Wicked Snow

Sunday Grieving

I woke up on Sunday morning with a terrible headache and eyes nearly swollen shut form crying. My chest felt like it had been cracked open and torn to shreds, leaving my heart a destroyed mess. It took immense effort for me to get out of the bed and get ready for the day that I knew would be the hardest of my life. It was the day of my mother’s funeral, and my empty and impersonal hotel room was all the reminder I needed that I had nobody left. My mom had been the only important person in my life.

My father was an abusive and controlling monster of a man, who I held nothing but resentment towards, I had no uncles or aunts, and my only surviving grandparents had never been a part of my life. I had a few friends at Yale, but we weren’t that close–after being bullied in high school, I had trouble getting close to my peers. My mother had been the only person I had allowed into my heart and trusted completely, and with her gone I had no idea who I could rely on.

She was the most beautiful person I had known, both inside and out. She was kind and compassionate, and even being married to my father hadn’t extinguished her gentle nature. She had been the kind of woman who knew all her neighbors and was always doing favors for anybody who needed help. Not only had she donated to various charities–much to my father’s frustration–but she had also volunteered at animal shelters and soup kitchens around the city.

She used to be an art tour guide at the Met, but when I was born, my father had demanded that she quit her job. My birth had given him the excuse to relegate her to the role of a housewife, because my father was under the outdated impression that women were meant to stay home and raise the children, while men went to work. So, my mom may have given into his demands to quit her job, but that didn’t stop her from keeping herself busy with volunteer work.

Luckily, my father never put a stop to her volunteering, because her philanthropy made him look good in the papers. My mom had told me on many occasions that volunteering at those places was just about the only thing that gave her joy anymore, so if my father had taken it away from her, I don’t know what she would have done.

After showering and drying my reddish-brown hair, I changed into a knee-length and long-sleeved black dress. It was the only black dress that I had and I wasn’t up for shopping, so even though I had worn it many times before, it would have to do for the funeral. I left my hair down and didn’t bother wearing any make-up. Any make-up I wore would only get ruined by the tears I would inevitably shed.

I checked my phone and saw that there was an email from my father’s assistant. It had been sent last night, but I hadn’t bothered looking at my phone since booking my hotel room on Friday night. The email contained information for my mom’s funeral and the reception that would take place afterwards. The funeral service started at eleven, which was three hours from then, but according to the email, I had to meet my father at his penthouse first.

The upscale building that he lived in was only a ten-minute walk from my hotel, so I made my way on foot rather than on the subway. Unfortunately, when I got to the building, there were a few photographers outside the building. Spotting me, they started snapping photos and shouting to get my attention.

“Grace! How is your family dealing with your mother’s death?” one of them asked.

I had to swallow my irritation at his insensitivity down, wishing I could scream at him or smash his camera to pieces. My mom had just died, and he was taking photos of me and asking stupid questions. This was why I hated the press–they were bloody vultures. Luckily the doorman let me into the lobby without any problems, giving me a quick escape.

“Hi, I’m here to see my father, Frank Thornton. He’s expecting me,” I told the severe looking man behind the reception desk.

“Yes, he made us aware that you would be coming by. Please make your way up,” he replied with a surprisingly friendly smile.

I was turning around to make my way to the elevator when he offered his sympathies. “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Thornton. Your mother was a good woman,” he said earnestly.

“Thank you,” I said awkwardly, blinking back tears.

It was the first time someone had talked to me about her death–besides my father of course–and even though his words had been well-meaning, they sent a sharp pain through my chest. The concierge nodded and gave me a small encouraging smile. I pressed the button for the elevator, and the doors immediately opened. Getting in, I pressed the button for the penthouse.

My father’s immense wealth and his pride meant that he lived on the top floor in the most expensive condo in New York. It overlooked Central Park and it had been reported that he had spent over fifty-million dollars when he bought it eight years ago. My mom had hated the flashy and modern style of the penthouse, and I had to agree with her. It was over the top and lacked the warmth of a real home. Spending my teen years in that condo had been awful in so many ways, but at least I had been able to get away by going to college. My mom hadn’t had the same opportunity. She had had to live in that cold home with her cold husband for far too long.

I stepped out of the elevator into the condo and nearly scoffed at the obnoxious white fur rug in the center of the foyer. The furniture in the penthouse was just about as absurd as the man who had chosen them. My father had chosen them for their price-tag, not for their appropriateness or attractiveness. So even though the furniture and fittings in his condo probably cost him millions, the combined effect of them was tasteless and unappealing to the eye.

“Grace. There you are,” my father snapped impatiently from where he sat in the living room.

He was a forty-seven-year-old man, but there was no beer gut or receding and graying hairline to give away his middle-aged status. Instead, my father was fit and healthy, with sharp intelligent blue eyes and a full head of brown hair. He was on the white leather coach tapping away at his phone, probably busy with work. He never stopped working– apparently not even on the day of his wife’s funeral. I wished I could say that I was surprised, but it was such typical behavior from him that I barely batted an eyelash.

