These people are all adults. They know they can’t just pretend I’m not there. They know they have to say something.
They take a big breath, paste an understanding smile on their faces and, one by one, walk toward me. The women take my hand in both of theirs. The men put an arm around my shoulder. They ask me how I’m doing. (How do they think I’m doing? They heard the news.) They say if I need anything—anything at all!—they’re only a phone call away. They tell me my dad was a great guy, a fabulous person, a brilliant financial advisor. They go on and on, but this is the only thing I really hear:
Your father was.
What’s the matter with these people? No one has said he’s dead. Not the police. Not the media. There’s no body, no witnesses—no proof that he’s not lying wet and wounded somewhere, just praying for the sound of the rescue helicopter.
Why have all of his so-called friends given up on him so easily?
I want to scream and push them away, but I don’t. I just bite my lip and nod. They give me one last squeeze, then walk away, relieved. They’ve done their duty.
Colin’s the only person to get it right. He plows into the kitchen, out of breath, searching the room for me. He pushes past the crowd. He hugs me. He says, “I’m here, Ria.” For some reason, that’s what actually makes me cry. He says, “I’m not going anywhere,” and that makes me cry even more. He just sits there hugging me until I stop.
I feel like a celebrity with my own bodyguard. People still look at me, still smile, but with Colin there, hardly anybody gets up the nerve to say anything to me. I feel calmer. There’s still that crazy thudding in my chest, but it’s bearable.
Ms. van de Wetering arrives from school with a big tray of muffins. (I didn’t realize Dad managed her money too.) She brings one over on a plate and tells me to eat it.
She doesn’t get all soppy on me, thank god. She just says, “This is tough, Ria. Make sure you get enough sleep. And don’t worry about school. I’ll get your teachers to email your assignments or send them home with Colin…If I were as slim as you, I’d have some jam with that. You want some?”
I shake my head. She mumbles something to Colin about letting him off the hook for class today too, then gives me a matter-of-fact pat on the shoulder. “Chin up, kiddo.”
And I do keep my chin up—at least until the door bangs open and Sophie and Helena fly in. They throw themselves on me, sobbing. Tears and mascara are streaming down their faces. Everybody turns to look.
Helena keeps going, “It’s not fair! It’s not fair! Why Steve?” Sophie takes my face and forces me to look at her. “Ria. We loved him too. We all did. You know that.”
I start to shake. They hold me closer. They think they’ve touched me with their heartfelt tears, but that’s not it. What’s getting me is realizing that this is just another drama for them. They’ll make their big public display of grief, and then they’ll go home and text their friends with the latest scoop. OMG. Did you hear about Ria’s dad?
I push them away. “Sorry,” I say. “Sorry. I got to get some air.”
I head toward the back door. Mom’s there, thanking Helena’s grandmother for the casserole. She turns to me with that blank look on her face. Everyone else probably thinks she’s brokenhearted about the accident—but I know different. She’s had the same look on her face for months now. The fact that Dad is missing hasn’t changed a thing for her.
I can’t stand it.
I turn and head for the front door instead. Helena starts running after me.
I put my hand up. I only manage to squeak out, “No. No. Please.”
I step out onto the front deck. The sun is shining, and it’s warmer than it’s been in days. I think of Dad, in the woods somewhere, in pain—and I’m at least thankful for the weather. He won’t be cold. The helicopters will be able to find him. He’ll make it. He’ll come back.
I’m not sure exactly how to pray, so I just whisper, “Please. Please. Please.”
I hear a car pull up in front of the house. I open my eyes. I see Tim/Tom get out the passenger door. He’s carrying a bouquet of flowers—bright blue carnations wrapped in a green paper cone.
I’m surprised—he doesn’t seem the flower type. Then I notice all the other bouquets and cards and candles and balloons piled up against our front fence.
It’s like a shrine.
Or a grave site.
My teeth start chattering.
Tim/Tom says, “Sorry for your loss,” then nips back into his car before I can say thanks or scream at him.