Page 94 of Burn Bright

I try to smile back at Jane, but it’s a little difficult considering my brain is spinning. Why are they all acting normal?

Did I miss the memo? One definitely got sent around. I’m afraid it said:Take Theodore’s funeral seriously for Ben. Act like church mice.

Jane peers up at her six-foot-seven stoic husband. He’s the only person taller than me here. Brown hair curls behind his ears. His strong, clenched jaw is unshaven and makes him appear overly stern and brooding all the time.

Thatcher Moretti is a Marine vet, identical twin, full-time bodyguard to Jane, and the only person who’s breeched the Cobalt walls. It took a literalMarineto enter my family. I’m not so sure it will happen as easily again, and it wasn’t really easy for him. For months, we all tested him with a series of elaborate Truth or Dares. Prying into his personal life. Seeing how far he’d go for Jane.

He’s bouncing their unusually fussy nine-month-old in his arms. Maeve Rose Moretti. My niece is the only one crying. And it’s a literal conundrum howno oneis commenting on the baby bawling at a funeral.

Mom has her fingers to her temple in a slight cringe, hating infant cries, but it’s obvious she absolutely adores Maeve because she’s not banishing the baby out of the circle.

“Shh, shh,” Thatcher coos, rubbing Baby Maeve’s back.

Jane waves a very old stuffed animal. “Look, Mr. Lion! YouloveMr. Lion.”

Tom cringes at the ratty toy. “Ew,” he whispers, trying to save his voice. Thankfully no vocal bruising. It was just strained, Farrow diagnosed.

“I bleached Mr. Lion,” Jane says. “He’s good as new.”

Tom opens his mouth to respond, but Eliot kicks Tom’s shins. He shuts up.

Jane’s blue eyes flit to me, then she also goes quiet.

They’re being really obvious now.

“Shall we begin, Mother?” Audrey asks.

“Yes, that silence was long enough.”

Agreed.

Our mom hands out white roses from a bouquet to each of us. I swear she tries to smilewarmlyat me, and her face makes a robotic twitch.

What the fuck is happening?

When she returns to our dad, I hear him whisper, “You’re overdoing it, darling.”

She smacks his side. “He’s watching us.”

Our dad makes direct eye contact with me, and I give him a short, confused headshake. His features are impossible to read.

So I just try to concentrate on Theodore. He’s why we’re all here. I think.

Audrey has on black silk gloves. Reaching down, she takes my hand, and my chest swells with more emotion as I feel my sister trying to comfort me over seeking comfort for herself.

“Theodore,” she says. “You were beloved. And I would like to read a poem in your honor.” She takes a deep breath beforereciting it by memory. “‘Do not stand…By my grave, and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep—I am the thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond that glints in snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain.’”

I recognize the poem. “Immortality” by Clare Harner. Tom has recited it a handful of times at Wednesday Night Dinners.

I’ve never heard Audrey deliver it, and in her whimsical, breathless voice, it twists the raw parts of me.

“‘As you awake with morning’s hush, I am the swift, up-flinging rush. Of quiet birds in circling flight. I am the day transcending night. Do not stand…By my grave, and cry—I am not there.’” She exhales deeply. “‘I did not die.’”

I blink, expecting tears. Waterworks. Something.

Emotions feel coiled inside my chest. Tightly balled rather than unspooled threads. “That was beautiful, Audrey,” I breathe. “Thanks.” I wrap an arm around her shoulders and cup the back of her skull below her hat, trying to let her know I don’t need the comfort.I’m okay.

“Theodore.” Mom tosses her white rose onto the grave. “What can I say about you? You were a beloved winged creature that didn’t abide by nightly quiet hours. You once yanked my diamond necklace right off my throat when Igraciouslychanged your water. And your favorite word to mimic wasSatan, to which I blame Eliot and Tom as your teachers.”