Holly CHAPTER 11

Holly

CHAPTER 11

Jillian and I were at the funeral, standing over Grandma’s coffin, peering down at her.

It had been a week since we lost her.

She looked peaceful. Her hands were folded delicately in her lap, and she was wearing purple, her favorite color.

I’d been through a kaleidoscope of emotions over the last seven days.

I’d debated who to tell about Grandma’s confession, or if I should tell anyone at all. In the end I decided Mom didn’t need to remember her mother that way. She would have too many questions, and she’d go to Lucy for them, and I didn’t want to put my aunt through it. I had to talk to someone about it, and Jillian would never tell a soul, so I told her.

“Grandma killed a guy,” Jillian deadpanned.

“Believe me when I tell you at no point in time did I know where that conversation was going,” I whispered.

“Are you sure it wasn’t a hallucination?” she asked quietly. “Doesn’t that happen at the end?”

“It does, but no. She was lucid. I googled it. I wanted to verify it before I told you. He was a real guy. I saw the death certificate, the marriage certificate, and the newspaper article about his drowning. I’m telling you, she killed him,” I whispered. “And Lucy helped her get rid of the body.”

My sister mouthed the word “damn.”

“Okay, but that is such a boss bitch move, though,” she said.

“I know.”

“An absolute queen. And Aunt Lucy!”

We turned to look at her. She was wiping her nose with a crumpled tissue, over by the guestbook. She looked like Mrs. Claus dressed in black.

“She makes me needlepoints of Bible verses for Christmas.” Jillian shook her head. “She disposed of a dead guy?”

We looked back at Grandma, lying in state.

“I mean, you know how it was back then,” I said quietly. “There wasn’t a lot of recourse for domestic abuse. Your husband could pretty much do anything he wanted to you. Marital rape wasn’t even illegal until 1993. I guess you had to take it into your own hands sometimes.”

“I guess.” She made a face. “Imagine having to kill a guy named Chip,” she whispered. “That would piss me off. Like, you’re gonna have a stupid name and be an asshole? Pick a struggle.”

I snickered through my nose. “Jeb had a stupid name.”

“And the audacity,” she whispered. “I’d shove a dead guy into a river for you. I’d shove a live one in there too.”

“So would I.” I looked at her. “Do you think Grandpa really didn’t know? I mean, you’d have to give off at least a little ‘I Can Kill You’ energy after that, right? ‘I’ve done it once, I can do it again’ vibes?”

“You know he was a good one if he got to live,” she said.

I choked on my spit. This made her laugh and we both descended into a fit. Mom shot us an “Are You Kidding Me” look from across the room, and we leaned into each other and tried to contain it. The giggles eventually turned to tears.

I felt delirious. Drunk with grief.

But also somehow okay.

I was going to be okay.

I was ready to take responsibility for my own unhappiness.

I was going to take some time off. Process what I’d been through the last few months, start a new hobby, get some exercise, get back out there. I was going to make Grandma proud. I probably wouldn’t kill a guy, but I would definitely never accept anything less than what I deserved, ever again.

“I’m gonna miss her,” I said, wiping away tears.

“Me too. What a mic drop, though. Brava.”

“She would have loved this,” I said.

“Oh, she one hundred percent did this on purpose. This was exactly what she wanted us talking about, standing over her dead body. A fucking legend.” She sniffled. “It’s still hard, though.”

“It is hard,” I said. “It’s hard as hail.”