by Kody Boye
Driving across town, beneath the cloudy sky and foggy street, I feel a sense of regret for everything I’d never told my parents.
I still can’t remember if I’d told them I’d loved them that night before we’d gone to bed. If I’d hugged them. If I’d held them tight.
The thoughts, triggering to my emotions as they happen to be, do not bring tears. Rather, they bring rage.
Remain calm, the Light Wolf says. Don’t allow yourself to give in to your emotions.
I won’t, I reply, hoping that J’vonte won’t ask why I’m looking out the window—why I’m barely speaking, hardly responding, not really breathing. I promise you that.
I will follow you through the dark, the Light Wolf whispers, and lead you to the brighter side beyond.
I can only nod at her phantom voice.
As we roll up to the church—and as we come to park in the midst of all the other cars and the people who have come to attend my parents’ funeral—I find myself seizing with anxiety.
“Oak?” J’vonte asks. “Are you—“
“Fine,” I manage, but breathlessly at that. I inhale two lungs’ worth of air and steel myself for what is to come before saying, “I’m ready.”
Climbing out of the car is a test of endurance I knew would be nearly impossible to handle. Stepping up to the church, however, and seeing the small crowd of people as they line up to enter, is another thing entirely.
Breathe in, breathe out, my mother would use to say. Breathe in, breathe out.
In… out, I think. In… out.
“In, out,” I whisper as we approach the church’s front doors. “In…”
The door is opened for us.
And though a part of me doesn’t want to believe it, I can’t help but lay eyes upon the sight before me.
Standing there, below the altar, and arranged side-by-side, are my mother and father’s sealed coffins.
A startled sob escapes me.
J’vonte takes hold of my hand.
I squeeze it.
“I love you,” she whispers, “and I’m here for you.”
“Thank you,” I say through a sniffle.
Missus Fawn sets a hand on my shoulder.
Then, slowly, we step forward.
The church is cold at this hour of the morning—when, before dawn’s rays can light the world, the stone it is made up of has basked in nothing but the chill of night. Ghostly in that there is little natural light, and haunting in the sense that the people around us cry quietly in their seats, I find myself gripping J’vonte’s hand as tightly as I can as we bridge the distance between us and the front of the pews, whereupon we are meant to sit in the front row.
Come time we finally seat ourselves, I feel as if the weight of the world has fallen upon me.
Please, I think, Mother Wolf, or whoever tends to the spirits beyond: lend me your ear. Let them be safe, and let them be content where they are.
Tears spill from my eyes as I finish the silent prayer.
In moments, the clock is striking eight-fifteen.
The doors to the church are closing.
The pastor is stepping forward. He says, “Welcome” and then turns his eyes on me, “to the funerals of Claire and Benjamin Smith.”
There is little that can be said that I haven’t already heard in the past—little he could offer in terms of comfort. As the pastor speaks, slowly but surely leading us through what the Bible says about life and about what happens after death, I find myself reminiscing on everything that I once knew and love, and feel the threads of emotion pulling at my heartstrings.
I think of my mother’s laugh. My father’s smile. My parents’ unabashed love for each other. I think of the days when they would say how proud they were of me, and what they would think of me now, if they really, truly knew. I wonder if they would be disappointed, or if they would feel a sense of justice. I wonder if they, with their practical minds, would understand that I had done what I had done for them, and if they would approve. And I wonder, deep down, what they must be thinking as they sit there, at that grand table in the sky, or in that wide field in a place I could never even begin to imagine.
I wonder if they rest with the wolves.
Then, slowly, the service ends.
We stand.
The pallbearers, with their strong arms and sure gazes, lift the caskets and begin to carry them into the cemetery that lies beyond the church.
In the fading, twilight hour of morning, we come to stand beside one massive grave, in which both of my parents will be set and buried.
“Oaklynn,” the pastor says as he comes to stand beside me.
“Yes?” I ask, turning my eyes to face him.
“Your parents would be proud.”
“Thank you,” I say.
I lift my eyes to face him—and though a part of me wonders, as I look into his eyes, if he can see all my hurt, all my pain, and all my convictions, another knows that there is no way he could possibly understand what I have done.
Right? I think.
I offer a short nod, then turn my head to look at the hole in which my parents will be laid to rest.
Though it takes less than ten minutes for the funeral to conclude—and even less for the people to step forward and present their roses, red and white and practically blue—I find myself hesitating as I stand there, waiting for the last rose to fall.
When I finally find the courage to speak, all I can manage, in a whispered voice, is: “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”
Then I allow the rose to fall, and my parents’ souls to be laid to rest.
Chapter Seven
Without a home of my own, or a place to house the other mourners, there is no way for me to present a celebration of my parents’ lives. So in the minutes that follow the funeral, during which I struggle to piece together the remnants of my life, Missus Fawn offers to take me back to her and J’vonte’s apartment.
I know it isn’t much, the woman says, but I would like to help.
You’ve helped enough, I reply, with a sadness I know is born from my darkest and most sensitive moment. Just… take me back to the Meadows’.
