Okay, let it be known that y'all are slaying me with your reviews. Are you trying to make me cry? I just love you all. In addition to heaping on the praise please don't be afraid to let me know if you don't like something or I've made a mistake. Also, some of you have been wondering if Amelia is pregnant...all I'm saying about that is that the nausea and vomiting isn't morning sickness. Make of that what you will. Oh, and GabiCC, I PROMISE there will be no more shootings. Also no more deaths. Plenty of dark and twisty ahead still, but no one else will die. I'm not that cruel.
The next morning Amelia and Owen lingered in bed well past the time they would normally be up. The house was silent, as Carolyn had gone to meet the girls for breakfast. By this point there was nothing left to do but show up for the wake, nothing to keep them busy, nothing to distract them from the nightmare their life had become. Amelia comforted Owen as he grappled with the harsh reality that, hours from now, they would stand next to a tiny white coffin as friends and acquaintances streamed by, offering up condolences for their loss; tomorrow they would bury their baby. Finally they got up. Amelia helped Owen bathe, carefully keeping his incision dry and applying a fresh dressing once he was toweled off. He slid into a t-shirt and sweatpants - they still had several hours until they had to be at the funeral home, no sense in putting on a suit now - and went downstairs as she got in the shower. He made some coffee, then inspected the fridge and settled on some leftover fruit salad. After he polished that off he moved on to the donuts and pastries; he was working his way through his second when Amelia came down, freshly showered and hair perfectly styled, clad in one of his old flannel shirts. "You hungry?" he asked, swearing she looked like she'd dropped at least ten pounds that week. "You really need to eat. Want me to make you something?"
Food is the last thing I want right now, she thought, but she could see the worry in his eyes. "Yeah, I guess. Maybe a little oatmeal," she suggested as she plopped down at the table. Her stomach was still in knots, but she knew he'd feel better if she at least tried to get something down. "Not that one," she added quietly as he grabbed a box from the pantry.
He stared at it. Apple cinnamon. Isla's favorite. He put it back and reached for the maple brown sugar kind instead. While the water boiled he poured her a glass of juice. When the oatmeal was done he set it in front of her, then sat across from her and watched as she choked down four or five spoonfuls and sipped the juice before pushing it away.
"That's it. That's all I can do," she admitted in defeat.
He reached across the table and took her hand, rubbing small circles on the back of it with his thumb. "Hey, it's okay. It's better than nothing." They say like that for a while before making their way to the couch where she curled up and rested her head on his shoulder. They sat like that for a while before Amelia went upstairs to do her make up. Owen was still sitting there when Carolyn came in.
"I would have invited you out to breakfast with us, but she's barely slept all week so I didn't want to wake you two up," she explained as she sat next to him. "Is she up yet?"
"Yeah. She's doing her make up now."
Carolyn nodded. "I don't suppose she ate anything, did she?"
"A little oatmeal and some juice. Not much, but she tried. And she didn't puke so that's good, I guess."
"Better than nothing. And how about you?"
Owen have a half-hearted chuckle. "Pretty sure I've eaten enough for both of us."
"That's good. You need to keep your strength up." Carolyn patted his knee before heading to the guest room, and Owen went upstairs to start getting dressed.
Amelia had finished her make up and was pulling a black dress over her head. It was a simple a-line dress that fell just above her knees. The last time he'd seen her in it they were celebrating a much happier occasion, their fourth anniversary. "Zip me up?" she requested as she turned to peek over her shoulder. He did as asked but lingered a bit, burying his face in her shoulder, kissing her neck and breathing in her familiar scent. "You look beautiful," he murmured as he ran his hands down over her hips.
She turned and rewarded him with a long kiss, her nimble fingers brushing his jaw. "And you look like you better get dressed," she teased, though he could tell her heart wasn't in it.
She was right, of course, and he quickly dressed in the suit she had laid out for him on the bed. She watched and expertly knotted his tie once he was dressed. They went downstairs where her mother was waiting, and his as well, and they drove in silence to the funeral home.
