Thorne takes me to my mother’s apartment, but never once does he try to pry or intrude on my privacy when I tell him my grandmother has passed away. At first, I was nervous about him meeting my mother, but any concerns I have are dispelled immediately.

My mother seems distracted and lost. She is very polite to Thorne, but when I try to leave she asks me to spend the night with her. I know Thorne doesn’t want to leave me with her, but I can’t say no to my mother. Especially tonight, when I can see that she is not herself.

Thorne stays for dinner.

He arranges for food from one of the best restaurants to be sent to the apartment, but neither my mother nor I have any appetite. After dinner, Thorne leaves, but he posts a couple of his security men outside my mother’s door. It is very odd considering the area, but he insists they are there for my safety.

I stand at the balcony and watch him get into his car. He looks up and waves at me and I wave back. I know I love him, but my heart feels empty. When I go back in, my mother is lighting up probably her hundredth cigarette of the day.

“So you’re in love,” she says, blowing out smoke.

It’s impossible to fool her. I nod.

A tear rolls down Mama’s face.

I move to her side and crouch next to her. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” she says gruffly and stands.

I look up at her. I don’t know why my mother has such an aversion to being affectionate to me. She walks to the couch where I was sitting and lowers herself on it. I stand and take the chair she vacated. She wanted me to stay. She insisted, and yet, she has no use for me.

“Do you want a glass of wine?” she asks.

“All right.” I go into the kitchen and pour us two glasses of wine. We drink in silence. Then my mother pours us another glass each. I am not used to drinking much and I start to feel quite drunk. Being drunk with my mother is a strange experience. There is so much that I don’t know or remember about her.

“Did you know that Nan brought me a glass of milk every single night even though she knew I hated it, just because you loved it?”

Mama’s face twists. “I hate milk. I’ve always hated it.”

I stare at Mama in shock. I feel dizzy. “What?”

She raises her glass. “Here’s to your Nan. She has a strange sense of humor.”

I stand up. The room is spinning. “I’ve got to go to bed, Mama.”

“Yes, do that,” she says, and pours another glass.

* * *

The funeral is the next day at Nan’s local church. I didn’t know that Nan had so many friends. They come with their white hair and long black coats. They are somber.

Mama cries a lot. It’s painful to watch her trying to get through her eulogy. The service is small. My granddad is on the opposite side of the church by the font, but I specifically requested to sit in the back by the door. It is something I’m used to. Knowing that a means of escape is nearby always helps me in difficult moments like this.

Thorne is with me, and every so often he looks at me or holds my hand. I am glad he is here. The whole ceremony has a surreal air about it. This is the woman who raised me and put me through school when my mother was wasting away in a jail cell.

To say that I feel nothing is an insult to her memory, but it’s difficult to describe what I feel. I listen to my mother’s words. They don’t seem real. I can’t imagine Mama as a girl. I think of what she told me about the milk. Nothing seems to makes sense.

My mother has finally finished speaking.

Everyone stands to sing “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” but I stay seated and so does Thorne. I’ve never been one to believe in the church. Too many things have happened in my life for me to feel that connected.

Granddad stands to speak. His voice is strong but grave. I don’t lift my head. I don’t hear the words he says. I remain quiet through the next few hymns and prayers. I do not have a eulogy. I couldn’t find the right words when nan was alive, and I still can’t find them now.

After a final prayer, the funeral is over.

Everyone shuffles out of the church, some are silent, others are quietly reminiscing about my grandmother.

The whole service seems like a blur. As if I am still drunk from the two glasses I drank with Mama last night.

Old women I remember vaguely from my childhood come up to hug me and offer their condolences. Being the center of attention at a time like this is the last thing I want. I’m so ready to just go home and sleep the rest of the day away. I try not to squirm.

“She was a wonderful soul.”

“We’ll miss her at Church. She was such a good person. So kind. So giving.”

“Remember that time, Molly, when she stayed up all night sewing little dresses for the Syrian children.”

I thank them, but my demeanor of too-devastated-to-really-be-a-part-of-this means I don’t have to add to the chorus of praise. What will I say? She gave me milk every night when she knew I hated it.

“We’re having a small service for your Nan. Are you coming?” my mother asks. There is a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, and she is gripping the funeral program so hard her knuckles are white. I stare at her hands instead of into her eyes. I really don’t want to go, but throughout my life I’ve always done everything I could to please her and not upset her.

I guess I was always desperate for her love. And maybe I still am because I tell her yes.

My eyes turn to Thorne to request his understanding, and to ask him to come with me. He nods and puts his arm around my waist to let me know he is going to be there for me. I smile gratefully up at him. He smiles back and suddenly, I feel some semblance of security and safety. Simply because he is here with me. He will take care of me. No one can harm me while he is around.

“Where will it be?” Thorne asks. “I will follow behind with Chelsea in my car.”

“It’ll be at her grandparents’ home.” Mama turns to me. “I’m sure you remember where it is. Your granddad’s been asking for you, you know?” she replies.

I don’t move; I don’t even blink. The only movement I am capable of is squeezing Thorne’s hand.

“All right, we’ll see you in a bit,” Thorne says.

Thorne and I hardly speak on the drive there, aside for him asking me how I am. My response is monosyllabic.

“Fine.”

He knows me better than that. His jaw clenches.

As grateful as I am to have him here with me, I can’t bring myself to tell him anything. Maybe because there is just too much to tell. Or maybe it is because I can’t trust him. I don’t know what will happen when my time with him is up. I know this.

My numbness, I realize, has been a defense mechanism all day. Any break in the armor will devastate me, and I know that I’m not ready to feel anything, or even address the old memories.

My grandparents’ home looks just as I remember it. There are a few cars parked in front and on the street, but it is still exactly the same. It is a tan colored brickwork house with small drab windows on the ground floor and two windows on the second floor where the two bedrooms are. The front door is still the same bright red that I saw the very first day I came to live here.

The door is ajar. Thorne and I let ourselves in. There are many people from the funeral who have come. Some are gathered in the living room where a woman I’m sure I know is playing the piano and singing. A few people are standing around the piano and singing along. They are singing old Frank Sinatra songs. He was Nan’s favorite singer.

The smell of food cooking wafts in from the kitchen. There is a woman with an apron who is barking out orders to everyone else in the kitchen. When she sees me, she flashes me one of those I’m-so-sorry-for-your-loss smiles. I look away quickly. I don’t want people to look at me in that way. I haven’t really suffered a great loss. I am just here to support my mother.

I breathe in deep to take in the smell of the house itself. Without the food. The familiar and faint scent of wood and old perfume that I remember distinctly, is impossible to smell downstairs since there is so much cooking going on in the kitchen.

I turn to Thorne. “I need to be alone a few minutes. Do you mind?”

He nods. “I’ll be here. Do what you need to do.”

“Will you be alright down here by yourself?” I ask. I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable.

“I’m not by myself,” he says, tilting his head in the direction of the living room where everyone is singing.

“I won’t be long,” I whisper, and walking down the corridor, ascend the stairs to my old bedroom.