Page 12

CHAPTER 12

Finn

T he next couple of days are a total nightmare.

I was supposed to be spending the weekend celebrating my wife’s milestone thirtieth birthday, but instead I’m preparing for her funeral.

To make things worse, I’m in a state of denial, confusion, and rage, all compounded by emotional and physical fatigue.

In my haze, I try to put two and two together. It’s so unlike Skye to lose control of a car. Hell. She trained as a racecar driver! And could handle any speed and the sharpest of turns. Something doesn’t sit right with me. The racy outfits. The late-night meetings. Was she having an affair? Drinking too much with her secret lover?

My mind plays games with me. A bitter cocktail of love, loss, and doubt wrestles with my sanity. Thank God for Maddie. My precious daughter is the only thing that keeps me grounded. And accountable. Virtually overnight, I’ve had to learn to be a single parent, attending to her every need.

One week after Skye’s tragic accident, a memorial service is held at the church where we belong. Her body wasn’t recovered. The car exploded upon impact, taking her with it. I’ve had sleepless nights replaying the accident, those awful last minutes of her fall from the earth. Hearing her screams. Wondering what her last thoughts were. Did she cry out for Maddie and me? Or a lover? Then other nights, I’m tormented with: What if she survived the fiery crash? Mutilated or burnt beyond recognition. Or both. How would I have been able to live with her like that? Could she have gone on being my wife and the mother to our child? There are no answers; only sadness. My only blessing is that I get to remember her as the beautiful, brilliant woman she was.

The sanctuary is packed, filled with friends and colleagues from Conquest Broadcasting. I sit in the front row, holding Maddie, in her little black romper, on my lap. Amazingly, she hasn’t uttered a peep, perhaps in deference to her mother.

An easel displaying a blown-up photo of Skye stands in front of the pews. Dozens of bouquets of white flowers surround it. Tears back up in my eyes as one Conquest Broadcasting News colleague after another goes up to the podium to share stories about my late wife and shower her with accolades.

“She was fearless and a great friend and reporter.”

“She loved the impossible. No story was too challenging for her.”

“She championed the underdog. Stood up for the rights of minorities, the oppressed, and women.”

“She was like a family member. Remembering everyone’s birthdays and special life events.”

“She was a ninja. A kickass woman in a male-dominated world.”

“She met death’s eyes over and over again. Never flailing on the battlefield or wherever she was.”

I’m in awe. Despite the suspicions I harbor, my heart swells with pride. My late wife was a dynamite reporter respected by all. I glance around the sanctuary. There’s not a dry eye in the house. To my surprise, Emmy winner Nicole Farrell is seated in the back row. Though she’s wearing oversized dark sunglasses to mask her identity, I recognize her immediately. Her face is pale and tears fall from beneath the shades. I wonder how Skye knew her as I don’t recall them doing a celebrity interview together. The announcement of the next eulogist thwarts my attention back to the podium.

Jim Hartley. The slick, silver-haired head of Conquest Broadcasting News gives a short speech, praising my wife for her contributions and pursuit of the truth. His cool tone and terse words make it sound more like a broadcast than a tribute. To be honest, I never liked the prick. He always gave me the cold shoulder whenever I encountered him. Like I was some inferior species. Even now, he doesn’t make eye contact with me.

Hastily returning to his seat, he’s followed by Blake Burns, the head of the network, who gives a heartfelt eulogy that brings the crowd to tears, praising my wife’s dignity, brilliance, and passion. A short video montage of some of her groundbreaking stories plays. At the end, he addresses the crowd, his voice choked.

“Skye Collins.

Journalist. Activist. Wife. Mother.

She lived by her words: Dig deep, then dig deeper.

You will be missed.”

My heart is cracking as he steps down. Finally, my turn. Holding Maddie in my arms, I lumber up to the podium. I have no speech prepared. I couldn’t sit down and write one, with the overload of emotions that have consumed me this past week. I’m an artist, not a writer. I paint words.

My throat constricts as I stare out at the crowd. Silence. Dead silence. Finally, a few words spill out. “Thank you for being here.” Tears well in my eyes and then sobs overwhelm me. I can’t say another word.

My knees weak, I stumble back to my seat. I know at this moment how much I still love my wife. Despite any indiscretion, how much I will miss her. Maybe this was all my fault. My sweet little girl meets my tearful gaze. I see so much of Skye in her. With her tiny hands, she wipes away my tears of shame, and I vow to be the best father I can be to her. To make Skye proud of me. Wherever her soul now lies.