Amelia pauses at the door, takes a few deep breaths before entering. As they get closer to the room he feels her grip on him tighten, her nails, though short, digging into his palm; he wonders if this is it, if she's finally going to break down but no. There are tears, a few sniffles and restrained sobs, but overall she maintains her composure. Slowly they approach the casket and he takes in all the details. Of course everything is perfect. The white casket is lined with pink satin and little Isla is tucked inside with her favorite doll, looking so peaceful he could swear she's just sleeping. Her bright, springy curls are pulled back from her face and held in place with a big pink bow - she always loved having her hair done up pretty. She's wearing a sunny yellow dress with bright pink polka dots - her two favorite colors - that has layer upon layer of frothy, pink tulle under the skirt, perfect for twirling. It was meant to be her birthday dress and she will wear it on her birthday - tomorrow - but there will be no spinning in front of the mirror, no ridiculously adorable voice asking daddy, do I look beautiful?, no pink-frosting-covered fingers being wiped on the front of it. Her bottom half is hidden, but he knows she has on sparkly, pink ballet flats, the ones Amelia saw in the Target ad and drove to three different stores to find the right size because she just knew Isla would love them.
Next he takes in the flowers. Gracing the top of the casket are roses, of course, in a soft, candy pink but what makes him smile is the enormous arrangement of Gerbera daisies in shades of pink, red, orange and yellow off to the side. Isla adored those silly things with their showy, look-at-me blooms. They couldn't take a trip to the grocery store without Isla dragging them off to the floral department and begging for one and of course Owen couldn't help but recall their last trip, just days before the night that changed their lives forever.
"Daddy? Can I have this?" Isla asked coyly. She smiled up at him and batted her eyelashes as she held one of the plants, its gaudy blooms rivaled only by the even gaudier Mylar encasing its little pot.
"Isla, you have at least a dozen of them at home. Put it back," he ordered, trying - unsuccessfully, as was usually the case when dealing with his little daughter - to sound stern.
"But daaaaaaaddy, I don't have this one," she pointed out in her sweet, used-only-for-daddy sing-song voice as she ran her little fingers over the almost-neon orange petals.
Of course he gave in. They were cheap - usually four, maybe five bucks - and, as Amelia rationalized, they wouldn't rot the girl's teeth or give her diabetes like the candy and other treats most kids begged for in the grocery store. When they got home she climbed up on the kitchen counter to line it up in the big bay window with her other ones and counted them. "Fifteen!" she squealed; he knew that meant there were fourteen, because she always forgot eleven. "One, two, free, four, five, six, seben, eight, nine, ten, twelve, firteen, fourteen, fifteen!" she always said, no matter how many times he reminded her of the forgotten number.
Owen didn't know how long he'd stood there, lost in his memories, but he snapped to attention when he felt a hand on his arm. His mother. The rest of the immediate family was filing in, and soon their friends, neighbors, and colleagues would arrive.
The next four hours passed in a blur of tears and heartfelt condolences that did nothing to bring their daughter back. By the time it was over Owen was drained and he could tell Amelia was too; her shoulders were hunched, her head falling listlessly against his arm.
They went home, and Owen persuaded Amelia to choke down half an English muffin while he buried his feelings under an excessive amount of lasagna - he had no clue who had sent it over but he had to admit it was pretty Damn good - with bread and butter. Then they were off to bed where both tossed and turned before passing out skin-to-skin, managing a few hours of slumber before waking to do what neither was sure they ready for.
Confession: I rode the struggle bus through this whole damn chapter. I started it Monday night, and added to it sporadically throughout the day yesterday, but I just tanked when I hit the wake. Sometimes I'm surprised at what stumps me, especially when I can picture things so clearly in my head but fight a losing battle to put those thoughts into words. My question to you is am I giving you guys enough info? I tend not to like stories where the reader is bogged down with every minute detail of what is going on - it's tedious and exhausting to read, imo. But in writing, I'm never quite sure of what needs to be written, and what gaps the readers can be trusted to fill in on their own. So, let me know...do I need to go into more detail, or have I struck a good balance between not enough and too much?