DOM: Prologue

It seems strange that so many people, even when they aren’t talking, can make so much noise.

Heels clicking on the polished wood floors. Whispered excuse mes. The swooshing of skirts.

My fingers tangle in my black skirt.

Mom said she bought it new for me, but I know she didn’t. It had that smell, the one clothes have when they come from that big store filled with other people’s old stuff. But I shook it out a bunch. And I think I got the smell out. Mostly, at least.

I squeeze the fabric tighter.

Most of the people here are adults, and I know they dress differently than kids, but I still feel… out of place. Like I don’t belong here. But that’s stupid because—

“Valentine,” Mom hisses, keeping her voice quiet.

I glance down and realize I’ve accidentally pulled my skirt up over my knees. I can sense her movement before I see it and manage to jerk my arm away just in time to avoid one of her pinches.

I don’t dare look up at her. I know she’ll be narrowing her eyes at me in that way she does. So I quickly push my skirt back into place and sit up straighter, folding my hands in my lap.

The pew is hard underneath my butt, and I have to fight the urge to wiggle.

This is my first funeral.

The church is huge. Like so much bigger than any place I’ve ever been in. And it looks just like it does in movies. The super high ceiling and colorful windows. The people dressed all in black with their murmured voices. The fancy floral arrangements on either side of the shiny casket. And the giant portrait of Dad framed in swirly gold.

I’m old enough to understand what’s going on, what death is. And it looks just like I imagined it would. Except I don’t know why my mom and I are sitting way back here. Shouldn’t we be up front? In the first row? Isn’t that where family is supposed to sit? And even though Dad didn’t live with us—because he was a busy businessman—we’re still family. He always told me we were family.

My throat tightens, and I drop my eyes away from Dad’s smiling face and stare at my hands. My knuckles turn a whitish color as I squeeze my fingers together.

I want to ask Mom if we can move up a few rows, but the spots are already full. And she’s been extra mean lately, so asking her questions now seems like a bad idea.

I remember one of my teachers telling us that everyone deals with emotions in different ways. But I don’t know that she’s sad about Dad, because she hasn’t cried at all.

Not like me.

I miss Dad. It’s been months since I’ve seen him. And last time…

Something in my chest twists as I think of it.

Last time, when Mom was still asleep, he made me a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast. It was good. And he made one for himself and sat with me at the little table. And when we were halfway done, I asked Dad if I could live with him.

Mom would be mad if she heard me say it, so I whispered it.

It took all my courage. But Dad loved me. He always said so.

Except, when I asked him, the smile on his mouth slipped away.

The look on his face made my heart hurt. So I scooted my chair closer to his, and even more quietly, I said, “Please.”

A small whimper catches in my chest as I remember the way he shook his head.

I wanted him to say yes so badly.

I was sure if I found the time to ask him, he’d say yes.

Because he said he loved me.

But he didn’t say yes.

He just shook his head.

Tears start to fill my eyes all over again, and I’m too busy blinking them away to notice the next pinch aimed at the soft spot on the back of my arm.

I jump and press my lips together hard, trapping in the cry that wants to escape.

I will the stinging ache to go away and stare straight ahead, looking at Dad’s photo.

We have the same hair color. His had gray in it, but he always told me mine was just like his when he was younger. The different shades of brown. The way it’s thick and straight. He even brought me a picture of himself from when he was in high school. I’m not that old yet, but he was right. Our hair is the same.

I wonder if I can keep that big photo. I know it’s printed that size just for the funeral, but the frame looks really nice, and I’d like to have it.

There’s a loud thud as someone shuts the heavy church doors behind us, and a man dressed in long robes walks up to the front of the room.

I swallow.

Mom explained to me that Dad’s heart stopped working. That it was over in an instant, and he was just alive one moment and dead the next. But I can’t decide if that’s good or bad. Is it really better to just be gone? I’m happy he wasn’t hurt. I wouldn’t want that. But wouldn’t it have been better to know? Maybe if he’d known, he could have come home one last time. Maybe he’d have let me stay with him, for just a little while.

The man in the robe gestures with his hands as he starts to talk. He must have a microphone on him since the words are loud in the room. And I’m glad, because we’re so far away but I still want to hear him.

