Cillian shuts his eyes against the sound. His mother's hand delicately stroking his cheek.
I can't imagine what she must feel. Her boy, still here while her sister’s is gone. Her boy, who clearly got close enough to know what he would and wouldn't want his mother to see.
Kitty looks over at me, and I produce my phone. “Should I?”
She nods.
I feel guilty wanting both to be helpful and utterly desperate for an excuse to step away from the heartbreaking scene before me.
I've barely hung up the phone with 911 when a car I recognize squeals onto the street. Ginelle barely parks before getting out and freezing, the sound of her mother's sobbing carrying down the yard to where I face her on the curb.
“Toni?” she asks, breathless, eyes begging me to lie to her.
All I can manage is to echo Cillian. “I'm so sorry.”
She reaches behind her, fumbling for the car, anything to lean against. I step forward, reaching out to steady her. Ginelle falls into me, accepting the support, her body shaking but not quite crying.
“Baby?” Tina’s ragged voice pulls our attention back.
“Mom . . .” Ginelle’s voice breaks.
The woman rushes to her daughter. Ginelle meets her halfway and they embrace, sinking to the grass, holding one another tight.
Across the lawn, I meet Cillian's eyes, finding them surprisingly cold.
Kitty remains at his side, arm wrapped around his.
Seeing mother and son together completes something inmy understanding of Cillian. While he has his dad’s coloring—the dark salt-and-pepper hair, the green eyes—everything else is Kitty. She stands only a few inches shorter than her son; her features are defined, with full lips. For a woman who has to be in her 60s, she’s incredibly striking.
“You ok?” He asks as I walk up to them.
“Relatively.”
He nods. “I need a smoke.” He pulls away from Kitty's hold on his arm and walks to the car.
We both watch him, our shared worry humming between us like static.
“Toni,” Kitty says, and I turn my attention to her. “Kitty.” She holds out a well-manicured hand. “Sure, you figured that out by now, but still.”
“Good to finally meet you.” I give her hand a squeeze.
“Wish it was in better circumstances.” She looks over to the tangled pile of her niece and sister.
“Me, too...” I chew my lip. “I'm so sorry for your loss.” The words feel grossly inadequate.
She purses her full lips, swallowing hard. “Thank you.” Her fingers curl around a crucifix hanging over her sweater, eyes moving to her son, his back to us, a curl of smoke rising from his cigarette. “It's a mother's worst fear.” Her voice is distant. “That she'll bury her babies.”
Before she can say more, the cries of sirens cut through the air.
Everything becomes a blur, punctuated only by the moment when they bring Joey out, a man whose name I'd heard but whose face I'd never seen.
Tina's howl of grief redoubles, the impact rattling through everyone in range.
Unable to watch, I keep my attention on Cillian. His eyes remain fixed on some distant point miles away, even as he holds Ginelle tight, keeping her on her feet; his mother pressesa hand to his lower back as she soothes her niece as best she can.
I feel like an interloper. But with nowhere else to go, I'm trapped hovering at the edges, trying to remain close enough to help if needed but not so close that I’m intruding.
When the responders finally clear out, the silence they leave is suffocating.
