Page 52 of Porcelain Lies

Rain drums against the funeral home windows. I check my phone again — no Nick, no response to the obituary I posted, no long-lost relatives emerging to share the burden. Just me, drowning in arrangements and memories.

The cemetery plot next to Dad’s costs more than I expected. I drain my savings account without hesitation. At least they’ll be together again, though the thought brings little comfort.

I dial Nick’s number for the hundredth time while signing the final papers. Straight to voicemail. His absence feels like another death I’m grieving.

“We recommend having someone stay with you during this difficult time,” the director says gently.

I nod, not bothering to explain there isn’t anyone. Hannah’s away for federal training, with no contact to the outside world for its duration. No siblings — except Nick, who’s vanished. No aunts or uncles or cousins. No Gianni. Just empty rooms waiting at home and a mountain of decisions I never wanted to make.

The rain keeps falling.

The day comes sooner than I expected, but then, everything seems to pass in a blur as time melds together. I stand frozen as they lower Mom’s casket into the ground. The cemetery workers move with practiced efficiency, their actions mechanical and impersonal. My fingers clutch a white rose so tightly the thorns bite into my palm, but I barely notice the pain.

“Nick should be here,” I whisper into the silence. The words dissolve in the misty morning air.

A few elderly neighbors huddle beneath black umbrellas at a respectful distance. They’re the only ones who showed up. No colleagues, no friends — everyone who mattered at Dad’s funeral three weeks ago sent their regrets this time. Too soon, too awkward, too much tragedy for comfortable conversation.

The casket touches bottom with a soft thud that echoes through my chest. My legs tremble as I step forward to drop the rose. It lands crooked against the polished wood, petals scattering.

“Would you like a moment alone?” the funeral director asks softly.

I nod, unable to form words. The small group of mourners retreats, leaving me standing between two fresh graves. Mom and Dad, together again, but not how anyone imagined.

My knees give out and I sink to the wet grass, mud seeping through my black dress. The carefully maintained composure that got me through the brief service shatters. Tears mix with the morning drizzle as great, heaving sobs tear through my chest.

“Nick, where are you?” My voice breaks on his name. “I need you here. Please.”

But there’s only silence, broken by the distant sound of traffic and the soft patter of rain on fresh-turned earth.

I can’t feel my legs anymore, but I stay kneeling in the mud between their graves. The rain seeps deeper into my clothes, my hair plastered against my face, but moving feels impossible. Each breath catches in my throat.

Dad’s murder. Nick disappearing without a trace. Mom’s lifeless body in her bedroom. The images crash over me in waves, each one threatening to pull me under completely.

“I found your note,” I whisper to Mom’s grave. “But you didn’t explain anything. You just said you were sorry and that you loved us.” My fingers dig into the wet earth. “What happened to Dad? Who were those men you saw? It’s not fair—”

A sob cuts off my words. I press my palm against Dad’s headstone, the cold marble grounding me for a moment. Three weeks. Just three weeks between funerals. The dates mock me from the fresh engravings.

“Nick should be here.” My voice cracks. “He needs to know what happened. He needs to come home.” But my brother’s silence feels as final as these graves. His last warning echoes in my head: “Don’t look for me.”

The rain drums harder against my shoulders, running in rivulets down my back. My black dress is ruined, caked with mud and grass stains. I should care. I should move. I should do something besides sit here falling apart. But each loss feels like another weight pressing me into the ground.

Thunder rolls overhead. The rain’s getting worse, but the physical discomfort is almost welcome — something tangible to focus on besides this hollow ache in my chest. Besides all these unanswered questions.

My teeth start to chatter as the rain soaks through to my skin. Each drop feels like another small loss, another piece of my world washing away.

When I can finally take no more, I push myself up, dimly aware of the men coming to shovel dirt into the grave. I hear it land on the casket as I drag myself to my car, my soaked dress leaving puddles on the driver’s seat. The key shakes in my hand as I try to start the engine.

One month. Just one month ago, my biggest worry was planning that charity event, dealing with Gianni’s cheating ways.

And now…

My head drops back against the seat and I pinch my eyes shut. The rain drums against the roof, matching the pounding in my head. Three empty chairs at what used to be our family dinner table. Three voids where there used to be warmth and life.

“What happened, Dad?” I whisper to the empty car. The questions swirl like the raindrops on my windshield, each one leading to another with no answers in sight.

The rain keeps falling as I sit paralyzed in my car, unable to drive away yet, unable to face what comes next. Three losses. Three holes torn in the fabric of my world. And nothing but questions echoing in the silence they left behind.

The cemetery’s iron gates tower over the entrance to the place that holds both my parents now. The fresh mud of their graves will settle and grass will grow, but the hollow space inside me feels permanent.

---