt it.
She pulls a small folded paper from her jacket pocket and holds it out to me. Itâs a brochure.
âThe city has a program,â she says. âIt pays funeral costs when next of kin canât afford to.â
I take the brochure from her, but I donât look at it. Something is wrong with my eyes all of a sudden. They wonât focus. I canât read the words.
âI can call them if you want,â Detective Sanders says. âWould that be okay?â
I nod.
âOkay.â She smiles at me. It makes her look like a regular person instead of a cop. âOkay. Iâll
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley