Confessions of a Murder Suspect

85

The lights were low in the simple little chapel. There were lilies in urns on either side of the podium, and the two caskets were below me—two dark wood coffins with sprays of white flowers lying across them. A large photo of my parents together stood on an easel to my left. They looked happy and optimistic in the picture, which had been taken twenty-five years ago.

Sadly, I wouldn’t be able to lean on my big brother for support, since Matthew was still in jail and I wasn’t even allowed to talk to him. So it was just Harry, Hugo, Samantha, and Philippe who looked up at me from the front row. They were counting on me to say the right things.

I didn’t know if it was possible.

“Malcolm and Maud were good parents,” I began. “They loved us in their own way.”

My voice cracked and splintered. I tried to speak, but my broken little voice disappeared into the overwhelming sadness of my hollow words echoing in the small and nearly empty room.

I tried to rein in my grief and start again with sweeter memories in my mind.

I thought about the birthday cake my father had let me help him bake for Maud’s birthday, and the way my mother had taught me how to dress and act. I remembered how effusive Maud had been when she described the great things I would do someday, including running the family business.

“They were tough on us, and, they held us to a high standard, because they loved us. They wanted us to do great things.…”

“Because they loved us,” Harry chimed in from the front row of the chapel. Tears were streaming down his face. “I know they did. They had to.”

“They didn’t tell us in actual words.…”

“But they did love us,” said Hugo, punching a fist into his other hand.

“They truly, truly loved you,” said Samantha.

“They told me how much they loved you, many times,” Phil said.

Really?

Where was all this certainty coming from? I wasn’t sure. But it felt like the right thing to say. And I wanted so badly for it to be true. No matter what they’d done to me, I still loved them.

I think we all needed to believe that they loved us.

Suddenly, I was crying too hard to speak. I heard the creak of door hinges and looked up to see Uncle Peter entering at the front of the chapel. He looked like he’d been raised from the dead to attend this service.

I cleared my throat, dabbed at my nose with a tissue, and put up a hand to show that I had more to say.

I looked at my note cards so that I could read a quote. “Anne Frank wrote, ‘How true Daddy’s words were when he said: all children must look after their own upbringing. Parents can only give good advice or put them on the right paths, but the final forming of a person’s character lies in their own hands.’

“This is how Malcolm and Maud felt about us,” I said. “They trusted that we could shape our lives from this point on. That we could make our way.”

Quoting what my mother had said only moments before she died just about killed me. I fell apart, blubbering and sobbing again.

Harry stood and spoke over my sobs. “Our parents believed in working hard, and they taught us to earn everything we ever got. And now we finally understand that… that they did everything they did for us. It was all for us, right?” Harry looked around desperately. I nodded through my tears. He let out a huge sigh and covered his eyes with his hands. His shoulders shook and settled. He spoke again, adding, “Maud used to say, ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead.’ Sleep well now, Mother and Father.” And he sat down.

Hugo shot to his feet and flung himself across Malcolm’s coffin. He said, “Father, I forgive you for the biggest chop ever, ever, ever. I forgive both of you. Be good. No fighting. Buckle up and have a safe trip. We’ll always love and miss you.”