Shelter From The Storm

On the drive back home I told Jaimie about my call to the funeral director and said we’d go with her so she could tell him what she wanted.  I also told her that a lot of people from the Laird who knew her mom would be there and that D_ and his wife wanted to host a wake after the funeral service and that surprised her.  The rest of the drive was quiet, with F_ and Jaimie sharing an earbud each as they listened to the songs on Flea’s iPod.

After we dropped Jaimie off at her trailer and she assured us she’d be okay, F_ insisted we clean out the spare bedroom ‘just in case’.  So we hauled out all our own spare clothes and vacuumed and dusted and remade the bed with fresh sheets and a comforter.  F_ even got out the vinegar and cleaned the windows until they looked like diamonds and the venetian blinds until they gleamed white.

As I sat watching the evening news with F_ tucked in his bed, I heard the light hesitant footsteps climb our porch and the soft tapping on the door.  When I opened it there stood Jaimie, looking small and vulnerable, wrapped in a blanket, her eyes sparkling with tears.

We didn’t speak.  I reached out and drew her inside and closed the door, then guided her down the hallway to the spare bedroom.  I tucked her in like I’d tucked F_ in his whole life and kissed her forehead and said goodnight.