Two days before Christmas, I stood beside Angie Morelli at the head of Joe's coffin accepting condolences and trying not to vomit. Not only had the morning sickness come on strong in the week since I'd found out I was pregnant again, but every time someone murmured that my husband had been 'such a good man' a fresh wave of nausea washed over me and it was all I could do to bite my tongue and grip the edge of the platform beside me. All I had to do was make it through another half an hour here, the burial, and the wake and then I could go home, get Frankie into bed, and fall apart. Every second that passed, and every glance sideways from my mother-in-law, made the burden of my secret harder and harder to bear, though.
Unexpectedly, the whispers of my report to the police mere hours before Joe's death, and of the domestic violence that had led to it, had been slow to emerge. And from what I could tell, what rumours had managed to start circulating were being quickly shut down, like no one could actually believe that Joe would do such a thing. You shouldn't speak ill of the dead, after all. Hell, I hadn't even been berated by my mother about the multiple men I'd had traipsing through the house before my husband was even in the ground. She hadn't said boo. Not about Joe, not about the domestic violence charges, not about the Merry Men.
On the one hand, it was a relief to not have to deal with her disparaging comments on top of everything else. On the other hand, I was left tense and ready to defend myself at a moment's notice.
But with every day, every second that passed without the widespread knowledge and acknowledgment of what I'd done, what Joe had done, the urge to lock it up in a box and bury it deep down never to be seen or spoken of again grew stronger. And the deeper down I shoved it, the worse I felt.
The deep breathing I was doing to battle my increasing dizziness and try to keep my breakfast down must not have been as subtle as I thought as the latest wave of mourners headed for the door. Angie gripped my bicep as I swayed a little too far and almost lost my balance despite my steadying hand on the platform, and predictably, I instinctively tensed and shrank away from her.
I hated my body's reaction to the touch. I hated the fear that rose in my throat alongside the bile. I hated the way my daughter's eyes darted to me at the sudden movement, checking that I was okay from where she sat on the front pew with my father.
"Stephanie?" she questioned, a hard look in her eyes as she cast her gaze over me.
Great. Just what I needed: a lecture from Joe's mom about putting on a brave face and showing the world what a good wife I was to her son. My eyes shot past Angie to Ranger. He had been lingering at the back of the church, aware that his presence was less than welcome by the majority of the congregation today, but ever watchful in case something were to happen. He'd appeared on the back porch late last night, expressing concern for the lack of active gossip around the events leading up to Joe's death, and I'd agreed he could post a man at the church to keep an eye on things.
Of course he'd chosen to come himself.
My reaction to Angie's grip on my arm was like a distress beacon and he'd activated protection mode, slicing through the crowd to get to me. The words that left her lips as she moved her hand from my arm to the small of my back, though, were softer than I had ever heard Angie Morelli when addressing me. "Let's find a quiet place to sit down for a few minutes."
I nodded numbly, sending Ranger a look to stay close, and allowed her to lead me off to the chapel. She took a moment to ensure we were out of view of the rest of the church (everyone but Ranger, at least, but he had a knack for going unnoticed) before she sat down next to me on one of the pews. Her hands were cold as ice as they caught mine, holding them tightly as she once again scrutinised me. What the hell was going on?
"I'm fine," I assured her, taking another deep breath just to be on the safe side. Sitting helped. Being away from the people who knew nothing of the nightmare my husband had become in my life before he'd died helped. But the look in Angie Morelli's eyes did not. It was like she was seeing me properly for the first time, and what she saw was churning her stomach. Just great. I never got the impression she fully approved of Joe and my marriage, but she'd managed to put on a decent act to at least not make me feel like I was a leper at family dinners and other functions. Having Frankie had also contributed to some of the cooling of her attitude toward me.
Now though?
"You're not fine," Angie countered bluntly.
A sigh fell from my lips and I lifted one hand to swipe a bead of nausea-induced sweat from my brow. "I'm pregnant," I said reluctantly, looking anywhere but at my mother-in-law. "I wasn't going to tell anyone until after Christmas. Certainly not before the funeral. It's bad enough with Joe's death, I don't want the extra sympathy that comes with-"
"That's not it."
Shocked, I snapped my attention back to her face. The hard scrutinising glare was still there, but there was more to it, behind the facade I thought I caught a glimpse of… fear?
"I'm sorry?" I asked, for want of a better reply.
"I know the signs better than most, Stephanie," Angie said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I've lived through it." She shook her head more mournfully than throughout the whole funeral, and the sinking feeling in my gut only increased. Lived through what? "I hoped the rumours weren't true," she informed me. "For your sake, I hoped he had managed to escape the Morelli curse, but-" She lifted our still joined hands, releasing my right hand so that she could push back the sleeve on my left, slowly fitting her fingers into the pattern of the barely visible bruises there. "My Joseph wasn't a good man to you, was he?"
I bit my lip, determined not to cry, to give in, but my emotions were too raw, and seeing the understanding in Angie's eyes only made it harder. I didn't want her to know. She deserved to remember her son as the good man that had made a positive difference in the community as a skilled police detective. She'd already endured her share of horror and heartbreak at the hands of Joe's father; she didn't need to live with the knowledge that her son had followed in his footsteps.
