THE JOURNAL
NANCY BREMEN STORY

 
CHAPTER ONE
All my life, I associated funerals with rainy days. Momma’s funeral should not have been on such a sunny day. The irony of that bright, cheery day was not lost on me, even at nine. Birds chirped louder than ever. The sun shone down from her apex. The service passed in a blur of sadness and sheer boredom. When the formalities were over, Grandma Ivie remained seated, so did my twin brother Brian and me.
A tall man with speckled gray hair on both sides of his head ambled towards us. Salt and pepper, Momma called it. Calmly, he kneeled in front of us. In his mid-thirties, he looked about the same age as Momma. He wore a coat, even though it was a little too hot for it. He looked tired, his attire a little shoddy for a funeral. It was as if he’d come from far away and wasn’t planning to stay long.
He spoke in a gentle but indifferent tone. “I am sorry for your loss; your momma was a great woman and mother.” Then he kissed us both on the forehead and rose to his feet. “Take care of them,” he said, avoiding eye contact with Grandma Ivie.
“That’s it, Daniel?” she asked, incredulous, her voice raw with emotions. I remember her voice shaking a little as she spoke, the same way Momma’s did when she didn’t want to break down. “Am I supposed to take care of them? What about you? They just lost their mother, the only parent they had. Don’t you have a responsibility here?”
“I can’t, even if I want to. I have another life, another family. I can’t just show up with two more children out of nowhere.” He looked at Grandma for the first time.
“Out of nowhere?” Grandma snapped, throwing her scarf on the ground. “Out of nowhere?” She shoved off the chair as though she would charge him right there and then. Her eyes widened with outrage; a fury so powerful that her gaze should have made him burst into flames. I’d never seen Grandma so mad. “They are not just two more children out of nowhere; these are your children, Daniel, your firstborns,” Grandma hissed between grinding teeth, muffling her anger to avoid the attention of others present at the funeral.
Our father? I blinked up at him in confusion.
“I am sorry,” he muttered, his tone complementing his expressionless face. Nothing left to say, he walked away.
Grandma’s hands shook as her petite frame trembled. “Bastard,” she mumbled. Her eyes brimming, she gracefully slipped her handkerchief from her purse and blotted the oncoming tears with a slow dab.
Brian was quiet, more confused than me about all that had happened. The emotional stress from the loss of Momma weighed heavier on him. Shell shocked, he sat slumped in the chair with his head hung low. Shivering, he managed to hold off from making a sound for the better part of a minute. Then he released the most pitiful wail I’d ever heard. Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned toward us.
It frightened me. With dewy eyes, I grabbed Brian and gripped him to my chest, one hand petting his brow as I murmured whatever comfort a nine-year-old could offer. Grandma Ivie rushed over, put her arms around us both, and whispered hoarsely through a tight throat, “Everything will be okay. You will be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”
Soon Brian quieted. As the stragglers stopped to share their condolences, he kept close to me, focused on the ground.
A man wearing a pair of jeans and a dark suit jacket sat on the empty chair beside us. “I’m Dal, an old friend of your moms from a while back.”
I had never seen his face before Momma’s funeral. Mixed in with the people I knew, two more of these old friends had come up. I remembered each name as it was told to me: Dal, Ottis, Axel. Old friends, they’d said. I must have nodded but didn’t understand.
When Daimhin approached us, Brian and I both jumped up to sandwich him in our hugs. We knew Daimhin; he always had time for us and treated us well. He was a strong man, but his trembling lips that day told me he desperately wanted to cry.
He held us tightly. “Stay strong, kids. And remember, I’m here for you. If either of you ever need anything, call me?” His eyes pleaded as he reached into his pocket for a pen and paper. He jotted his number down on the back of a random business card and gave it to me.
Gazing up at him, I asked, “Anytime?”
“Anytime.”
After the funeral, people stopped by the house to pay a visit. They brought cooked meals and envelopes, asked if there was anything needed, anything to help Grandma Ivie. Brian sat on the couch quietly, caught up in a sad world of his own as I longed for our old life and everything about it.
Memories pricked my mind. I disappeared into the basement, home to the packed remnants from our old house. I rummaged through the still-sealed boxes. One labeled Nancy’s stuff caught my eye. Ripping off the tape, I yearned to embrace whatever was in the box, things most precious to Momma. Right on top, I found a book with The Holy Bible printed in the middle of cover. At the bottom, engraved in silver letters, was the name Nancy Bremen.