“Nice to see you too, father,” I replied sharply. He hadn’t even looked up from his cellphone.

“We’ll be leaving shortly,” he said, still typing on his phone and not acknowledging my words. “My assistant went through the trouble of buying you a dress for the occasion. It’s in your old room.”

“There was no need. I have a dress already,” I replied in irritation. It was so like my father to have to control everything down to what I wore

He finally looked up from his phone and scoffed at the dress I was wearing. “That won’t do. Go change into the new one. I want you looking your best for the press,” he said offhandedly.

I raised my eyebrows in disbelief. “You want me to look my best for my mother’s funeral. Do you not see what’s wrong with that statement?”

He rolled his eyes and stood up from the couch. “Don’t be difficult, Grace. Just go put on the dress.”

“No. You’re being ridiculous,” I said stubbornly.

I was not in the mood to deal with his outrageous demands. He hadn’t even bothered to include me in the funeral arrangements, and he had the audacity to tell me what to wear.

“Go put on the dress,” he said through clenched teeth, his frustration clear in his voice.

“Why?” I challenged him. “The press outside already took photos of me in this dress.” I knew I was being childish and difficult, but I was sick of doing whatever he ordered.

He had treated my mom and me like garbage, and even after years of abuse, my mother was too scared to try and leave him. But I had decided that I was done with him. He could no longer take his anger out on my mom and there was nothing tying me to him anymore. After the funeral and reception, there was no reason for me to ever see his face again.

Of course, I should have waited until the last minute to fight against him, which was my mistake. He stood up and stalked towards me, fuming with rage, and roughly grabbed my arm. He yanked and pulled me to my old bedroom, his grip bruising. He shoved me onto the floor, and I banged my shoulder on the frame of the bed.

“Get into the f*****g dress!” he roared before slamming the door behind him.

I stumbled to my feet, cursing my stubbornness for getting me into that situation, but not truly regretting my decision to defy him in some way. I couldn’t wait to be free of the selfish brute.

The dress his assistant had bought for me was a below-the-knee crossover dress with sleeves that ended at the elbow. She had also bought a pair of matching black pump heels, which were admittedly much nice than the ones I had on. Putting them on, I felt like a fraud though. I had never liked the fancy and expensive clothes that my father had insisted my mom and I had to wear. I was much more comfortable in my skinny jeans, knitted sweaters and bought-on-sale ankle boots. Looking in the mirror hanging on the bedroom wall, I could see that the clothes fit well, but they looked wrong on me somehow. My eyes were red and haunted, and I had dark rings under them, even after hours of sleep.

I looked far from my cool and collected father, but at least I showed the signs of grieving. My grief showed that I loved my mom, so I could care less if the press got pictures of me looking like that. In a weird way, I was proud of the mess I was because it proved that I had loved her with all my heart. Conversely, my father's collected and put-together appearance was proof that he was too selfish to love anyone but himself.

My hair had gotten ruffled in the scuffle with my father, so I ran my fingers through it to smooth it out. I left my old dress and shoes in the room and walked back to the living room.

My father looked up from his phone and nodded in approval. “Let’s go. I have a car waiting for us.” He walked through to the foyer and pressed the button for the elevator. “There’s something we have to discuss after the reception, so make sure you don’t disappear before we talk,” he said evenly.

I didn’t think he needed a response to that, but he turned to look at me with a sharp look. “Do you understand?” he said with some annoyance.

“Yes, I understand,” I sighed.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened to let us in. We got in and after the doors closed in front of the two of us, I could no longer contain my curiosity. “May I ask what you need to talk to me about?” I asked drily, damn the consequences.

“All you need to know is that what we have to discuss might affect your studies. You’ll want to know what I have to say,” he answered with a smug smile.

His words surprised me into silence. I had assumed he wanted to talk about my mom’s will or something to that effect; my studies had been the last thing on my mind.

I had gotten a scholarship to study at the Yale School of Art, which was the only reason I could study what I wanted. My father would have never financed my studies unless I was getting a business degree, and even then he would have thought it a waste of his money because he didn't think women needed an education. So, he had thrown a fit when I had told him I was going to study fine arts, but there had been nothing he could do to stop me. He had tried to beat me into submission, but not even the bruised ribs and dislocated shoulder had changed my mind. My dream was to become an artist and it was a dream that my mom had supported and encouraged, which meant there was nothing he could have done to me to make me give up that scholarship.

His mentioning my studies was therefore worrying. I tried to think of possible explanations for his words, but all I could think was that his smug smile meant he had finally managed to take Yale away from me. If he had somehow found a way to take away my scholarship or ruin my chances at college, he might finally succeed in breaking me.

I had survived years of his physical and emotional abuse, but my mom’s death had broken my heart and if he took away my art, he would succeed in breaking my soul. I pushed those worries aside though, and focused on what was important–my mom. Whatever he wanted to say to me could wait, because nothing meant more to me than saying goodbye to the woman who had been my whole world.