Slowly, she released my wrist and brushed my sleeve back down, settling our hands into her lap once more. "You reported him because you feared for your baby's life," she stated, staring at the hymn book that had been left behind on the back of the pew in front of us. "You were at Rangeman because you knew they had facilities and resources to support domestic violence victims. You reported him, and he was put on leave because they needed to investigate and he flew off the handle and started drinking. And when the booze in the house was insufficient he went to a bar, and because he was spoiling for a fight, and stupid, he got himself killed."
I just stared at her. The newspapers had been sparse on details. The headline claimed "Plainclothes Detective Killed in Bar Attack." The article had gone on to praise the good work Joe had done in his time on the force, and I'd stopped reading.
"It's true, isn't it?" she asked insistently. "This is what happened?'
My nod was slow, but the tears were like a rushing river, plummeting off my cheeks almost in a waterfall. "I'm so sorry," I sobbed, trying to extract my hands so I could find one of the many tissues I'd stashed in my pockets before leaving home this morning. Thankfully, she released my hands before it turned into a struggle and triggered another panic attack, but as I fumbled for my pocket, she reached up and gently caressed my cheek, swiping away the tears that continued to fall with her thumb.
"You do not need to be sorry," she said firmly, ducking her head to try to catch my gaze so she could hold it. I let her, even though the tears brimming her eyes made me want to squinch mine shut. "Do you hear me? Joe's behaviour is not your responsibility. If anyone should be sorry for the way he turned out, it's me. But you? Stephanie, you should be nothing but proud for what you managed to do. So many women don't make it out of abusive relationships alive. You have strength, and determination, and I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but you will heal from this. I just wish I'd seen the signs early enough to stop it before it began."
All I could do was nod into her hand. Of all the interactions I expected to have with Angie Morelli this Christmas, I never factored in her struggles with her own husband before his death and what that would mean for her understanding of the situation. How many family dinners had I awkwardly endured wondering if Joe's mom would ever get over the fact that I'd brought him in when he jumped bail, and now, with her son dead and the true state of our relationship revealed, she opened her arms and folded me into a hug while we both mourned the good man Joe could have - should have - been.
It was a cold comfort, knowing that Angie believed the rumours she had heard, believed me when I confirmed that what she suspected was true, and understood the dual pains warring inside me.
"You should go sit with Francesca," Angie instructed when we finally broke apart long minutes later. She offered me a tissue that had been tucked under her bra strap, and I blotted my face with it before blowing my nose with an embarrassingly loud honk that echoed through the church. "You don't need to accept any more praises and condolences for the loss of a man who hurt you."
I nodded and thanked her, and she just tsked, wiping away a stray tear on her own cheek. "You're family, Stephanie," she pointed out. "And we take care of our family."
We returned to the main area of the church where, to my dismay, there were still mourners milling around, and I did as Angie said, sliding onto the cushioned pew next to my daughter and immediately dragging her into a tight hug.
"Mama loves you so much," I breathed into her soft curls. "You're such a brave girl."
"Wuv you too, Mama," she murmured back, hugging me back as best she could with the teddy she'd brought home from Rangeman trapped in the crook of her arm.
*o*
Late that night, Dad pulled into the driveway of the house Joe had inherited from his aunt. The house that had been my home for going on five years, and while some of the weight that had been dragging me down had been lifted with the funeral over and Angie's reaction to the truth, as I stared up at the house, those familiar icicles started forming in my chest again. Memories, both good and bad, filled every corner of the building and it felt like I was living with a ghost.
I had spent as little time as possible here over the last week. Eating meals with my parents. Working on funeral arrangements at Angie's house. And I could certainly squeeze out another couple of days of a similar routine in the name of Christmas, but once the gifts were unwrapped and the turkey eaten, I'd have no excuse. And the thought of wafting about the house that had been such a miserable prison for the last three months was excruciating.
"I'll carry Frankie in for you," Dad said, squeezing my knee as he opened his door to get out.
I nodded numbly, even though he was already halfway around the car to retrieve my sleeping daughter from her booster seat.
"Valerie is bringing the kids over to make Christmas cookies tomorrow morning at ten," Mom informed me before I could unclip my seatbelt. "You should bring Francesca around as well. I think she could use the time doing something normal with her cousins."
I didn't have the energy to try to decipher the hidden meaning behind her tone, so I just nodded again. "Thanks, Mom."
Upstairs, Dad helped prop Frankie up while I changed her out of her dark dress and tights and into her christmas pjs. I watched him lower her back down onto the bed, tuck her in and give her a goodnight kiss on the forehead and wished he could do the same for me. It felt like I hadn't slept properly since the last time Dad tucked me in like that when I was a child. A bone deep exhaustion had taken over my entire body this week, and I didn't think I would ever recover. Not with the addition of the baby making his or her presence known so insistently every morning.
"Get some sleep, Pumpkin," Dad said, pulling me into a hug when he reached the doorway. "It'll all look better in the morning."
I hugged him back fiercely, thanked him for everything he had done for me and Frankie this week, and promised I'd be over as soon as I felt well enough to drive the next morning. Then he was on his way out the door, and I was on my way to the spare bedroom to crawl under the covers and hope for a dreamless sleep.