Page 54 of The Other Side of Green

Lyra’s face hardened into stone as the mourners waited for Grams to lead the way in. I kept my eyes on Lyra and as the coffin passed her by, she met my gaze. I held it.

I gave her a small nod and she stared back at me for one awful moment like I’d killed her cat.

“I don’t know what you did to upset her,” Mom murmured under her breath. I bit my tongue from answering that the only thing I’d done wrong was to want all the things I wasn’t allowed to have.

Everyone sat in their pews and I made sure I sat on the end of mine as arranged. The congregation fell into hushed silence waiting for Pastor Clarke to get up and begin… the silence stretched… and then stretched.

I turned to Evan and curled the corner of my lips.

It was time for Lyra to show this damn town just who she was.

Leah stood first, a flash of electric blue, then Rach and finally Grace, the three of them dotted on different pews. A whispered murmur ran around the packed church, one hundred Sunday best hats all lifting at once to see what was going on.

Lyra turned almost, her shoulder curling inwards, but then she stopped, bent down to pick up the blue satin at her feet and then stood straightening her back and pulling on her gospel crown. My girl looked great in blue; like there would ever be any doubt.

Her bronzed hair caught the light, curling over her shoulders in curls that I knew her grandmother had always told her to be proud of.

Luca watched her wide-eyed, his hand holding his mom’s arm. Although from my spot, I couldn’t see if he was comforting her or holding her down.

I kind of hoped the latter.

Leah started the acapella, drawing the note until the others had joined in, filling the small local church with a sound that didn’t need microphones. The three of them walked toward the altar, joining Lyra on the steps that led to where Grams’ coffin had been placed.

Chills ran over my skin as a hush like freshly fallen snow descended around the church. Not one rustle, not one sniff or cough.

Luca turned his head, shooting a dark glare in my direction and as much as I didn’t want to be dick at his grandmother’s funeral, I curled my lips at the edges and nodded in acknowledgment of his rage. I guessed Lyra didn’t fill her brother in on the changes to the service.

The girls muted their warm-up one by one, softening and lowering, dragging out the wait for one long breath, holding a pause before Lyra sang the first line of ‘Amazing Grace’ and then the next and then the next with such crystal clear clarity that my eyes stung in response. On the sixth line, at the end of the first verse, I stood from my pew and walked to the piano at the front while Lyra waited for me to drop in for the second verse. The swell of the piano mingled with her voice and my heart beat heavy in my chest, swelling, hammering with every note like I could climb inside of it and make everything better for her. I watched her, hoping she could feel me connected to her. I thought she’d look scared, but she didn’t. Serene, beautiful, breathtaking, like she contained every molecule of hope I’d ever had in my life. But scared? No, Lyra didn’t look scared.

The girls harmonized in, one voice at a time until they reached a crescendo of a final note.

A beat of silence and then the congregation raised to their feet in true local style.

“Praise the Lord,” Patience’s voice called out about the others. “Knew she’d do it right!”

Without another pause we launched into our second song, ‘Beautifully Broken’, a modern gospel song to raise the roof. For the Blue’s church choir it was part of the normal set, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Lyra, who despite the black of her simple dress and cardigan—nowhere close to her normal plaid and denim—shone like a goddamn star.

When we finished we sat silently back in our seats. Electricity hammered inside of me, pulsing: one, two, three, four; one, two, three, four, echoing the rhythm of the tune. Mom’s hand slipped into mine and squeezed hard. I turned to look at her to find her eyes shining bright, glistening with unshed tears. “You did good, Jack,” she said, leaning her head onto my shoulder.

And then Pastor Clarke stood to say, “Today we are gathered to praise an exceptional woman,” and we all began to cry anyway. I held Mom’s hand, determined to be there for her.

I kept my gaze superglued on Lyra’s slender shoulders throughout the sermon, throughout Luca’s poem. Lyra was right, he’d got off lucky.

At the end of the service as the pallbearers came to take Grams onto her final resting place, Lyra turned to me and nodded, face wan with paleness, eyes red. She still had one last request to fulfil for Grams. I didn’t know if she’d asked me the other night on the way home from the jazz bar because she still needed me to play, or just because she needed me.

Up until a couple of weeks ago Lyra’s violin and I had been tied together with some pretty ribbons of head fuckupery within her mind.

What would it mean for her if that were still the case?

What would it mean for us?

What did that mean for anything that happened once this tune had drawn out its last note?

Without a piano to practice on, I’d spent the last two days staring at the sheet music hoping to fuck I’d be able to feel my way through it. Not the best policy, even I could admit that. There wasn’t even so much of a sniff of an electric keyboard at Mom’s house.

Pushing down a tingle of nerves I hadn’t felt in a long, long time, I stood and walked back down the aisle to Lyra. I took her hand, her skin clammy within mine. Luca’s red eyes glared at me and I swear my bruises almost ached in response.

Refocusing on Lyra, I met her gaze. “You can do this.” It wasn’t a question.