He starts by greeting everyone and talking about being called home. I don’t really understand all of it, but then he says something that’s wrong.

“He is survived by his wife, Barbara, and their two children, King and Aspen.” His voice fills the church as he gestures to a trio of people in the front row.

That’s wrong.

Dad didn’t…

We’re his family.

I’m his child.

I look up at Mom, but her eyes are staring straight ahead, her jaw twitching as she bites her teeth together.

The room is still filling with the man’s words, but I can’t understand them.

I sit up straighter, stretching my neck, straining to see the people the man is talking about.

There’s been a mistake.

But then I see it. The back of a man’s head who is sitting in the front row. He’s taller than those around him, and his hair is the exact same shade as mine.

The exact same shade as my dad’s.

How?

I lean forward, trying to see the other person, the girl, but my mom’s hand lands on my leg. Her fingertips dig into my thigh, a silent and painful message to sit still.

Wife? Dad has a wife?

But what does that mean?

I chance another look up at Mom. This time she’s glaring down at me, daring me to make a noise.

I don’t.

I don’t say a thing.

I just wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold my heart inside my body.

What is going on?

My eyes are looking forward, but I’m stuck somewhere else. The look on Dad’s face when I asked if I could live with him. The way he shook his head. How he would only come by every few months.

I blink, finally taking in the number of people here.

He lived here.

My dad had to have lived here, in the cities.

It only took us twenty minutes to drive here today.

He was this close the whole time.

He was this close and only visited every few months.

My throat starts to burn.

He would call me his little Valentine. His perfect girl. He would tell me he loved me.

And I loved him so much.

But he lied.

He tricked me.

Tears roll down my cheeks. And I don’t know if I’m crying for Dad or for myself.

Why would he lie to me?

Mom lied to me, too. But that thought comes and goes, hardly leaving an impact. She’s always been a liar, always been mean. She was always nicest when Dad was around. But he won’t be around anymore. Not ever again.

I wipe my nose on my sleeve.

Mom can pinch me all she wants for doing it. I don’t have any Kleenex.

The man up front says something, and everyone stands.

I’ve seen this in movies, too.

I stand and sit and kneel and stay silent when everyone chants things they’ve all memorized but that I don’t know. And I do it all with tears on my cheeks.

This morning, I asked Mom if I could use her makeup. She snapped at me, saying no.

I wanted to look my best for Dad, but now I’m glad she wouldn’t let me. I’d have ruined it. At least this way, the sleeves of my plain black long-sleeve shirt—that’s too tight since I grew another two inches this year—are only damp, not stained with makeup.

We stand a final time, and the man in the robe tells us to go with god, and if my face wasn’t so numb, I’d wrinkle my nose.

Didn’t he say earlier that Dad was with god now? So isn’t telling us to go with god kinda like telling us all to die?

A sharp finger in my side makes me focus, and I see that everyone is starting to leave, so I turn and face the aisle, waiting for our turn to go.

The front rows are excused first, and my throat tightens as a woman with a black veil covering her hair walks down the aisle toward the big doors that have been swung back open.

She must be Dad’s wife.

I think the words, and a second later, her eyes snap over to meet mine.

I step back. I recognize the look on her face. It’s one I’ve seen at home.

She hates me.

There’s a girl, a woman, behind her. I don’t know how old she is, but she looks like she might be my neighbor’s age, and she finished high school a few years ago. The girl—did the man say her name was Aspen?—has her thick brown hair pulled back into a bun.

She doesn’t look at me. Maybe she doesn’t know I’m here.

But I think…

I think she’s my sister.

I have a sister.

Just as she’s about to pass, she flicks a glance at me. Or was that above me? At my mom? Whichever one of us she’s looking at, she has the same expression on her face that her mom did.

The other one is next. But I don’t dare think of him as my brother. And I drop my eyes before he can look at me. Because I don’t think I can take it. I don’t think I can take one more person looking at me in disgust.

My dad is a liar.

My mom is a liar.

I think I have siblings. But I think they hate me.

And I don’t want to be hated.

I just want to be loved.