Closer Home Read Online Free
Author: Kerry Anne King
same.
The pallbearers, all with bent heads and downcast expressions, unload the coffin and carry it to the contraption of straps and pulleys, where they carefully set it down. A cleric in a black cassock, carrying an enormous Bible, moves into position.
I feel like we’re on a movie set, what with all of the cameras and the staging and the grief as artificial as the fake grass we’re standing on. Callie can’t really be in that box, even though I saw her there with my own eyes. She moves through my memories, alive and vibrant. Six years old, pigtailed and blue jeaned, running through tall grass in the park, airplaning her arms and squealing with glee while our father lumbers behind in exaggerated slowness. A sullen teenager, pushing the lawn mower erratically around the yard, muttering curse words and deliberately missing long strips and chunks. Sixteen and pregnant with Ariel, her face glowing with passion as she defends her right to have and keep her baby.
Callie is contrary and changeable as the weather, not a lifeless, carefully painted body about to be buried under six feet of earth. The emptiness in my stomach fills with lead. Tears well up behind my eyes and I blink them back as fast as I’m able. I won’t let the curious onlookers see me cry.
The minister utters words that are meant to be healing. They flow around and over me like water—meaningless, senseless. I count the minutes until I can break away from the crowd and retreat to someplace private where I can lick my wounds.
But then the music starts. “Closer Home,” the song that catapulted Callie up the charts to fame. Her voice on the recording is as clear and clean as if she’s standing right beside us.
The wider I wander, the farther I roam
The more your love finds me
And leads me back home
Closer home, closer home
You always bring me closer home.
As the familiar music curls around me, heat rises through my blood. My jaw sets in a hard line. My shoulders go tight.
“Easy,” Dale whispers in my ear. He reaches for my hand, but it’s clenched into a fist and I can’t—won’t—let it go.
God knows I loved my sister. How could I not? I half-raised her; she is a part of me. But my anger matches that love, measure for measure. Standing at the place where she will be forever laid to rest, with her voice singing out the loss and betrayal that is “Closer Home,” all of my heartbreak hardens slowly into hate.
CHAPTER TWO
Dale can’t stay. Nor does he want to, although he doesn’t say so. His small-town roots run even deeper than mine, and I can tell that the constant invasion of privacy and the pressure from the paparazzi and curious fans grate on him.
Besides, he has responsibilities back home that outweigh any reason to hang around after the funeral. Spring is a hectic time for his contracting business, and while he’s got good workers who can cover for a day or two, he needs to be on-site to make sure his projects are up to the standards that have made him a success.
He could have taken a cab to the airport, but by tacit agreement I drive him instead. I’ve got the keys to one of Callie’s cars, the subdued Lexus with dark-tinted windows. We drive in silence, partly because I hate driving in traffic and need to focus on the road, partly because we are both busy with our own thoughts. My emotions are a confusing mess of grief and anger, and it’s a relief when Dale leans over and turns on the radio. His preference tends toward classic rock, but he scans through the country stations, abiding by the rule we made up when we first got licensed to drive—the driver controls the tunes. He settles on a station and I draw a deep breath, sliding into the music and letting it take me into a better space as it always does.
Until “Closer Home” starts to play.
“Sorry.” Dale reaches for the knob, but I put a hand on his wrist.
“It’s everywhere. Leave it.”
My whole body feels sore, as though I’ve been systematically
The pallbearers, all with bent heads and downcast expressions, unload the coffin and carry it to the contraption of straps and pulleys, where they carefully set it down. A cleric in a black cassock, carrying an enormous Bible, moves into position.
I feel like we’re on a movie set, what with all of the cameras and the staging and the grief as artificial as the fake grass we’re standing on. Callie can’t really be in that box, even though I saw her there with my own eyes. She moves through my memories, alive and vibrant. Six years old, pigtailed and blue jeaned, running through tall grass in the park, airplaning her arms and squealing with glee while our father lumbers behind in exaggerated slowness. A sullen teenager, pushing the lawn mower erratically around the yard, muttering curse words and deliberately missing long strips and chunks. Sixteen and pregnant with Ariel, her face glowing with passion as she defends her right to have and keep her baby.
Callie is contrary and changeable as the weather, not a lifeless, carefully painted body about to be buried under six feet of earth. The emptiness in my stomach fills with lead. Tears well up behind my eyes and I blink them back as fast as I’m able. I won’t let the curious onlookers see me cry.
The minister utters words that are meant to be healing. They flow around and over me like water—meaningless, senseless. I count the minutes until I can break away from the crowd and retreat to someplace private where I can lick my wounds.
But then the music starts. “Closer Home,” the song that catapulted Callie up the charts to fame. Her voice on the recording is as clear and clean as if she’s standing right beside us.
The wider I wander, the farther I roam
The more your love finds me
And leads me back home
Closer home, closer home
You always bring me closer home.
As the familiar music curls around me, heat rises through my blood. My jaw sets in a hard line. My shoulders go tight.
“Easy,” Dale whispers in my ear. He reaches for my hand, but it’s clenched into a fist and I can’t—won’t—let it go.
God knows I loved my sister. How could I not? I half-raised her; she is a part of me. But my anger matches that love, measure for measure. Standing at the place where she will be forever laid to rest, with her voice singing out the loss and betrayal that is “Closer Home,” all of my heartbreak hardens slowly into hate.
CHAPTER TWO
Dale can’t stay. Nor does he want to, although he doesn’t say so. His small-town roots run even deeper than mine, and I can tell that the constant invasion of privacy and the pressure from the paparazzi and curious fans grate on him.
Besides, he has responsibilities back home that outweigh any reason to hang around after the funeral. Spring is a hectic time for his contracting business, and while he’s got good workers who can cover for a day or two, he needs to be on-site to make sure his projects are up to the standards that have made him a success.
He could have taken a cab to the airport, but by tacit agreement I drive him instead. I’ve got the keys to one of Callie’s cars, the subdued Lexus with dark-tinted windows. We drive in silence, partly because I hate driving in traffic and need to focus on the road, partly because we are both busy with our own thoughts. My emotions are a confusing mess of grief and anger, and it’s a relief when Dale leans over and turns on the radio. His preference tends toward classic rock, but he scans through the country stations, abiding by the rule we made up when we first got licensed to drive—the driver controls the tunes. He settles on a station and I draw a deep breath, sliding into the music and letting it take me into a better space as it always does.
Until “Closer Home” starts to play.
“Sorry.” Dale reaches for the knob, but I put a hand on his wrist.
“It’s everywhere. Leave it.”
My whole body feels sore, as though I’ve been systematically
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