“Can I help, sir?” JD barely recognized his own voice; it sounded strained.
Walt turned around. His eyes were red, and he smelled like alcohol. He was crying, too, letting tears stream down his face. JD was embarrassed for him, and felt guilty for being embarrassed. Walt had lost his daughter. He had the right to cry. And drink.
“First my Edie, now my Drea,” Mr. Feiffer said, slurring slightly. “What do I have left?” Another sob escaped the man’s throat.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Feiffer,” JD said. “Drea was a friend of mine.” The words of condolence stuck in JD’s throat. His mind flashed back to the scene in the gym: the hysteria, the heat, the smoke. Could he have saved Drea?
It was too late now.
Until this moment, he hadn’t understood or fully processed the true horror of it: Drea was gone, and she was never coming back—ever.
He couldn’t do anything about it.
No one could.
He turned to the casket. He could see the top of Drea’s head, except it wasn’t her head—or rather, it wasn’t her hair; the undertaker must have put a wig on her. Was that because her burns were so bad, or because they wanted her to look more like a 1950s housewife than a rebellious teenage girl? JD swallowed hard and took another step closer.
Drea didn’t look like herself. Her navy-blue dress was plain and demure, and the wig—a straight brown bob—was jarring. Her features were placid, like she was in the middle of a deep sleep. Her hands were folded across her ribs, and there was a single flower tucked between them. It was bright red and intricate, like the orchids Drea’s dad had been wrestling with.
Good-bye, Drea. I’ll miss you.
“Did you put that there?” Walt Feiffer had come up behind JD and was pointing shakily at the flower. “Get it out of there. Get that away from my daughter.” He was in a frenzied panic, reaching over JD with such force that he practically tackled him. JD stumbled forward, closer to the casket than he would’ve liked, watching in horror as Walt tore the flower out of Drea’s hands and crushed it under his boot on the floor. JD fixed his eyes to the spot on the ground; the flower’s petals were smeared and broken but the center remained more or less intact. He was reminded of the occasional dead bird he’d come across when he rode his bike as a kid.
JD looked up and noticed how those nearby looked quietly away, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
The reaction was intense, but JD remembered that if anyone was entitled to it, it was Walt. He needed to cut the guy some slack. After all, Mr. Feiffer had already lost his wife, many years ago, when Drea was still a little girl. JD couldn’t remember the details—Drea never talked about it—but he did recall that Edie Feiffer had died in an equally terrible accident. Locked in a freezer or something? And now Walt had lost his daughter, his only child, too.
Meanwhile, Mr. Feiffer had started fumbling with a cigarette and a silver Zippo. His hands were shaking violently. He was drunk, definitely. JD didn’t have the heart to remind him that they were still indoors—in a church. He did the only thing he could think of: He motioned for the lighter, took it, and lit the flame so Walt could take a long drag.
“She was a wonderful person, Mr. Feiffer,” JD said, hearing the lameness of the words even as he said them.
Mr. Feiffer didn’t even respond. His eyes were fixed on something invisible. Like he was gazing at nothingness. JD turned to go.
By that time, the crowd had thinned out significantly, and Em was nowhere in sight. He trudged out of the church feeling more unsettled than ever.
? ? ?
Back at home, JD’s mom pulled out a homemade casserole from the freezer. “JD, honey, will you bring this over to Sue and Dave’s for me? They have a lot going on right now and I have a feeling they could use a good home-cooked meal.”
JD tried to recall the last time he’d gone over to the Winters’ house—certainly not since he’d gotten hurt at the Behemoth. With the exception of their almost make-up at the dance, before the fire, he and Em had barely exchanged ten friendly words in the last two months. He knew a lot of that was his fault. He’d been pissed at her for choosing Crow. He’d blamed her, too, for the accident that had nearly killed him. She’d tried to apologize a dozen times and he’d blown her off. But he was tired of being angry, and hurt, and not doing anything about it.
He was tired of missing her.
“Let me change,” he said, feeling in his pockets for his phone, which had just started buzzing. It was Ned.