ACT ONE ━━CHAPTER SEVEN Saint with the Lips of a Sinner
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ECCLESIASTES 3:1-8. "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die...a time to kill and a time to heal...a time to love and a time to hate...a time for war and a time for peace."
That's what the pastor read at the funeral. The guests all nodded their heads along to the Bible scripture in agreement for it wasn't their family member being buried in the ground. The women dabbed at their eyes in fake-sorrow for the dead they had never even known. The guests only knew what they wanted them to know, not the ghosts that lived in the Berkeleys' closets.
Adaline couldn't stop seeing all the blood. It was everywhere. All over the bedding, rolling down exposed skin, dripping onto the carpet, compiling into an ever-growing circle around the culprit.
She called 9-1-1. They were too late. She tried to stop the bleeding. It was already infected. How long had they been like that? Why hadn't Adaline come home from school earlier? Why didn't she know? She should've known. The empty space was directly in front of her yet she was too stupid enough to put the last piece in the puzzle. She should've known. Anyone with common sense would've known.
The doctors ruled it as acquired hemophilia that caused Betty to bleed out so quickly. The wire hanger was covered in bacteria that infected her bloodstream almost immediately. Even if they had gotten her to the hospital, it was likely she would have bled out on the operating table instead of in her bedroom.
When they arrived, they had to pry the poor girl away from cradling her mother's head. Bath towels were everywhere but were of no use. Adaline was covered in blood. The men tried to help her up but she couldn't stop seeing red. It was everywhere. The room was tinted red. Red forms were pinning her legs down on the ground. For a moment, she was convinced she had died in her sleep and this was her Hell.
A hand gently rested on Adaline's shoulder, her Aunt Sally nonverbally telling Adaline it was time to bury her mother. Adaline couldn't look at her aunt anymore. It was the 60s, they had phones. Adaline could've called her aunt earlier, spoken to her mother earlier, figured out the obvious dilemma earlier, prevented what happened earlier.
Prevented what happened at all.
Adaline moved forward to grab the handheld shovel her father set on the pile of dirt, unable to look at his own daughter. Desmond didn't blame her. He blamed himself, actually, but Adaline didn't deserve this. He understood that Betty could do this to him, but to Adaline? Their daughter? He couldn't accept it. Looking at Adaline's tear-stained face was only another reminder.
Adaline scooped the dirt and looked down at the coffin six feet under. She slowly tilted the shovel so dirt trickled down, reminiscent of the blood she watched roll down the inside of her mother's legs while she died.
