The Merciless II Read Free Page B

flower arrangements said they’re not good for bouquets, but they are—no, they were —my mother’s favorite flowers, so I insistedhe cut me a dozen. Half the petals have already blown away.
    A military chaplain stands at the head of my mother’s casket, white robes draped around his shoulders. His face is made up of hard lines and deep wrinkles, the collar of his jacket digging into his leathery neck.
    â€œA reading from First Peter,” he recites, starting down at a thick leather Bible. “‘Dear friends, do not be surprised at the painful trial you are suffering . . .’”
    I try to listen, but the wind snatches his voice before it reaches my ears. It’s a small funeral, only a half-dozen soldiers from my mother’s unit crowd around the coffin. Next to me Jodi Sorrenson, Mom’s commanding officer, dabs her nose with a crumpled tissue.
    â€œYour mother would have thought this was beautiful,” she whispers, sniffling. A fat tear rolls down her cheek, but I don’t have it in me to comfort her.
    â€œI’m sure she would have,” I say instead. Mom didn’t provide specific instructions for the funeral, so Jodi did her best to guess at her wishes. The truth is, I know Mom would have hated all of this. She despised Bible quotes and graveyards. She wouldn’t have wanted the military spending money and making a fuss over her. She called funerals “morbid spectacles” and always told me that, when she died, she wanted to be buried in the cheapest casket I could find and for people to donate to charity instead of buying flowers.
    â€œOr donate my body to science,” she added. “Then at least my death could help people.”
    She wanted everything to be quick and easy. Efficient—like she was.
    I clutch the poppies in my hand. The bouquet was the one thing I chose myself. Another bright-red petal dances off into the wind. I watch the flowers scatter, and fight against the sob building in my throat. Now it’s just a bundle of ugly stems.
    The chaplain raises his hands. This is my signal. I’m supposed to be the first person to lay flowers on my mother’s coffin. The soldiers turn to look at me, waiting, but I don’t move. My feet feel as if they’ve frozen to the dead brown grass. Jodi nudges me with her elbow.
    â€œGo on,” she whispers.
    I stare at my ruined bouquet. The stalks are skinny green things. They don’t even have leaves. Tears prick my eyes but I blink, refusing to let them fall. I wanted to surround my mother with red poppies. Then, when she was underground with her tacky, overpriced coffin, she’d have at least one thing she loved to make her feel less alone.
    I can’t give her these ugly stems.
    Jodi steps forward, placing a white rose on my mother’s coffin. The others follow. Some leave flowers, others just bow their heads and move on. I stay rootedin place as the few guests pay their respects. The honor guards meticulously fold the flag draped over my mother’s casket, and present it to me. I barely hear the words they say as I take the stiff fabric in my hands. Jodi glances at me when the guests start to leave, but I refuse to meet her eyes. She nods and pats me on the shoulder.
    â€œI’ll wait by the car,” she says. “Take as much time as you need.”
    I listen to her heels crunch against the dead grass. When I’m sure she’s gone, I step forward and sink to the ground next to my mother’s coffin, the flag nestled on my lap. I lean my head against the shiny wood, a tear crawling down my cheek. I don’t have the strength to wipe it away.
    â€œMaybe this is just a dream,” I say. I trace the whirls of wood with my finger. “Like in The Wizard of Oz . Maybe we just have to click our heels.”
    Mom used to joke that Dorothy’s trick of clicking her heels together and saying, “There’s no place like