Elizabeth Finn - Unforgiven

She stood and left the room to dress quickly, and before she knew it and before she was prepared for it, she was standing in a room full of coffins at Jepson’s with Jillian on her arm. Jillian used to drag Jess and her around the streets of Eureka Springs on their shopping excursions. She’d link their elbows with hers and drag them from one shop to another, laughing and chatting the entire way. There was no laughing today, and Jess was long gone, but the feel of Jillian’s arm linked with hers was a bizarre sort of nostalgia that left Bailey fighting the tears.

She spent no more than five minutes looking at the coffins before deciding on a sterling silver-colored one. Every time Bill Jepson started giving her details on the coffin, she walked away. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate just how airtight the coffin would stay for how many years, but she could barely handle knowing her mother’s body was going to be in one of these boxes, let alone that there were actually airtightness ratings for such things.

“How much is it?” Jepson just looked at her.

“Dear, he’s been given explicit instructions not to answer those questions. You don’t need to worry about it, and I think it’s a lovely choice.” Jillian squeezed her elbow. Bailey couldn’t help but shake her head and sigh, and the moment she did, Jillian spoke again. “He wants to do this. Don’t feel bad about that.”

“It’s an odd thing feeling grateful and guilty at the same time.” She spoke as she trailed her fingers over the hard sterling surface.

Jillian stopped in her tracks and turned toward her, smiling. “I’m sure this isn’t the time, but it’s important. I want to tell you thank-you.” The confusion must have been quite obvious on Bailey’s face, because Jillian wasted no time continuing. “Thank you for coming home. You may not realize it, but you’ve given Darren back to us.” Her eyes were filled with tears, and Bailey’s suddenly were too. “There was a time I wasn’t sure I’d see him again, but you found him.” She pulled Bailey into a tight hug, also very familiar from years past, and they cried in the middle of the coffin room while Jepson stood by awkwardly.

The rest of the meeting with Jepson floated by in a haze. Jillian answered many of the questions for her, and what questions Bailey did have to answer usually consisted of a one- or two-word response. Jepson showed them the dress Michelle had chosen. It was a cream-colored, flowing fabric dress with a sterling silver crocheted tunic that went over it. The crochet was loose but structured, and the cream-colored fabric beneath showed through beautifully. It was one of her mother’s favorites, and it was perfect. The perfect dress for her uniquely perfect mother to be laid to rest in. She wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean. Her mother was already at rest. She was gone to some better place to be with her father. That was all Bailey could allow herself to think.

Darren met them as Jillian pulled into the driveway, and he helped her from the car. Her large bag of clothing was gone from the entryway floor when they came inside, and it wasn’t until she excused herself to go to bed a few hours later after sitting like a statue on the couch all evening that she found her clothes neatly hanging in his closet. She ran her hand over the fabric of her shirts and right onto his shirts—just as though they belonged there. But this wasn’t her home, and warm as it made her insides feel to imagine a life with him in it, she couldn’t quite believe that was possible yet.

There was a nagging question, a suspicion she wasn’t yet willing to put into words. How much had really changed for him? He felt sorry for her. That wasn’t enough. Under the sympathy, they were still broken.

He caught her touching their clothes, and she jumped when she finally realized he was standing there. He walked up behind her—his favorite place to be, she often thought. He reached around her shoulder, pulling out a robin’s-egg blue summer dress. It was fitted on top, and the skirt was slightly pleated. Her mother had bought it for her no more than three weeks before.

“This would look nice for tomorrow,” he murmured against her ear, and she nodded. He hung the dress on the back of the closet door, and she watched as he hung a light-gray plaid suit with a fitted cut on the hook as well. He pulled out a white well-fitted dress shirt, a blue-knit skinny tie, and a pair of black ankle boots. He was going to look stunning, and again, she wished she was in the right frame of mind to actually appreciate it.

She fell asleep a short while later, curled into his body as he read. The rain continued to fall, and he’d opened the French doors that led onto the balcony. It was still light out, but the sky was gray and dreary. Her mind felt that way—like the light was on, but it was a muddled and dull light that made it hard to focus, feel, and think straight. She needed to get out of this cloud, but she knew from experience it would take time.

He watched her. He watched her shower, shave, and wash her body. He watched her blow-dry her hair and brush some lip gloss on her lips, and when she sat on the side of his bed dressed in only underwear and a bra, he watched as she ran lotion up her legs. Her face hadn’t changed the entire morning. Even when her eyes would fill with tears and they’d start to fall, her expression still remained blank. She was beautiful even through her pain. She ended up back in the bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror before pulling her hair back in a loose bun at the back of her head. She stared at herself some more before chucking the brush into the sink in frustration.

He walked up behind her, gripping her upper arms and shushing her with his lips to her ear.

“I look stupid.”

“You look beautiful.”

Her eyes met his in the mirror. “My hair is a train wreck, I missed a strip of hair on my leg, and I broke the strap on my sandal.” She was speaking with tears in her eyes like a sullen child, and he smiled gently. At least this he could help with. He grabbed her razor and shaving cream and led her to the side of the bathtub. She pointed out the narrow strip of prickly skin on the back of her calf, and he had the completely unnoticeable patch of skin smooth as a baby’s butt in two seconds flat. He pulled out a pair of silver flat sandals from the floor of his closet, chucking the broken tan sandals in the garbage. He stood her back up in front of the mirror and kissed her neck.

