After My Husband Hit Me at Our Son’s Funeral

I don't go home.

The car idles at the cemetery gate. The driver asks where to.

"Midtown," I say. "Fifty-Third and Third."

Creed's voice is still in my head. *Get up. People are watching.*

I look down. There are ashes on my hands. Gray powder ground into the lines of my palms.

I don't brush them off.

The car pulls away. I watch the cemetery disappear through the rear window. The trees. The stone paths. The place where my son's ashes are scattered in the leaves because my husband's mistress knocked them there and my husband hit me for objecting.

I press my thumbnail into my palm.

Seven days.

I can't do seven days.

---

My mother opens the door before I knock. She takes one look at my face and steps aside.

"Kitchen," she says.

I follow her. She fills the kettle. I sit at the table. The chair is the same one I sat in as a kid. Wooden. Wobbly left leg.

She doesn't ask what happened. She saw. She was there.

She sets a mug in front of me. Chamomile. I don't drink it.

"I need to borrow your laptop," I say.

She brings it without a word.

I open the browser. I search flights. JFK to Paris. One way. Tonight.

There's a seat on the 11:55 p.m. Economy. Aisle.

I book it.

The confirmation email arrives. I screenshot it. I close the laptop.

My mother is leaning against the counter. Arms folded. Watching me.

"How long have you known?" I ask.

"Three years," she says quietly.

I look at her.

"I never trusted him," she says. "But you loved him. So I kept my mouth shut."

I nod. I stand. The ribs shift. I bite down hard.

"I'm leaving tonight," I say.

She doesn't argue. She walks to the spare room and pulls a carry-on from the closet. She sets it on the bed.

I pack. Passport. Laptop. The lockbox documents I picked up yesterday. Three shirts. Two pairs of jeans. Underwear. Socks. The worn notebook. My grandmother's ring.

I zip it closed.

My mother is standing in the doorway.

"Call me when you land," she says.

I cross the room. I kiss her cheek. She smells like lavender and old books.

"I will," I say.

She holds my shoulders. Her hands are warm. Steady.

"You should have left three years ago," she whispers.

"I know," I say.

She lets go.

I walk out. I don't look back.

---

JFK is bright and loud and full of people who are going somewhere.

I check in at the kiosk. I print the boarding pass. I go through security with my shoes off and my ribs screaming.

Gate 47. Boarding at 11:30.

I sit. I wait. I watch the clock.

My phone buzzes.

Creed: *Where are you?*

I turn it off.

I drop it in the trash can beside the gate.

---

The plane is half empty. I find my seat. 32C. Aisle. I lift the carry-on into the overhead bin. My ribs crack. I taste copper.

I sit. I buckle. I close my eyes.

The engines start. The plane moves. We taxi. We lift.

I don't open my eyes until we're over the ocean.

---

Somewhere past Newfoundland, the pain changes.

It's not sharp anymore. It's deep. Spreading. Like something inside me is tearing open.

I shift in my seat. My shirt is damp. I touch my side. My hand comes away red.

I cough.

Blood hits the tray table. Dark. Too much.

I try to stand. The cabin tilts. My knees buckle.

I'm falling.

Then I'm not.

Hands catch me. Large. Certain. Already there.

A voice. Low. Steady. "I've got you."

I try to focus. The face above me is blurred. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Eyes I almost recognize.

"Stay with me," he says.

I want to. I try.

But the edges go soft. The cabin dims.

The last thing I feel is his hand holding mine.

The last thing I hear is his voice, quiet and sure, like a promise I didn't know I was waiting for.

"I've got you."

And then there's nothing.