Chapters (54)
It must take Quinn a few moments to realize I’m not following him anymore, because the next thing I know a gruff stranger’s voice is in my ear asking me to move, people are trying to get by. And then my eyes are open and Quinn is leading me to a bench.
“Fuck. What happened, Vera?”
I shake my head, rubbing my temples with my index fingers. “I don’t know. I’m just fucked up. Let’s move on. Forget about it.” But he takes my hand and pulls me back down as I try to stand up.
“I have something for you, actually. I’m not sure if it’ll help.”
I grin. “A sedative? I though you weaned yourself off of Xanax a while ago.”
He scratches the back of his neck and brings his backpack to his lap, rummaging around in it, slipping out a familiar white envelope. And my heart is in my throat.
“Why the fuck did you bring that here? I told you to throw it away.” I scoot away from him on the bench and get up, start to walk quickly away from him, almost colliding with a stroller, another mother cooing at her toddler.
Quinn catches up with me in no time. “Because of that reaction. I think you need to read it.”
I fold my arms, glaring at him. “Fuck off, Quinn. I don’t need to do anything. And fuck you for taking my mail without asking.”
He rubs his face, moving us back toward the side of the path as the mom gives us an alarmed look. “I read it, Vera. You need to read it, too. I think it will help. You obviously know who it’s from.”
I snatch the envelope from him, wrinkling the paper in the process, filled with rage that he’s making me do this, but I know I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t. He’s carefully slit it open along the top fold, but I tear into it like an animal, anyway. I would use my teeth if I could.
I watch the Michigan postmark tear apart, flutter down to the ground. I don’t bother to pick it up.
The letter is on pretty good stock. Not the most expensive, but hefty nonetheless. I focus on this instead of the words, my hands shaking, the flora surrounding me swimming in my peripheral vision.
A Remembrance Ceremony. A celebration of her life, one year after her death. Odilie Newburn, the typeface precious and pink, curly, like an invitation to a baby shower, a wedding.
I tear it up, let the pieces fall among the flowers.