“Your hair looks beautiful, but if you complain about it again, I’m going to get your curling iron out and do it for you. I’ve never in my life used one, and I can pretty much guarantee you’ll regret it if I do.” She gave him a small smile, laughing even through her tears at that. She nodded. He nodded.

The rest of the day was very similar to their morning. She was stoic, and he watched. He watched and watched and watched. The funeral was small, and as far as funerals went, perfect. She cried, sobbing silently as they lowered her mother’s casket into the ground, and he brushed his own tears away at nothing more than the pain of seeing her hurting so much. He stood beside her, letting Michelle support her with an arm around her waist as he waited for her to need him. Michelle walked away to greet someone she knew, and Bailey turned toward him, gripping the side of his waist harshly and desperately. She didn’t touch him other than that, and it seemed all she was capable of doing to let him know it was okay to touch her.

He pulled her into his arms, and she let him hold her. Her hand found his lower back under his suit jacket, and he stroked the back of her neck. His parents were there, and his mother smiled through her tears at them. His father squeezed her hand, and after they both hugged her and patted him on the shoulder they were gone.

Walking away from the gravesite was the hardest part for her. She kept looking back. She couldn’t seem to stop looking, and it took them nearly ten minutes to reach his car. She was crying quietly by the time he got her into the car, and she was sitting in a silent stupor by the time they pulled up in front of his home. She sat on the deck for hours that afternoon, and it was dark when she finally came inside. He was trying to give her space, but it wasn’t what he wanted. She sat on the couch next to him, and she laid her head in his lap.

“You’re going to get through this.” He stroked gently over her forehead as she looked up to him. She nodded slightly, but she remained quiet. He’d not heard her voice for hours, and it left the silence in the house unbearable.

She fell asleep eventually, and he carried her upstairs to bed. There was nothing to do but fall asleep when she was like this.

* * *

The next five days were the same. She woke. She slept. She ate. He’d try to talk to her, but he didn’t get much response—one or two words at most and then silence. She snuggled up close to him every night, and it was about as much emotion as he saw. He worked when he was scheduled, and Michelle came over every day to see her, bring her lunch when he wasn’t there, and stay for hours sometimes. She’d sit on the back deck with Bailey and just wait for her to show some sign of life. He’d arrive home from work and join them.

The first night she showed any improvement came on day six after her mother’s funeral. Michelle was over, and they were grilling salmon on the back deck that night. As they sat at the patio table having dinner, they were reminiscing about growing up together in Savoy. Jess came up, and Michelle started talking about the time Jess punched one of the football players for telling Bailey he wanted to “hit that.” He was referring to Bailey’s ass, and he was referring to fucking it. But apparently the phrase “hit that” wasn’t one Jess knew, and she assumed the player was being an asshole. The player was being an asshole, just not the kind of asshole Jess thought he was being. It earned her a one-week suspension at school, and the suspension earned her a one-month grounding at home.

Darren was in college at that point, and he could still remember talking to her on the phone as she railed on and on about the unfairness of life. He’d tried not to laugh at her, but it was hard. He’d instantly called Bailey after he’d hung up with Jess, and he’d ended up staying on the phone with her nearly all night. He used to get hard just talking to her, and there was no limit to what he was willing to do to his body if he happened to be alone while he was talking to her. Some of his best masturbatory orgasms were while he was on the phone with her. She simply didn’t realize it.

Bailey looked up and smiled, laughed quietly as they remembered Jess and just what a spitfire she could be. Both he and Michelle gaped at her sudden smile and laughter, and then they stowed their shock quickly, not wanting to scare her sudden bout of contentment away. Michelle left shortly after that, but her step was lighter, her smile easier as she hugged Bailey good night.

Over the course of the next five days, she made steady improvements. At first it was just a random smile about something, but soon her voice came back, and she started talking again—really talking. He was relieved. Michelle was too, and after dinner one night, after Michelle had left for the evening, he pulled Bailey down to sit between his legs on one of the loungers.

“Kind of nice to see you smile.”

She hummed as she contemplated that. “Why haven’t you touched me?”

Her question took him a bit by surprise. He swallowed, his body already responding. “I didn’t know you wanted me to. You’ve been a bit difficult to read.” He kissed the back of her neck.

“Will you touch me?” Her voice was hesitant and quiet.

“What does it mean to you if I do?” He didn’t need to be told he sounded like a chick when he said that, but he needed to know where things stood with them, and he didn’t like that this was so up in the air.

“Does it have to mean anything? If memory serves, you were the king of meaningless sex.” She didn’t intend to hurt his feelings, but those words cut to the bone.

He stood, walking away as her eyes followed him. He went to bed early, still fully clothed, and fell asleep to bad dreams. She hadn’t followed him, and he was avoiding her because he didn’t want to argue with her.

“Please touch me.” Her voice whispered against his ear, and her hands were in his pants, already touching and stroking him. He was still dressed, but she was naked, and he could feel the warmth of her pussy against his cloth-covered thigh. Her hips moved, and she was pushing herself so greedily against him.