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“Since this morning. I never left.” His voice is silky-smooth, but I still recoil like he screamed. He reaches for the glass of water on my bedside table and hands it to me. “You need to drink.”
The moment he says it, my lips feel like sandpaper. My tongue darts out to wet it, but I’m so thirsty it’s painful.
“I’m not thirsty.”
He brings the glass to my lips anyway. When he tips it into my mouth, I plan to spit it back in his face, but the cool water feels too good. I lap it up, lose myself in this tiny sliver of comfort.
“Polina brought up some bread earlier?—”
“I’m not hungry.” I pull the sheet up to my chest, trying to stave off the cold. “Where’s Nina?”
“With Polina in the nursery. I can ask her to bring?—”
“No!” I clear my throat. “No. I don’t want her to see me like this.”
Not that I’ve seen myself since Arsen broke the news. But based on how I feel, I’m guessing I don’t look so good.
Arsen leans back in the armchair like he’s waiting for something.
“How long has it been?”
Days? Weeks? Time feels slippery. Some scared, desperate part of me hopes it’s been weeks. Maybe then it won’t hurt so much.
“A few hours.”
“I’m not ready to get up.” I’ll never be ready.
“Then you don’t have to.”
My fingers claw into the sheets. “I do. I have to plan her funeral.”
Funeral.Funerals are for dead people. And my mother—my hero—my best friend in the whole world—is dead.
“Everything’s already planned.”
I swallow, blinking hard to fight back the emotion clawing at my throat. “Wh…what do you mean?”
“The venue, the minister, the floral arrangements—I took care of it.”
Somewhere underneath the sadness and relief, anger starts to churn. “You planned my mother’s funeral without consulting me?”
Arsen scoots to the edge of the armchair. “No. She did.”
“What?”
“Marie knew this was coming,” he says gently. “She left me a letter with detailed instructions about what she wanted for all of it. Right down to the food she wanted served and the passages she wanted read out loud at the service.”
“Oh.” I deflate like a balloon. “So there’s nothing for me to do.”
“She asked that you read her favorite poem at the end of the service. But she also said that, if you’d rather not, you can have someone else read it in your place.”
“That was kind of her.” Even to my ears, it sounds harsh.
She died, and I’m mad at her. It’s not fair, but that’s grief for you.
From the nursery, I hear a shrill cry, but I can’t bring myself to worry. My daughter is in good hands. For once, it’s just myself I need to worry about.
But when I turn my attention inward, it’s not grief I feel first. It’s not sadness or depression.
