Holding his Hostage - Amy Gamet

1

Till death do us part, you son of a bitch.

Joanne Regan shivered in the bitter December wind as a preacher she’d never met stood over her husband’s casket and spoke of God’s unending love. David hadn’t believed in God. For that reason alone, she’d been sure to get a preacher.

Fiona’s mittened hand was clenched tightly in her own, the bitter wind stinging Joanne’s bare skin. Her younger daughter had been physically attached to her since learning of David’s death—a fist knotted in Jo’s hair, a leg crooked over hers on the sofa—as if the connection could keep death from taking her mother, too.

Lucas stood beside Fiona, his yellow ski jacket standing out from the crowd like a daffodil in a pile of ash, and Jo let her gaze rake over the impossibly tall form of her middle child. It was as if he’d simply been stretched, the toddler she remembered pulled into a boy, and she ached to rake her fingers through his wispy blond hair, but he would only pull away if she touched him.

So much pain.

Her throat clenched with an intensity of emotion David’s death had failed to stir. Lucas was only beginning to see his father’s shortcomings before the anger and resentment had been washed away, a single phone call obliterating all.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her teeth chattering against the cold.

Life without David had long been her dream, but she hadn’t wanted him to die, for God’s sake. A divorce, neat and clean, the end to this year-long separation and its own new beginning. But he’d fought her at every turn, the bitterness that had grown between them manifesting in custody arrangements and the division of the household.

It had been hardest on April, the oldest of the three at nearly twelve. Joanne turned her head to take in the girl’s silhouette, April as still and willowy as a straight pin balanced on end. She was enveloped in one of Joanne’s long coats, her hair hanging in thick brown plaits and secured with pink barrettes that surely had been borrowed from Fiona.

April was smack between woman and child, the distance between mother and daughter growing wider by the moment. Just this morning, they’d fought.

Joanne had lifted heavy arms to stir milk into her coffee, cold winter sunshine landing in strips across the table as she contemplated the funeral ahead. April’s phone was there, and she picked it up, desperately wanting some insight into the girl’s current state of mind.

April was the only one who hadn’t cried when Jo told them of their father’s death, whether for lack of grief or the inability to express it, Joanne could only guess, having long since been excluded from her daughter’s list of confidantes.

Her friends will help her through this, even if she won’t confide in me.

God, she hoped that was true, the bold colors and bright photos of Instagram flying by on the screen. She found April’s page, but there was no post announcing her father’s death, no heart emojis or prayer hands offering solace in her daughter’s time of need. She checked the private messages.

I WANT TO MEET YOU.

The words jumped out at her from the screen. She scrolled up to see the earlier conversation, skimming snippets as she went.

You’re so funny…

…I love our talks…

My mom is pissing me off…

My dad died.

There it was. Three words in a private message to Justin971, the only evidence of a real friend in a sea of selfies and memes. She frowned, trying to conjure a Justin from her memory of field days and volleyball games, but failing to find a match. She didn’t even know who April’s friends were anymore, and the knowledge hurt her heart.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

She’d never seen April so angry.

Fiona tugged on her hand, pulling her back to the present. “I gotta go potty,” she whispered.

“Just a few more minutes. Can you wait?”

The girl stuck out her bottom lip but nodded. “I’m cold.”

“I know. Me, too.”

Jo turned back to the preacher, the familiar lines of the psalm washing over her, constricting her throat. They’d been happy together once, hadn’t they? It had been so many years, she could barely remember if it was true. The lies were far more easily brought to mind, the betrayal, the pain, the verbal abuse.

The wind kicked up and she squinted against it, her eyes coming to rest on the deep brown casket as she visualized what must be inside. Poor David. No one deserved to die as he had. The funeral