Chapter 4 - The Rain in BrooklynThe sun hadn't risen when I arrived at Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn the following morning.
A cold, heavy autumn rain fell over the ancient oak trees and stone mausoleums, turning the narrow dirt paths into slick mud. The sky was a dark, bruised purple.
I stood fifty yards away from a small, newly dug plot beneath a massive weeping willow tree.
Four black umbrellas stood in a quiet semi-circle around the tiny white wooden casket resting on lowering straps over the open earth.
Standing in the center of those umbrellas was Meline.
She wore a simple, dark wool coat that hung loosely over her frail, diminished frame. Her dark hair was pulled back into a quiet knot, soaked through by the rain. She looked impossibly thin, her cheekbones sharp, dark shadows carved deeply beneath her hollow eyes.
She wasn't crying. She stood completely still, staring down at the tiny white box, her hand resting flat over her chest where her heart was breaking in silence.
Beside her stood her older brother, Thomas, and her childhood friend, Clara. No photographers were there. No corporate executives. No Vance Medical security. Just three people burying a child who had never seen the light of day.
My feet felt like lead as I took my first step through the wet grass toward them.
Thomas turned his head first. When his eyes caught mine, his jaw clenched in pure, murderous rage. He took two fast steps toward me, his fists clenching at his sides. "Get the hell out of here, Damen," Thomas rasped, his voice shaking with hatred. "You don't get to stand here."
"Thomas... please," I choked out, my voice breaking. "I just want to see him. I just want to stand by my wife."
"She isn't your wife anymore!" Thomas spat, shoving his palm against my shoulder, sending me stumbling backward into the mud. "You left her alone for six days while she was dying in an ICU! You let that monster push her down the stairs! You don't get to play the grieving father now!"
"Thomas."
A quiet, raspy voice cut through the sound of the falling rain.
Meline turned her head slowly.
Her hazel eyes—eyes that had once looked at me with unconditional devotion, warmth, and laughter for ten years—looked at me now.
There was no anger in her face. There was no hatred. There was no rage.
There was only a vast, terrifying emptiness. An absolute zero that chilled me deeper than the November rain.
"Let him come, Thomas," Meline whispered softly.
Thomas swallowed hard, glaring at me with contempt, but stepped aside.
I walked slowly up to the edge of the open plot. I looked down at the tiny white casket. It was so small. So horrifyingly small.
I reached into my wet coat pocket, pulled out the tiny blue knitted hat, and dropped to my knees in the wet mud beside the grave. I pressed my forehead against the damp wooden lid of the casket, my chest heaving as tears rained down onto the polished white finish.
"I'm sorry..." I sobbed, my voice echoing in the wet grass. "I'm so sorry, my son... I'm sorry I wasn't there to hold you... I'm sorry I didn't protect you..."
Meline stood two feet away from me, looking down at her husband kneeling in the mud like a broken beggar.
She didn't reach out to touch my shoulder. She didn't offer a hand. She simply stood beneath her black umbrella, watching me mourn the child I had chosen to ignore for 144 hours.
"His name was Leo," Meline whispered over the sound of the rain.
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I looked up through my tears, my heart bleeding into my throat. "Leo?"
"Leo James Vance," she said softly, her voice flat and clean. "He fought for forty minutes in the delivery room, Damen. His heart kept beating even when his lungs couldn't open. He was stronger than his father ever was."
