The Afterlife (Siren Suicides, Book 3)

Chapter 23. Strait of Juan de Fuca

No. No-no-no. He loves me. He does. He must, I'm his daughter. My whole being squirms and thrashes and refuses to accept the idea that my father lied again. I fell victim to the child inside, the one who is reluctant to give up what she almost glimpsed. An internal battle sweeps me into a land of doubt. One side of me clings to hope, the other screams how stupid that is. They place a bet, and I listen to my father finish his speech, catching every word, my nerves atremble. One more second, and he'll say it. Another second, and it will come. I wait with abated breath. He stops talking. Not a single mention of love. Not a single tear. Maybe it's because he knows I'm alive, as alive as a siren can be. I cling to this thought. This must be it. He steps away from the microphone. Canosa and the other three women shuffle closer and begin their song, sorrowful, with drawn out vowels. I don't listen.

My father leans in for a kiss.

"Sorry I'm late, sweetie," he whispers over the song. "I had to arrange our voyage. It's taken care of, just endure this a little more." My doubts vanish. Guilt turns me inside out. How could I think he doesn't care? He does. He does. He was just busy.

"Canosa is here," I whisper back as quietly as possible. But of course, because of the stupid song, he doesn't hear me.

He stands, feigns crying into a fine silk kerchief, and steps aside, giving way to the shuffling mob; the mob of people who are related to me in some distant way and have either seen me only once at my mother's funeral, or in pictures, which, I don't know how they could have, because father never sent pictures to anyone. For some of them, this is their first time seeing me. In my family, we seem to notice each other only twice, when we're born or dead.

The choir drones on, something about afterlife.

It's a horde of hired strangers, paid to show up and make my funeral grand, streaming towards me in a line, leaning in one by one, burning my forehead with a mandatory kiss, whispering something that means nothing to me. I count thirty-two of them.

The song is finally over. The three choir singers silently trail after the crowd, but Canosa lingers. She is number thirty-three. Her kiss is as cold as ice. She promptly shuts the lid and leaves without a word.

Surrounded by darkness, I freeze, if it's possible to freeze even more in my state. What do I do now, break out? Or wait to break out from the boat, after being dumped into the sea, like my father said? I don't know whom to believe anymore. This whole funeral service strikes me as odd, as if done in a rush, without being properly rehearsed and carried out.

On top of it, I constantly fight the urge to sink into my memories about Hunter. I can't. It will disable me, rendering me useless.

The four pallbearers who brought me inside, close around the casket, silently lift me, and walk out of the Chapel, without a single word exchanged between them. They should be putting me in the hearse but they keep walking instead. It feels like they are taking me across the street. I hear the strum of moving cars. We must have crossed the Fremont Bridge. They trot along a path, the gravel crunching under their feet. They zigzag down to the water, to the marina where my father moors his boat.

I sway to the rhythm of waves. They must have made it onto the new boat. They proceed another twenty steps and then place me onto another elevated platform. I hear them saunter off as the funeral guests sashay in. The boat bobs and jitters with excited chatter. Everyone is ready to depart for my burial at sea. Canosa is too. She's nearby, I can feel her.

I have to tell Papa.

I claw at the silky casket innards in frustration. The last person steps on the boat. The captain shouts his signal, ropes rumble off, and the engine starts. I hear my father's voice directing people around, chatting with caterers, and organizing the event to his satisfaction.