My hands started to shake. "That would be nice."
"I'll come over and see you afterward."
"No," I said.
"Carrie." His voice was forceful even though it quivered a little. "I need to see you."
"This isn't a good time," I said.
"Please."
I rested my head on the table and tried to steady myself.
"Could you give me a few days? I just...I just need some time to straighten this mess in my head."
Luke said nothing for a time. I didn't think he was even going to respond. But finally he said, "I'll wait." And then he quietly hung up the phone.
I stayed there, with my head down, letting the chilly tabletop cool my cheeks. Dad was finally talking to Mom in the living room. I could hear their hushed voices. Suddenly, I had to get out of there. I had to find my brother. I just had to do something.
I left through the back door and ran all the way to Marty's house. It felt good to have the cold December air rushing through my lungs. When I reached the house next door to the funeral home, I was panting. My ears burned they were so 218
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cold and I had a cramp in my side, but I felt better. I felt cleansed.
Marty's truck wasn't parked in his driveway. That was bad news but not surprising. I thundered up the porch and charged inside. In the front room, I found Austin, E.T., and Trevor sitting in a row on the couch. They were watching a funny movie on the television, yet none of them laughed. Three sober expressions landed on me when I threw open the door. E.T. lifted a limp hand and gave me a solemn wave. He tried to smile, but it died before it reached his eyes.
"Where's my brother?" I said.
All three of them shrugged.
"He was gone by the time I got off work this morning," Austin said.
"We can't go home," Trevor piped up. I stared at him and E.T. explained. "It's a real mess over there. People keep coming in and out and Mom and Dad can't get anything done."
It struck me then that Abby's body was right next door. I shivered.
Where was Marty?
The ending words of "Amazing Grace" drifted into the air. Dabbing a tissue at her eyes, Brenda Newell stepped back with the rest of the choir. And Pastor Curry came forward. He stood in front of the closed coffin quietly for a few moments. His Adam's apple slowly slid up and then jerked back down. It was a Monday morning and tiny flakes of snow were starting to fall. They melted as soon as they hit the brown earth, but it was enough to make everything damp. Wind 219
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fluttered the dampness around and small water droplets clung to leaves and coats and faces.
A picture of Abby flittered through my mind: dressed in her cheerleading uniform at the football homecoming, holding her red and white pompoms behind her, stretching up on her toes and whispering into Marty's ear. His lids had lowered dreamily as she spoke to him. In my mind, she would be frozen that way for eternity, with her head close to his and her smile as youthful and bright as ever. I would grow old and wrinkly, and she'd stay that perky cheerleader. She was John Keats reincarnated:
* * * *
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; I thought of Marty.
I never found him that Saturday when I'd searched so frantically. Eventually, Mom and Dad set out to look for him too. But he was gone. We worried all weekend until Dad finally said, "He's OK. The boy just needs some time alone, and we should give it to him." So that's what we gave him. Time.
I looked at the flowers surrounding Pastor Curry. Long white lilies with a healthy wet glow sat on top of the box. A smaller bouquet of roses was nestled in the middle of them, and a ribbon ran across the stems, saying, "We love you, Abby" in navy blue letters.
Pastor Curry swept a hand through the air over the casket.
"Here lies the body of Abigail Marianne Eggrow." 220
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That's when it really hit me. My fingers shook as I covered my mouth with them. The wind blew goose bumps onto my arms, but I felt so hot. My stomach revolted and bile rose in my throat. I wiped my nose on my soggy coat sleeve. I don't know if I was being loud, but there was so much weeping and moaning around me, it engulfed me. No one would've noticed a small hiccup from me.
"...And this tragic accident is no one's fault," the pastor said. "Sometimes, the Lord just takes blessed people because they've filled their purpose early. Everyone plays their own song. They sing their story to the world and leave behind a melody of memories. Sometimes...their song is cut short and ends too early. But that doesn't mean their music was any less sweet or that they left any less of an impression." I bowed my head and squeezed my eyes tight as Pastor Curry said a prayer. Please find my brother. Please help Marty.
When I felt a hand on my shoulder, I lifted my face and glanced back.
There he was.
He'd just arrived. His hair was still wet from a shower and his black suit was a little rough, but he'd cleaned up as best he could. His face was pale—so very pale. I moved aside to let him up with our family and he slid in between Mom and me.
I glanced around to see who'd noticed him and found many faces were glancing toward the Paxton boy who'd almost gotten Abby Eggrow pregnant. But to me, my brother suddenly looked tall and handsome.
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I was beyond proud of him. I took his hand and his fingers bit into mine because he held on so tight. I saw Luke then. He was standing closer to the casket than we were, not too far from the Eggrows and the Gettys. His eyes were on me, and when he saw me notice him, he nodded. His mouth smiled encouragingly to me, but there were tears in his eyes.
I heard my brother whimper. When I looked up, I discovered his face was no longer white, but bright red. His lips shook and his nostrils flared as his breathing accelerated. His gaze fixated on the closed casket. Huge drops of moisture gathered at the corner of his eyes.
Mom touched his sleeve and looked up at him with concern. Marty glanced at her, whispering, "I don't think I can do this."
Dad moved from my side and came up behind him. He touched Marty's back and said, "You don't have to be strong, son. We're here for you."
That's all the encouragement Marty needed. He clenched his eyes shut and folded, bending at the waist and letting his head fall forward. Dad caught him from behind before he hit the ground. He turned Marty around and embraced him, fitting his son to his chest and holding Marty's head with his hand. I watched Marty's arms go around Dad and his hands bunch fistfuls of Dad's jacket.
Dad looked to Mom and me then, and we instantly moved in, surrounding Marty in a protective shell. Dad opened his arms enough to gather all of us into his embrace. And right there in the middle of the cemetery—in the middle of the 222
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gathering of Stillburrow citizens—my family formed one huge hug and wept together.
I rested my head on Marty's back and listened to his sobs as they echoed through his chest. My parents' arms bound me to them. I had never felt so close to these people I'd shared my whole life with, as I did just then. As my parents cried because of their son's pain, I realized I had never loved them so much. This was my family.
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