Touched - By Cyn Balog Page 0,49
more I tried to resign myself to stay away from her, the more I felt that big hole, that emptiness. My chest tightened and ached when I thought about it. It didn’t help that I kept seeing myself kissing her, feeling my hands working through her thick platinum curls. For some reason, I couldn’t see anything in the future but that, the most improbable thing in the world.
The morning of Emma’s funeral, I put on my suit and tie. The suit was too tight. I looked like a major loser. It was only ten in the morning, and it already felt like a hundred degrees. There was no ocean breeze. I contemplated staying home about a thousand times. Then I opened up the door to the garage and climbed into the Buick.
You know those cartoons where a character is contemplating doing something, and a devil appears on one shoulder, trying to tempt him to do the bad thing, and an angel appears on the other, telling him why he should do the right thing? It was totally like that. But this time, Angel-me was telling me I needed to go and pick up Taryn, because I’d promised and it was the right thing to do. And Devil-me said I needed to go straight to the funeral, because something about Taryn was seriously screwing with my future. I went back and forth, gripping the steering wheel and mumbling to myself, until eventually the devil and the angel looked exactly the same.
Finally I just shoved the car into reverse. Gritting my teeth, I headed for the cemetery.
I knew it was a cruddy thing to do, leaving her there. I imagined her sitting on the front stoop, waiting for me. But I could explain it away. I was going to die in a car accident, right? Even though I kind of knew the Buick was safe, she’d be a moron to accept a ride with me.
It was a bright, sunny day. My limited knowledge of funerals from television and movies seemed to suggest that this was wrong; it was supposed to be raining, so much so that we would all huddle tightly around the casket in a dense forest of umbrellas. In the backseat Nan had a massive black thing, almost the size of a beach umbrella, that didn’t fold compactly like new ones did. I’d expected to use it. It would effectively seal me off from the rest of the mourners; nobody would be able to tell who was under it.
Instead, the sun shone like a spotlight pointed right on my head as I stepped out of the car and made my way across the cemetery, to the crowd. I spotted Pedro. I hadn’t seen him since that day on the beach. I didn’t think he’d have the nerve to show up, but he was probably feeling as guilty as I did. “Hey, man,” I said when I’d made my way over to him. “How’s it going?”
He nodded, looking stiff in his suit. Funny how clothes could change a person. There was a sheen of sweat mingling with the pimples on his forehead. Finally, he mumbled, “Rather be anywhere else.”
There was no doubt about it. I seconded Pedro’s emotion.
He sniffed and brought a wadded tissue to his face. Allergies, I guessed. He wasn’t the type to cry. But when he pulled the tissue away, it was covered in blood. When I looked closer, I realized there was blood on the collar of his shirt. He didn’t turn to face me, but I could see a swollen, bluish pocket on his temple and under his eye. One thing about Pedro, he was almost girlish about his appearance; he didn’t get into fights. “Whoa, man. What’s going on?”
A few people turned, saw me, and whispered. I knew it was probably, “There’s the guy who tried to revive her. The crazy one.” One old lady gave me a reproachful look and shook her head.
I’d definitely rather be anywhere else.
We stood in the last row, as far away from the rest of the mourners as possible, but suddenly Pedro faltered, almost like his knees gave out. He staggered backward. “I—can’t,” he whispered, staring at the ground.
I stared at him. For the first time I noticed there wasn’t just blood on his collar. It was all down the front of his shirt, spattering his pale blue tie. Bits of dried grass clung to the knees of his dark pants. “What? Who did that to you, man?”
“I shouldn’t