“But Momma’s last name was Hellington.” Perhaps it belonged to some unknown namesake of Momma’s.
I unfastened the Velcro strip which held the broken lock, opened the book, and flipped through the handwritten pages. I’d never read a Bible, though Grandma Ivie often mentioned events from the Good Book. Even when Brian and I attended church with her, I would sleep for long spells, then wake up whenever Grandma nudged me to sit up straight and pay attention. She was a practicing Christian and did her best to lead us into faith. She often referred to verses from the Bible and would at times narrate the stories from it. At that time, to me, the Bible was a collection of stories with morals, a book with lots of don’ts that I didn’t like.
Contrary to Grandma, Momma wasn’t much into religion, but still she had a Bible. Perhaps a gift from Grandma Ivie or, like the cover said, it belonged to some Nancy Bremen rather than Momma.
I placed the book back in the box and started ravaging through her other things: an old pen, a broken hair clip, a ring. That beautiful ring had a bright red stone, a fine and expensive piece of jewelry, but I didn’t remember Momma ever wearing it.
Voices came from the kitchen upstairs. I held the ring tight in my hand and listened. Grandma Ivie asked Brian where I was, and I heard him reply that he hadn’t seen me.
“Brea come on; time for supper,” Grandma Ivie yelled in her smooth tone.
Supper? I didn’t realize I’d been in the basement for quite that long. Once the Bible was safely in Momma’s box, I uncrossed my legs and leaped up in a hurried scramble. Taking the steps two at a time, I headed up stairs.
When I opened the door into the kitchen, Grandma Ivie stood there with her hands on her wide hips. “What are you doing down in the basement, Brea?”
“Nothing, looking through Momma’s things. What are we going to do with it all?”
“Nothing yet, haven’t taken the time to get around to it. You be careful down there; there’s stuff all over the place.”
“Okay, Grandma, I will.” I wanted to ask her about the woman’s name on the Bible, which had been tearing at me since I found the book. Uneasy about the question, I decided to go the route of not caring so much. “Who is Nancy Bremen, Grandma?”
“Why, that’s your mother,” she replied.
“Bremen?”
“Her father, your grandfather, and me, that’s our last name. When your mother married your father, her last name changed to his, Hellington, like yours.”
A nervous laugh wheezed from me. “How come I never knew your last name was Bremen? I always thought it was the same as ours.”
“I don’t know, baby; I guess you never noticed.”
“So, does this mean you had another name before you got married?”
“Smart girl!” Her praise felt like warm honey on my wounded soul. “Yes, I had a different last name before I married.”
“What happened to our grandfather? Where is he now? You never talk about him.”
“Brea, your grandfather passed away a long time ago. He was a young man, only forty-one years old. Your momma was about your age then, maybe a few years older,” said Grandma Ivie in a shallow voice as her eyes shined with tears. “We can talk another time. Come on; let’s eat.” She grabbed my hand and led me to the dinner table where Brian sat waiting.
“I’m starving,” he grumbled.
“I know, Brian, but we were waiting on your sister.”
Brian smirked at me, and I frowned back playfully. I had so many more questions, but seeing how it made Grandma Ivie sad, I decided not to ask her.
***
Thirteen years old, I’m a teenager! We’re teenagers!
This birthday had me more excited than I had been in a long while. Grandma Ivie, Brian, and I arranged a small birthday celebration. It wasn’t much, a few classmates and friends from the neighborhood, but I wished Momma was alive to celebrate with us.
Early that morning, I woke up eager, ready to decorate for our guests. Grandma Ivie was already working in the kitchen by the time I hustled downstairs. She smiled up at me and pulled me into a warm embrace.
“Happy birthday! A teenager, huh?” she said against my head.
I smiled sheepishly. Over the next few hours, we put the finishing touches on the food and the room, then waited for our guests to arrive. The first few guests didn’t impress me, girls from school who were not my friends. Even so, they jumped at the invite once I told them Brian and I were having a birthday party.
More people showed than I expected. Right when the party was getting into full swing, I heard a voice I recognized all too well! When Daimhin’s low baritone boomed across a room, Brian and I always ran out from whatever rocks we were under. He walked into the living room. I stood in the doorway, receiving the guests, trying to be as nice as possible, just like a grown-up. As Grandma Ivie had said, “You are thirteen now, not a kid anymore.”
But on seeing Daimhin, Brian and I scrambled toward him without a care who was watching, just like old times when he came visiting Momma with treats all those years ago. While wooing Momma, Daimhin had taken us for ice cream in the park and read to us at times before bed. He was always kind to us when Momma was alive, more so now that she was gone.
