The days leading up to Friday felt like an exhaustive, continuous marathon. After that first day, her dad had mostly gone back to ignoring her. The only time he'd bothered to acknowledge her had been Monday morning, when he'd poked his head into her room and asked if she felt like tackling school. She'd thought about it for a moment, debating it in her head. She knew she should go, but she also felt like a meltdown waiting to happen. She wasn't sure she could handle going, not when Lyla wouldn't be there to share looks with or pass old school paper notes to. Ultimately she'd shaken her head in response to the question, and her father had left her alone ever since.
Apparently word had spread of Lyla's death, because on Tuesday and Wednesday Naomi started getting a flood of messages through text, email, and various social medias from teachers and classmates sending love and support for her struggles. She hadn't responded to any of them yet, even though Eli had sent her over a dozen texts asking if she was okay and begging her to talk to him. She just wasn't ready to deal with anybody yet.
Wednesday night she found a Post-It note taped to the top of a pizza box from her dad. He was nowhere to be found in their little house, but the note offered her the pie and informed her that the viewing was going to be held Friday morning at nine o' clock until the procession to the burial at noon. Naomi tossed the note in the trash and left the pizza on the table untouched. She didn't sleep that night.
On Thursday, Lyla's grandmother stopped by to see her. Despite her age and recent grief, the woman held herself up with a straight spine when Naomi answered the door. Her strawberry blonde hair was streaked with strands of white, falling like a waterfall down past her shoulders, certain curls drawing attention to her dulled, green eyes. They seemed to be where she was keeping the majority of her sorrow. Every time she blinked she seemed in danger of crying, a phenomenon not unknown to Naomi herself. Her father still wasn't home, so she invited the elderly woman in and set a kettle to boil for some tea. She wasn't entirely sure how to make it, but she at least knew how to boil some water. She set cups on top of plates and brought them to the table. Then she set out a bag of sugar and a bottle of honey.
"Thank you," the woman said, her voice hoarse. She placed a soft hand on top of Naomi's, looking at her with concern. "How have you been holding up?"
Naomi tensed, having to consciously stop herself from pulling back her hand. "I'm fine," she told her. She should have guessed the old woman would want to talk about how she was feeling, but right now Naomi couldn't handle that. She couldn't admit that she wasn't sleeping or eating or that she was constantly thinking that nothing was right anymore. If she admitted how awful she felt, it would all come to the surface. She didn't want that.
Lyla's grandmother nodded, her lips pursed. "We don't have to discuss it," she allowed, and Naomi was thankful for that. The old woman shifted in her chair then, looking a little uncomfortable. "I do have something I think we should talk about though."
Silence settled over the pair as Naomi waited for the woman's request. It took a moment, probably longer than it should have, for Naomi to realize the woman was waiting for permission to ask. Naomi shrugged. "What is it?" she asked.
The old woman tilted her head slightly, an unreadable expression on her face. "I wondered if you might speak at the funeral," she said finally.
Naomi stared at her, taking a moment to comprehend the meaning of her words. It hadn't occurred to her that Lyla's relatives would have any interest in what she had to say. As much as she felt like family, she wasn't blood. Might someone find it intrusive for her to speak on behalf of their deceased relative?
"It's just that you knew my Lyla so well," the old woman explained, perhaps sensing Naomi's hesitation. "You were her very best friend. I'm sure you know things about her that none of the rest of us do. You might have some stories none of us have heard."
'So many,' Naomi silently agreed. Her mind was instantly flooded, memories springing up from all through the timeline of their years together. A soft smile tugged at her lips, though it lasted only a moment before getting dragged back down by the intense loneliness she'd been feeling ever since Lyla and her mother had dropped her off that night. She thought about standing up and speaking in front of Lyla's family telling them stories about the two of them. She didn't think she could do it. She didn't think she wanted to.
Her head was shaking before she even realized she was acknowledging her answer. "No," she responded, verbalising her dissent.
"Are you sure?" Lyla's grandmother pushed. She looked heartbroken at the answer, like Naomi had slapped her instead of simply saying no.
Naomi felt her throat close up. She had to take a moment to stop herself from bursting into tears before whimpering out, "I can't." She found herself unable to say any more than that.
It seemed to suffice though. Lyla's grandmother nodded, gazing at the girl with newfound sympathy in her eyes. "That's fine," she assured her. She stood up to leave. "If you change your mind, just let me know. Your dad has my number."
Naomi stayed at the kitchen table, staring at the knots in the wood as the woman let herself out. She wanted to be able to tell stories and laugh at the memory of Lyla's playful antics, but she was so scared. What if moving on meant losing Lyla forever? She didn't want her friend to be gone. She didn't want Mrs. Murphy to be gone either. She just wanted them back. She'd give anything to bring them back, even if just for a day.
A sudden splash against the wood made Naomi flinch. She skimmed a fingertip overtop of the spot, examining it. She brushed a hand over her eyes to wipe away the tears. She wasn't sure when she'd started crying. Nowadays, that wasn't so unusual for her. It seemed like she was constantly discovering that she'd been weeping, probably because Lyla and her mother were living in her head rent free.
She was so tired of this. How long would she have to constantly be on the verge of a breakdown? How long did she have to feel like someone was digging their nails into her heart and slowly-- painfully, agonizingly slowly-- ripping it out of her chest? She was done with the pity eyes, done with not being able to think about her family without triggering the waterworks. She wanted that psychotic man to pay for what he'd done; being arrested, going to prison, that wasn't enough. She wanted him to suffer just like she was.
A burst of cold air slammed into her as she threw open the front door to her house. She had no idea where she was going as her feet hit the concrete driveway and carried her down the street. This might be the breakdown she was worried about, but at that moment it didn't concern her. She was running, and for the first time since their deaths it felt like she was doing something. What that was exactly, she had no idea but it was better than sitting in bed all day. A part of her knew she wouldn't accomplish anything, but a larger part didn't care. Naomi kept running, farther than she thought she had the endurance for and she kept going. Eventually her breathing became labored and her surroundings blurred until she couldn't tell where she was, whether she was on a residential street, a highway, or even an open field.
In her head she could see Lyla's smile. Mrs. Murphy was there, too, standing beside her with the offering of a hug. Behind them, Naomi's own mother appeared. She didn't look the same as she had the last time Naomi saw her. She looked like she did before the sickness took her. She looked vibrant and healthy. Youthful almost, and her loving gaze tugged at a heartstring Naomi thought had been lost to time.
The vision faded, leaving Naomi all alone again as she blacked out. She thought she felt grass at least as she fell to unconsciousness. She just had time to think how lucky it was that she hadn't hit pavement in the middle of the road before she passed out completely.