Page 49 of Bound By Them
My father closes his eyes briefly. It’s his version of an eyeroll, I guess. “Why the fuck would we care about that guy?”
Only about a thousand reasons. I say the first one that pops into my head. “Revenge. For the last whiskey shipment.”
“Patrick Aseyev was meaningless.” My father waves a hand like he’s shooing off a gnat. “Even the rest of the Aseyevs were mad at him. He was a loose cannon.”
Loose cannon. My father has called me that before—more so when I was in my twenties and not following every one of his instructions to the letter.
He goes on, “If we had killed that little punk, we’d have been doing the Aseyevs a favor.”
Ouch. I continue with the parallel I drew in my head. Patrick was a loose cannon. I was a loose cannon. If Patrick’s death is a favor to the Aseyevs, then my death would be…
“Do you have any other useless questions for me at”—my father checks his watch theatrically—“five-fifty-two in the morning?”
I slowly turn on my heel and leave without another word.
16
Danica
I haven’t heard from Troy since I left his tiny apartment. It’s been days. I tell myself that this is better, this is what I wanted. I want them to leave me alone. They aren’t safe.
Since when have you ever gone for the safe option, Dani? Was fucking Troy safe?
But maybe the safe option is good. Maybe it’s healthier.
Maybe Patrick would still be alive if he’d opted for the safe option.
Ten days after his death, we now have a body to bury. It seems too soon. Forensics moved fast, I guess, or the evidence was straightforward enough. I’m not sure. All I know is my aunts want to put him to rest immediately and they’ve been planning, all week, how to get as much of the family together as possible.
I don’t even know half the people gathered around his gravesite. I bet Patrick didn’t know them, either. What would he say, if he could see this crowd of family, friends, and strangers? He would make some kind of self-deprecating joke, laughing about it all.
The cemetery’s grass is springy under my heels. I have to walk carefully so I don’t fall over. Dmitri sticks close to my side, but Leah isn’t here. While she would love to be here with us, things are still tense with my aunts and how they supported Patrick even after he hurt Leah.
Eventually, Aunt Milana and Aunt Sylvia will be ready to work things out with Leah. But Patrick’s funeral isn’t the place for that.
As the service goes on, I don’t cry like I expected to. Instead, I feel a dull, roaring emptiness. Echoes of waves crash in my head, drowning out the priest’s droning monologue.
Aunt Sylvia wobbles up in her traditional black dress and heels, Milana at her side. Sylvia throws the first clump of dirt on Patrick’s grave. Then it’s Milana’s turn. Rachel goes next, followed by Granddad. Then my parents, Dmitri, and finally me.
I keep my head down, afraid that if I meet the eyes of the crowd, I’ll start crying again. Tears are contagious. Like a yawn. Or vomit.
As my clod of dirt thuds against the surface of Patrick’s coffin, I wonder again what Patrick would think of all this. Is he mad that I never forgave him? Sad? Maybe he didn’t give a shit about my forgiveness and he was only trying to make up so he could come back to San Esteban.
He’s gone. He’ll never come home. He’ll never be able to make reparations—if that was even possible. He’ll never be able to try.
My heart cracks. I might have forgiven him. Given enough time, and enough effort on his part, it could’ve happened.
Now it never will.
The priest says another prayer and it’s over.
I accept hugs from what feels like the entirety of San Esteban. All I really want to do is go home, wrap myself in four different blankets, and binge-watch Academy of Ghosts. Instead, I allow near-strangers to press their perfumed bodies against mine, remarking on how I’ve grown up into a beautiful young woman, etcetera etcetera. Someone kill me and send me to the ghost academy, please.
People move off to their cars, parked on the little lane closest to Patrick’s grave. Dmitri walks with my parents and I trudge behind, teetering in my heels because of the stupid, uneven grass.
I stop short when I see a black truck parked at the rear of the line of cars. Two guys are sitting in it, watching my family mourn. I know that truck, I know those guys.
What are those two fuck-nuggets doing at my cousin’s funeral?