Daimhin pulled us into a group hug. I snuggled close to him, taking in a whiff of his cologne. I had always liked the way he smelled, soft musk and wood; it was comforting.
“How are my not-so-little ones doing?” he asked when we finally peeled ourselves off him.
“Ew, Daimhin. We’re not kids.” Brian teased.
“Anyway, I got you ‘not-kids’ a little something.” Daimhin said as he pointed toward two gifts in the doorway. They were big, body size, and covered with sheets. He walked up and stood right between them. With a smile on his face, one hand on each of the gifts, he paused for a moment as we watched in excitement. Then, like a magician performing a trick, he pulled away the sheets. They moved up with a rough swish. Before our eyes sat two electric scooters, a black one and a red one, the latest model, something we never would have bought for ourselves.
Brian and I squealed loudly, eager to go for a ride.
“Black is mine,” I shouted.
“Nooooooo,” Brian complained. “You get the red one. Black is my favorite color.”
Sensing the impending hostilities, Daimhin walked up to me, smiling. He bent and whispered in my ear, “Red is my personal favorite. I got that one for you.”
“Ok, I get the red one,” I said softly while he playfully winked at me. “Thanks, Daimhin.” I hugged him again.
“Yeah, thanks, Daimhin. I’m going outside to go ride this.” Brian walked away from the two of us.
“Where’s your grandma, dear?” Daimhin asked, turning toward me.
“I guess she’s in the kitchen.”
“All right. I need to go say hi.” He gave me another hug before he went to find her.
I smiled as I watched him walk toward the kitchen, then I joined the other guests at the party. Walking through the hallway, it felt great seeing all these people here. The last time we had so many visitors was the funeral.
While our guests talked, laughed, and enjoyed sodas and birthday cake, I heard girls giggling, hyperexcited, in the other room. They stared at Brian as he fooled around with his scooter. The way they ogled him all dreamy-eyed, I realized why all these girls had come to this party despite not being actual friends of mine. They rolled the tips of their hair around their fingers and flashed bashful half-smiles when he glanced their way.
I had to admit, my brother was a cute boy, with his curly black hair and olive complexion. He had sparkling white teeth that gleamed when he smiled, even though he didn’t do enough to keep them that way.
The girls kept drooling over him, but Brian was busy riding his scooter, one with the wind. I watched him, glad to see him out of his room, happy for once. And for a split second, I saw what they all saw: happy, carefree Brian, young and bold and growing strong.
Once our classmates left, Daimhin called for us to say his goodbyes.
I clasped my arms around his waist; I always hated when he had to go. “Will you be back to visit soon?”
Daimhin chuckled, soft and kind, amused by my enthusiasm. “Maybe in another month. There is a lot going on at work, but if you need me, I’m just a phone call away.” He kissed me on top of the head. On his way out, he gave Brian’s shoulder a gentle squeeze and told him to be careful with the new ride. “And make sure you always wear your helmet.”
With that our last guest left the house. Moments later, Grandma popped in with a garbage bag, ready to clean up.
I got up and stacked a few cups and plates together.
Grandma Ivie shooed me away. “It’s your birthday. Go have fun. I’ll clean up.”
“You sure?” I asked, dropping some disposable cups into the bag.
“Yes, sweetie. Now get going.” She swatted me with the napkin in her hands as though I were a fly pestering her.
I slinked off to my room, took out a book from my bookshelf, and opened it to where I’d left off. Investigative fiction was an addiction, my second favorite pastime after watching crime procedurals on TV. 

Petite Breaux has written a memoir Slightly Bruised and a Little Broken, a short story The Whispering of My Heart, and children’s book Fun with Grandma. She has recently released several short stories and a suspense novel. She is currently working on a novel, Kallista: The Forbidden One, to be released September 2019 under the name just Deirdre.  
You can contact just Deirdre or follow her at:
Website: https://www.petitebreaux.com
Email: petitebreaux@yahoo.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/AuthorPetiteB
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/petitebreaux

ALSO, BY just Deirdre.
Short Stories:
Derek and Camella, Homegirl Misled
Samson and Taylor, Cruise Interrupted
Clyde and Ginger, When Love Isn’t Enough
Young and Reckless, New Faces
Sought Out, Online Hookup
Pest of a Bug, Work Humor
Novels:
Something Inside:  Fiction/Suspense 
Kallista, The Forbidden One: Fiction/Fantasy/Erotica