son? What’s his name . . . Harding?”
“Hardin. And you talk to my mom all the time.” I take a drink of my third coffee of the day.
“It’s not the same. She could be lying. She’s happy out there, right?”
“Yes.” I nod. “She’s happy. Very.”
“Are you staying long?”
I shake my head. “No. Only two days.”
I talk to my aunt for three hours. We laugh, we talk about old times and new, and I feel much lighter than I did this morning. I didn’t mention Nora, not once. I don’t know what to make of that.
When I get back to the hotel, Dakota is lying in bed. It’s still light outside. Her shoes are still on her feet, and her tiny shoulders shake when I close the door. And like that, I know he’s dead. He’s finally gone.
What a horrible thing for me to think.
No matter how horrible, it’s true.
I walk over and sit down behind this frail girl. When I gently turn her shoulder, to get a look at her, her face is twisted in pain.
I lift her up and gather her into my arms. She fits in my lap, like a tiny bird.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and rub her back, and she sobs into my shoulder. Her arms tighten around my neck, and she cries, “I’m not.”
Her honesty is pain-fueled, like mine, and I can’t judge her for it. The death of an evil man is hard to mourn, even a father. It seems like people are expected to pretend the dead person was perfect and speak highly of them at their funerals. It’s uncomfortable, and the morality of it is murky at best.
I hold Dakota until her tears run dry. She climbs out of my lap to use the restroom and comes back quickly. I’m reminded of the day we buried her brother, and the memories flood over me. Are we ready to leave the past in the past? Everything included? All the tears, yes, but what about the good times? What about all the nights we chased lightning bugs and the days we chased the sun? All the firsts, all the seconds, and the thirds. This woman has been such a big part of my life—am I ready to let her go?
She nods, asking if she can climb back onto me, and with a resolved sigh I open my arms for her.