This is the first loss we've all had to face. Before, tragedy was just a word, without true meaning. Now, I fully understand, more than I'd ever hoped to. We're all stumbling through this, not sure what to do or say.
They act uncertain, like they don't know if they should be here. I catch Tripp's eye and nod, reassuring him that we need them.
"Yeah," Carys says.
"Ma's looking for you. We should get back. Come on, let's go." Ry rises, taking her with him.
Standing, I brush my wet behind as best as I can. Carys's now-muddy black dress and pink leggings streaked with dirt bring me back to earlier in the day, when her mother was getting us ready for the funeral.
As usual, Aunt Siobhan, her mother, and Carys had words. Carys didn't want to wear a dress, and definitely not a black one. She wanted her pink leggings and her Han Solo and Chewbacca Star Wars t-shirt.
The two of them bickering calmed me-something normal during all the sadness and scariness. It didn't end well for Carys-she had to wear a dress-but no surprise, she also got her way, slipping on her pink leggings and t-shirt underneath.
Aunt Siobhan gave in the minute her daughter told her the shirt was for Pops. He loved Star Wars, and the shirt was a gift from him. Carys was wearing it for him.
"Hey, let's go back and play," Tripp says.
"I don't feel like playing," she says.
"We could play Zelda or Super Mario!" Griff says, his eyes lighting up with excitement.
"I've got a better idea," I say, and Carys earnestly gazes at me. "Let's play the Turtles and you get first pick." I point to Carys.
"Really?" A flicker of joy crosses her face.
We play the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles a lot, both the video game and, in this instance, with costumes with full gear and weapons, which we scored for Halloween. We like to act out our own made-up stories. Usually the boys pick who they want to be first, which means Carys is always April, if we let her play at all. Letting her pick first is huge.
"Only if I get to be Leonardo!" She's now standing tall, no longer needing the support of her brother, but she's still holding my hand.
"Of course you do. You want to be the leader so you can boss us around." I chuckle with a wink.
"No, it's the katana." She smirks, one hand now on her hip. "But I like Michelangelo, too. We both like cheese pizza."
"But … " Griff says. He also likes to be Mikey, if he gets the chance to claim him first. Tripp yanks his arm and Griff shuts his mouth.
"Fine, you're Leonardo. Come on." I tug her hand.
We enter the bar, and it's loud, warm, and packed. In addition to friends and family, patrons and people from the neighborhood have gathered to pay their respects to Adam Wolfe and Ciaran and Maeve Hart. Our families co-own the bar, The Waters, which has been in this neighborhood for over thirty years.
///
It's not every day there's a violent drive-by that guns down three of their own. While everyone talks in hushed tones about what happened, I've figured out some by listening to Aunt Siobhan and the police.
A botched hit, that's what they said. Their murders make no sense. At first, all I could wonder was who would want to kill my parents or Uncle Adam, and most importantly, why. Two Irish bar owners and a mother? From what I've gathered, whoever did this got the wrong bar and killed the wrong people.
A restless anger courses through me at their deaths being some stupid mistake. It infuriates me, and my rage climbs up my throat. These dark, crazy emotions scare me. They're new to me, and I'm afraid I won't be able to control them.
"There you are! Thank goodness." Aunt Siobhan hugs us. Her smile is tender, but there's no sparkle in her eyes. "Where were you? You're all soaked."
"We're fine," Ry says.
"You're wet," she chides, holding Carys's chin with one hand and running her fingers through her daughter's damp, long hair.
"Ma, it's not that bad. It's just my coat," Carys says.
"And your hair." Carys casts her eyes downward and her mother gives up. "Fine. Would you all just do a woman a favor and eat something?"
Looking to Ry and me for support, we quickly agree and she smiles again, bigger and brighter this time, leading us to the table with food.
It's hard to miss what happened. The signs of the shooting are visible everywhere. Five days ago, this place was a killing field, and until yesterday, it was still a crime scene.
Wide, deep gashes from flying bullets cover every surface like ugly scars, a minefield of violence. My stomach twists at how it no longer feels safe here. I only feel loss and fear. Death is here. At the thought, a shiver runs down my spine.