Page 8 of From West, With Regret

“He’ll still get this beautiful view, though,” I whisper back, nodding toward the river. It’s the only bit of honesty I can offer.

It is a beautiful view. The still, heavy gray clouds float above the New York skyline. The chaotic sounds of the city seem so far away, even though we’re just on the other side of the river. It’s amazing how isolating it can appear from the outside. But it’s a dream to be here for so many.

“He loved you, you know,” Glenna whispers again.

I open my mouth and breathe in, her words hitting me. At one point, I did love Heath. I may not be broken hearted overhis death now, but I don’t believe it would have always been this way. I think back to when I married him and know what I felt for him at the time was love. But after the honeymoon period, my love for him quickly unraveled. Now, here I am.

The only sadness I feel is for Glenna—a mother who has lost her son.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to meet until today,” I tell her.

“Oh, sweetheart.” She waves me off and pats my knee, touching the silk fabric still clinging to my skin. “What’s important is that you’re here now.”

I eye the empty lectern. “I just didn’t want you thinking I didn’t want to meet you. I asked Heath, but he never?—”

“It’s all right, London,” she interrupts me, pinning her eyes on mine. “I’m sure Heath had his reasons. It’s nothing to worry about now.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and blink back at her comment. Her stare burns a hole in my ungrieving chest.

“Welcome, family and friends.” The priest walks up to the lectern, finally taking the space behind it. He’s dressed in a black robe with a deep purple sash draped over his shoulders. I didn’t even know the Hall family was catholic.

“We’re here to mourn and remember a life cut regrettably and tragically too short,” the priest continues. “The life of Heath Preston Hall. A beloved son, brother, and husband.” The priest scans the front row before landing on me.

“Before the ceremony continues, Heath wished for his wife to say a few words about him before the rest of his family.” The priest lifts his arm and holds it out to me. “Mrs. Hall, please.”

Feeling everyone’s eyes on me, my cheeks heat against the sticky air. It clings to my damp skin, intensifying with every passing second. I swallow the lump that hasn’t stopped swelling in my throat and run my hands down the front of my thighs. Ican’t tell if the moisture on my palms is from my dress or my nerves.

I clear my throat as Glenna lifts her hand and grabs onto my arm to give it a gentle squeeze of encouragement. I wish my sister was able to come. Her support would be more welcome than the one I’m receiving from the mother-in-law I haven’t met until thirty minutes ago.

“Go on, sweetheart,” she urges.

I nod and breathe through my nose, leaving my purse in my seat. When I stand, I adjust my dress, peeling it away from the backs of my thighs, and carefully walk up to the podium. My boots squelch into the soft, wet ground. The priest steps off to the side, and it isn’t until I’m standing directly in front of the microphone that I realize how many people are at Heath’s funeral. The crowd stretches far back past the ten rows of seating. When I first stepped up to Heath’s casket to pay my respects, there were only a fraction of the people here now.

My gut twists, and I look down at the wood edge of the lectern. There’s nothing but a Bible sitting there.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. I never wrote a speech. I couldn’t even write five things I would miss about my husband. My mind drew a blank then, and it’s drawing a blank now. I twist my fingers in front of me—twist them until my skin burns. Tears prick the corners of my eyes before I look down to Heath lying in front of me. To the lacquered coffin and mountain of black, purple, and white roses.

“Um.” I clear my throat and speak into the microphone. “Heath was…”

I’m searching for the words while I search the crowd. A sea of strangers. Just like I was in Heath’s world. A stranger. An outsider. Heath never let me in, yet somehow, he wanted me to speak first at his funeral. Perhaps he did this on purpose. He wants me to scramble to find the words to speak whenit matters most. He’s probably getting off on this from wherever he is, watching me sweat and squirm in public.

Blackness permeates the corners of my vision. I feel myself sifting through the puzzle pieces again, lost in the darkness of an unknown sea. I’m kicking and clawing to find a way out.

My attention comes to a stop at Glenna. She’s staring at me blankly, but her wringing hands are unmistakable. She switches her crossed ankles before she shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

I clear my throat again and tuck my frizzy hair behind my ear. I run my fingers across the side of my face and lick my lips. “Heath was, um…”

Glenna’s eyes slowly widen, her own panic taking over.

I think of the first time I met Heath, outside the bank in Boston, when I’d tripped on the curb. The black car barreling toward me as I laid on all fours, frozen on the asphalt. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me back.

He saved me.

I told him it wasn’t the first time I’d been in an accident and then he played me, molding me into the wife he wanted me to become.

He took advantage of me.

“Heath was a good man,” I whisper into the microphone. The lie tastes like bitter, sharp acid.

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