Night Road - Kristin Hannah [78]
Finally she saw the family. They sat in the front pew, still and stiff and dressed in black. People paused to offer condolences as they passed.
Lexi moved toward them, unable to stop herself. She was going against the flow; mourners stared at her, frowned, moved out of her way.
In the front row, the Farradays rose in unison and turned.
Neither Jude nor Zach acknowledged her. They just stared, dull-eyed, their faces streaked with tears.
Lexi had practiced what she would say to them a hundred times, but now, faced with the magnitude of their loss and her guilt, she couldn’t even open her mouth. The whole family turned away from her and walked to the church’s side door.
Lexi felt Eva come up beside her. She sagged into her aunt, giving up the strength it had taken to come here.
“No one blames him,” Eva said bitterly. “It’s not right.”
“He wasn’t driving.”
“He should have been,” Eva said. “What good is it to make a promise and then ignore it? He should be blamed, too.”
Lexi remembered how he’d looked at her in the hospital; the green eyes she loved so much had been darkened by more than grief. She’d seen guilt there, too, as deep as her own. “He blames himself.”
“That’s not enough,” Eva said firmly. “Let’s go.”
She took Lexi by the arm and led her out of the church. Lexi could hear people whispering about her, blaming her. If she’d been less culpable, she might have agreed with Eva, maybe been pissed at Zach, but any other blame was less than hers. That was all there was. Zach had failed to live up to a promise. She’d made the deadly decision herself. Guilt and remorse filled her to the brim; there was no room for anger, too. Zach had screwed up; Lexi had done far, far worse.
“Someone should have told me it was a bad idea to go to the funeral,” Lexi said as they drove out of the parking lot.
“If someone had,” Eva said, “I’m sure you would have listened.”
Lexi wiped her eyes. “Of course.”
* * *
Jude sat huddled in the limousine’s dark interior. Outside, it began to rain; drops landed on the roof like infant heartbeats.
She was so deep in grief that when the car door opened, letting in a blast of gray and yellow light, it stung her tear-burned eyes and she looked around, disoriented.
“We’re here,” the driver said, standing by the open door. He was a slash of more black in the rain, a slanted shadow beneath an umbrella. Behind him, Molly and Tim stood huddled with their grown children.
“Come along, Zachary,” her mother said, herding him out of the limousine.
Miles slid past Jude and got out of the car. Then he held out his hand for her. “Jude.”
“Go on,” she said, glad that he couldn’t see her eyes behind the dark sunglasses she wore.
“I’ll catch up with you,” Miles said to Caroline, who no doubt nodded and walked briskly away, making sure Zach stood up straight and didn’t cry. That was what Jude remembered about her father’s funeral: not crying. No one had cried for him. Her mother simply hadn’t allowed it. She’d treated grief like a malignancy of some kind—a few snips, a few stitches, and you were good as new.
“You can’t not go,” Miles said, squatting beside the car. Rain pelted his face, straightened his hair.
“Watch me.”
“Jude.” He sighed.
It was their family sound now; before it had been laughter. Now it was the sigh. “Don’t you think I want to be strong enough for this?” she said. “I’m ashamed of myself, and I want to be there. I just … can’t. I’m not ready to watch them lower her into the ground. And I’m sure as hell not ready to stand next to you while you let go of pink balloons.” Her voice broke on that. “Like she’s up in some heaven waiting to catch them.”
“Jude,” he said tiredly, and she understood.
He wanted her to believe that Mia was in a better place, but Jude couldn’t do it.
She knew what it was costing her, this inability of hers to be strong, but she couldn’t do it. There was simply nothing of her left. Try as hard as she might (and honestly, it exhausted her to even try), she couldn’t seem to be present, not even as a mother.
Zach