In hindsight, I should have probably taken up her offer. But as we drive through the city, and as I look upon the pictures of me and my parents that were saved to my cellular cloud, I find myself realizing that I need time to be alone—to not only lock myself away in my own room, in my own space, but to breathe sweetly a familiar air.
Come time we pull up outside the Meadows’ home, I find myself exhaling a sigh I’ve been holding in for quite some time.
“Thank you for taking me,” I say, lifting my eyes first to J’vonte, who’s sat in the back seat beside me, then to Missus Fawn. “You don’t know how much it means to me.”
“I think we do,” Missus Fawn replies. She reaches back to squeeze my hand as I open the door. “Let us know if you need anything, dear.”
“Yeah,” J’vonte replies. “We’re only a call away.”
“Thank you.”
I hug my best friend. Squeeze Missus Fawn’s hand one last time. Then I exit the car, and enter into the cold air.
It takes only moments after I step away from the car for Jackson to open the door.
“Hey,” is all he can manage as I step forward.
“Hey,” I reply.
We exchange gazes. Unsure looks. A single hug. Then he waves at the Fawns as they drive off and turns to follow me back inside the home.
“How was it?” he asks.
“Long,” I reply, defeated. “Far too long.”
“Dad’s made food if you’re hungry.”
The scent of scalloped corn and warm potatoes enters my nostrils. “I… I don’t…”
Zachariah Meadows peers around the corner. “Oaklynn,” he says.
“Sir,” I reply.
“If you’d rather wait to eat, I can put yours aside for later.”
“No,” I say, and force myself to step forward. “I… I think I need t
o fill my stomach.”
The man doesn’t say anything. He merely steps back into the kitchen and waits for me to enter.
I don’t know if it’s because I just attended a funeral, or if it’s because his body hasn’t ached on this cold and unforgiving day, but Mister Meadows has made a meal of champions. With slabs of brisket, the aforementioned corn and potatoes, and enough Texas toast to feed an army, it is a truly a sight to behold. I find myself instantly drawn to the food.
“Eat what you like,” the man says.
I seat myself beside Jackson, and serve myself accordingly, reveling in the smells and tastes of what is undoubtedly the best of southern comfort food.
As I eat, slowly but surely consuming the first bit of nourishment I have had on this sad day, I find myself being pulled into the past, and force myself to remain grounded in the future.
No is what I think. Don’t do it is what I tell myself.
Still—the fact is: I want to think of these things, these memories which could hold so much comfort; and as a result, I do. Bike rides down the road and picnics in the front yard were not uncommon during my time growing up, and these are the things that come to the forefront as I turn my head to look out at the property where a house should stand but no longer does.
I long to go back in time—just for a moment. Maybe then I could realize what all I would one day lose.
Thank God, I think, that my tears have run dry, that I can no longer cry.
I have, effectively, become numb to my emotions, at least for now.
As a sigh escapes me, slowly but surely painting the world before me in sadness, I finish taking the last bite of my brisket sandwich and say, “Thank you for the food.”
“I figured you needed something comforting,” Zachariah Meadows says, then lifts a hand as I round the island with my dirtied place. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it.”
“Are you—“
He nods. “Yes. I’m sure.”
I hand off the plate, then turn and make my way down the hall.
Once safely in my room, I close the door behind me, then crawl into bed.
Within moments, Belle is at my side, and purring to fight back the coming storm of emotion.
All I can whisper, as I take her into my arms, is, “Thank you.”
Belle can only purr.
The days following my parents’ funerals pass slowly, and are drawn out by the hopeless emotions I feel as a result of their passing. No longer able to ignore their absences through the actions I commit, I mostly lie in bed, mainly existing even though I really don’t want to. Not even my cat’s attempts to rouse me from my malaise to draw me from bed.
“I’m sorry,” I say, for what feels like the tenth time. “I don’t want to play.”
She drops one of her toy mice beside me and offers me an unsure look with her bright, wide green eyes. Belle pats the mouse, looks at me, then pats the mouse again before trilling and settling down beside me.
My only response is to set my hand on her side as she begins to purr once more.
This too shall pass, a voice says.
I lift my eyes to find that the Light Wolf has materialized beside my bed. There, she sits; and there, she looks on, sagely in her attempt to guide me through what is undoubtedly my darkest hour.
I know, I say, while running my hand through Belle’s fur. It’s just… I need to go through the motions.
Grief is a horrible emotion. Born of hunger, and filled with greed, it will do everything it can to take anything possible from you.
I feel it, I reply.
The Light Wolf steps forward, then, and presses her snout against my palm.
The warmth that beads over my hand is like sunshine on a bright afternoon day. Foreign to my conscience at this time of my life, during which rainclouds of depression have come to seep away any happiness I could possibly have, it washes up my arm in waves until it reaches my chest, where it splashes across my person and inspires within me a tendril of hope.
How are you doing this? I ask.
Doing what? dhe replies.
Making me… feel this?
