Chapter Three
Joey stared impassively at the tiny casket. Somewhere above her, someone was talking into a microphone, saying things about L.J. She wasn't listening to the person, nor did she know what she was talking about, but she knew that it was nice. Everyone said nice things at a funeral. She didn't want to hear what the people going up to the microphone had to say. She didn't care what they had to say. They had no clue what she was going through. She had no clue what she was going through. She was just . . . numb.
Unaware that the speaker had just said something about her, Joey was completely oblivious to the eyes that had turned to her. She continued to stare at the casket. Her baby boy was in there. She'd housed his body for the first nine months of his creation, she and Pacey put a roof over his head for the first four years of his natural born life, and now the casket was going to hold his inert body while his spirit went to Heaven for eternity.
And Joey was numb.
On her lap, Aliya was sleeping. She was still a little sick, and had taken medicine before they all dressed up to bid their final farewells. Next to her mother, Casey was sitting. She'd been informed that L.J. had gone to Heaven, and he wouldn't be coming back, only in her dreams and memories. Her mommy didn't know that she'd cried herself to sleep that night, and every night since then.
Pacey was crying too, sitting next to Casey. He'd taken it really hard, she knew. She'd held him in her arms while he cried in bed the first night; and the second. And she would probably do it again tonight.
Joey wasn't crying. She hadn't really cried yet. A few tears had slid down her face when she'd seen the accident, but that was it. She was shell-shocked.
She was quiet.
She was numb.
Pacey had softly touched her arm. She looked at him, dazed. It was time to go up to the coffin, he told her. She stood, giving Aliya to Bessie, and trudged up the red-carpeted steps to where her son was laying in his small chestnut, ivory satin lined coffin. She looked down into it. L.J. had his hands folded across his chest, his hair combed neatly and smoothly. His eyes were closed. He didn't move.
"He looks so peaceful . . . just like he's asleep." She heard someone near her say.
Joey heard Pacey's sharp intake of breath. He was thinking the same thing she was. L.J. didn't sleep like that. He slept either all curled up, or all spread out, with his mouth hanging partly open, snoring lightly. He wasn't asleep . . . he was dead. Her child was dead.
Her face must've gotten really sad, because she felt Pacey try to hug her, but she shoved him away with a burst of strength.
No.
Her son wasn't dead. He wasn't. She would get him and take him home. He would be safe once she took him home.
Yes.
Yes, yes, yes.
She would take him home and everything . . . everything would be just fine.
The thoughts ran through her mind in a few seconds, and as she was going to lift him from the casket, Pacey saw what she was doing and his strong hands grabbed her arms, pulling her back.
"Let me go," Joey said angrily. "I'm going to take my baby home. Let me go, damn it. Let me go!"
"He's gone, Jo." Pacey said gently. He wrapped his arms around her, and held her tight to him, keeping his haunted eyes on his son. She continued struggling for a moment, and then suddenly went limp. She gently dislodged herself from Pacey, and silently stared back down at L.J., as if she hadn't had a brief episode a few moments before.
"Something is wrong with Joey. Her son died, and she's not crying. She wasn't even crying the day he died." Joey heard someone whisper. She swallowed hard, and wondered if the woman was right, if something was wrong with her.
She lifted her eyes and glanced listlessly at Pacey as he bent down, and kissed L.J.'s cheek. As he straightened up, he caught her eyes and she could see the look of pure anguish on his face. She wasn't surprised to see tears streaming down his face. She knew how much Pacey loved L.J.
She looked down into the coffin again. She knew that she was probably taking a long time standing there, not letting anyone pass, but she didn't care. It was her child . . . But she wasn't crying . . .
Something was wrong with her, like that woman said. Joey stared down at her baby boy. Joey reached out and stroked his hair. His soft dirty-blond hair.
His hair was red with blood.
Joey squeezed her eyes shut and shoved away the memory of what she'd seen when she pulled away the sheet. She reopened her eyes and stared back at his face. His gray eyes were closed, his face looked at peace.
His eyes were partly closed, lifeless, blood poured from a gash somewhere on his head.
Stop it.
Blood streamed down his face. Stained his little white 'Pokémon' t-shirt, his jeans.
Stop it!
Blood everywhere. On the grill of the car, in the street, on the ball, on her hands and clothes as she picked him up and held her to him. Screaming. Blood. Blood was everywhere.
Someone was touching her arm. She was screaming again. Screaming aloud. Screaming for the visions to stop. Just stop it. Stop it! Go away! Stop it!
Oh God.
She had to get out of there.
She rushed down the steps. Casey was crying now. Bessie was crying. Bodie was standing up. People were staring after her. Staring, staring, everyone was staring.
Everywhere there was blood. There was blood everywhere.
She ran.
She ran until she was tired.
She began walking.
She walked until she was numb again.
And then she slowly stopped…
And then she slowly turned.
And then she walked back to bury her son.