The Haunted - Jessica Verday [12]
Early bird gets the worm. I held my mug up and toasted the birds. Then I readjusted myself and got comfortable. I didn’t even notice when my head began drooping and my eyes started to close.
When Mom woke me up two hours later, baffled as to why I was sleeping in the chair, I was more baffled at how I’d managed to put my half-full cup of coffee down on the floor next to me without remembering that I’d done it or spilling a single drop. Apparently, I was some kind of sleep juggler or something.
I staggered back to my room, rubbing my eyes the whole way. You can’t go back to bed, I told myself. The ceremony is less than six hours away, and you have to think about what you’re going to say.
Grabbing a spiral-bound notebook and a pen from the desk, I sat down on the window seat. But the pen wouldn’t work, and it took me a good five minutes before I finally gave up and grabbed a different one. Putting pen to paper, I tried to sort out my thoughts.
Kristen Maxwell, who had a tragic drowning accident… I crossed that out. Everyone who was going to be at the bridge probably already knew what had happened there. No need to state the obvious.
Today we are here to celebrate… Another scratch line. That sounded too happy. This needed to be more… somber.
The Good Book says that there is a season to be born and a season to die.… Too preachy.
I balled up the piece of paper and sat back. What was I really trying to say here? Was this about her death? Or her life?
Trying a different angle, I bent over the notebook and wrote down some of the things I’d admired about Kristen. Her laugh. Her infectious smile. Her kindness. Her loyalty. Her fierce protection of our friendship. If only people could see those sides of her, my job would be done. She had been an easy person to love.
Satisfied with what I’d come up with, I took another short nap and woke up with plenty of time to get ready. I knew right away what to wear. It only seemed right to put on her favorite maroon corset-style top—the one I’d taken from her bedroom after I’d found the diaries—and a flowing black skirt. She would have liked that outfit.
“Boots or flats, Kristen?” I debated, as I rummaged through my closet. One heavy black boot fell at my feet with a solid thump, and I looked down. “Okay. Boots it is.” I laced them up and moved to the bathroom to style my hair. I was finished ten minutes later.
I almost forgot my notebook as we got in the van to leave, but I hurried back to my room and grabbed it. Dread tied my stomach into knots, and the short trip to the bridge passed all too quickly.
“How many people are going to be there?” I asked Mom as Dad pulled into the Old Dutch Church parking lot. The church was next to the bridge, and it looked like that was where everyone was parking.
“Fifty, a hundred. I’m not really sure. I don’t think any more than that.” Swallowing hard, I locked my hands together and squeezed until they turned white. The fierce pressure was a welcome distraction from the mind-numbing fear that was threatening to take over at the thought of “fifty, a hundred” people all listening to what I had to say.
“Are you sure I have to do this?” I asked. “Why does it have to be me that says something about her?”
Mom opened her door and stood up, smoothing out the edges of her wrinkle-free black pantsuit. Pausing for a moment to look back at me, she said in a soft tone, “Because you were her best friend, Abbey. You knew her better than anyone.” Unlocking my hands, I released my seat belt and climbed out of the car. I gripped the sides of my skirt. The parking lot was full. It reminded me of Kristen’s funeral. There was standing room only that day. And it was raining.
If I turned to glance at the mausoleum on the hill, would he be standing there? Watching me? White-blond hair and a black suit. Green eyes and an easy smile. Caspian…
Forcing those thoughts away, I clutched my skirt harder. A bead of sweat ran down my back, and I shifted uncomfortably. Several people stood by their