I am intrinsically bound to you, Oaklynn Smith. What you feel is what I feel; and sometimes, what I understand you can, too.
But what am I meant to understand? I question, blinking as the radiance of her untold emotions continues to push through me. Is this supposed to be a test of willpower? A promise for the future?
It is meant to be a gift, she says, to inspire you for what is to come.
What is to come? What are you—
Then it hits me.
Easton.
Easton Wells. Who mocked my passion. Who destroyed my self. Who ruined my life, and inexplicably altered my future. Forever.
The mass of hatred that has grown within me since this all began surges in intensity. Overpowering my senses, and inciting my mind, I find myself crying once more—not tears of sadness this time, but tears of pure, utter hatred.
He hasn’t been judged, I think.
No, the Light Wolf says. Not yet. But, soon.
How soon?
Very soon, she replies.
I find myself trembling in rage.
Belle hops down.
I sit up.
The Light Wolf retreats a step back.
And though I know for a fact that I cannot afford to allow my emotions to get the best of me, I understand that they just might.
I have to remain strong, I realize. Because no matter how much I want this to be over—for all of this to be done—it won’t be. Not until Easton Wells is in jail.
Chapter Eight
The waiting game is merciless. Callous. Unrelenting in its ability to drive a person insane. On a good day, it would be unbearable. But on a day like this, wherein I am forced to relive everything that has happened over the past two weeks? It is nearly unbearable.
Standing here, in the living room, I look out at the quickly-repopulating grass across from the Meadows family home, and find myself trembling with unsung rage.
Remember, the Light Wolf says, to remain calm and composed.
But how can I, I wonder, when all I want to do is scream?
Beneath me the last of my mother’s plants are sprouting. Nestled in their simple pot, in their simple soil, in their simple space, they have risen from the tests of time to signal that life continues to go on, regardless of what has happened in the past.
I frown as I turn my head to look at the ghostly house.
Jackson and his father have gone into town to fetch groceries, leaving me to not only the home and my own devices, but the inner demons that plague me.
A part of me wants to avoid everything that has to do with the world as it sees fit. Another, however, questions what exactly has happened in the time since the funeral has ended.
I haven’t checked my social media for days.
Are people still mourning the young men from the school, or have they moved on?
That thought, troubling as it happens to be, inspires me to lift my phone.
I have no sooner than brought up the lock screen when a text comes in from J’vonte.
Her message simply reads: Turn on the TV.
The TV? I think. What is she—
Another text message comes on. Hurry. Now.
I scramble to do just that.
Within moments, I am swiping the remote from its place on Mister Meadows’ armchair and turning the TV on.
The front door opens just as the words ARSON SUSPECT BROUGHT INTO CUSTODY.
“Hey,” Jackson says as he steps into the house with several bags of groceries on his arms. “What’s going—“
“Shh!” I hiss.
“Authorities have confirmed that an arrest has been made in connection with the burning of both the Flora Fantastica shop and its owners’ family home,” a news reporter says. “According to Police Chief Ronson, Easton Wells—son of the esteemed Paxton Wells of Wells Hunting and Fishing—was responsible for the arson that
destroyed not only the town’s premiere flower shop, but also ended the lives of its owners. He is being held without bail for two counts of arson and two counts of manslaughter.”
“Manslaughter?” I ask, stunned. “They’re getting him on manslaughter charges?”
Jackson blinks.
Zachariah steps in shortly behind his son, and asks, “What’s going on?”
“They got him on manslaughter?” I repeat, spinning to face the older Meadows man as he steps into the home.
Zachariah considers the television for several long moments before sighing and saying, “Oaklynn—“
“I can’t believe this,” I continue, my voice rising in pitch as I slam my finger onto the OFF button on the remote. “I just… I can’t… believe…”
“How could they do this?” Jackson asks.
“His lawyer is probably arguing that he didn’t mean to kill anyone,” Zachariah explains. “Hence the manslaughter and arson charges.”
“But Dad! He helped kill—“
But it is at this point that I stop listening. Blinded by my rage, and unable to keep from reacting, I lift my hands to my head and begin to tug at my hair.
“Oaklynn?” Jackson asks what seems like an eternity. “Are you all right?”
“Do I look all right?” I ask in an eerily-calm voice, which seems to frighten Jackson but is terrifying me.
“I… I don’t… I mean, I—“
I spin to face him—and though I cannot see what it is in my eyes, Jackson can. His face pales. His lips curl into a frown. His one eye twitches, and his fingers reflexively curl from what I realize is a nervous response.
He sees something, the Light Wolf says from her place at my side, that few humans do.
But what is that? I then think. Fear? Hate? Rage?
I don’t know. Whatever it is, it lasts only for a moment—and soon, Jackson is sighing, and turning to face his father once more.
“Oaklynn,” Zachariah says, in as calm a voice as possible. “I understand that you’re angry.”
“You don’t understand anything,” I say, somehow able to keep my voice calm, my tone considerate. “You don’t know what I’m feeling.”
