by Nyla K
This time, his eyes are wide, or wider than I’ve seen them before; the hazy gray flecked with bits of shimmering blue, spheres etched in varying emotions. His lips part, but he says nothing. I witness the mound of his throat dip as he swallows, and my gut is heavy. I can deal with the sadness of all these people. I can pretend to deal with mine.
But what I can’t deal with this is this seemingly invincible man getting choked up.
Of course, Lazarus doesn’t show any real emotion to me, which is actually a relief. Instead, he breathes out a heavy sigh and takes the picture from my hands, those eyes dancing over it. And I just watch him.
What will life be like without her? How will I survive this?
I want to ask him these questions, but I can’t. I can’t speak. I always have very little voice when Lazarus is around.
“Every droplet of joy in this life comes at a price,” his jagged voice breaks through the silence, and the sounds of people chatting in the next room. “Happiness… It always turns to pain in the end.”
He places the frame back down on the desk, exactly where I picked it up, and then turns to walk away.
But he stops after a few feet and faces me again. “If I could bring any person in the world back, it would be your mother. Living without her doesn’t feel right.”
I’m suspended as I watch him, gaping up at his face of all hard, symmetrical lines. And I’m not sure why, but I nod. Because unlike all the phony consolations I’ve gotten today, his words are ripe with truth.
Lazarus doesn’t lie, after all. And he doesn’t sugarcoat things.
I remember the time I fell off my bike when I was six. I scraped my knee, and I was trying so hard not to cry, but tears were pushing out of my eye sockets. Dad and Mom were inside, but Lazarus was outside on his cell.
He immediately tucked his phone away and rushed over to me, kneeling beside my toppled Schwinn. He assessed the scuff on my knee, apparently deeming it no big deal, then swiped at a lone tear that had fallen down my cheek with his thumb.
“Pain is a part of life, Traci,” he told me. “If you prepare for it, it’ll hurt less.”
Those words stuck with me, regardless of how little attention I ever truly paid my father’s best friend. From that moment on, I frequently reminded myself that pain would be a constant in my world, so that when it happened, I was ready.
And would you look at that? It was true.
I suppose that’s why I can accept that Mom is gone. I always knew the happiness we shared wouldn’t last. Lazarus told me so, and he’s always right. That’s what my dad says, anyway.
My knees wobble as he walks toward the door, opening it and leaving me alone in the dark, the sadness in his voice ringing through my broken mind.
Chapter Two
Traci
It’s staring at me.
My hand squeezes around the small stone in my palm. I close my eyes and will it to work faster. Immediate relief is what I need, but I don’t feel anything good.
I don’t feel anything at all.
And it just keeps staring at me.
The black dress, on a hanger, dangling off the handle of my dresser. It’s been there for a week.
One week. That’s how long it’s been since I buried my mother.
Seven whole days since my best friend, the woman who made me, left this earth. I don’t know where she is now, but I just hope it’s somewhere good. Somewhere nice.
Somewhere warm, like it is here in Miami. Mom hates the cold.
I cringe and swallow, pressing my eyelids together so tight my head hurts. I should really put the dress away. Or burn it. But I haven’t been able to bring myself to go near it, let alone bring it some place where it’s not staring at me, all the time, like a constant reminder that she’s gone.
Mom wanted me to wear something colorful. She always wanted her funeral to be a celebration of her life, rather than a gloomy day ripe with devastation and endless tears. And Dad and I really tried to honor her wishes… We did. But it’s hard to celebrate a life that ends way too fucking soon, and as much as I loved the baby blue dress she’d suggested, black is my favorite color. It always has been.
It encompasses everything. It’s powerful, and I like that. I don’t see black as dreary or depressing. Colors like gray and black spark my excitement.
But regardless of all that, I certainly didn’t feel powerful or excited when I put on that damn dress. I barely even recall putting it on.
I don’t remember much from the funeral. It was a whirlwind of sadness, meaningless consolations and watching my dad struggle. I tell you, seeing someone so strong fall apart is a good way to extract your heart from your chest without lifting a finger.
Opening my hand and my eyes, I look at the polished citrine in my palm. It was Mom’s. She gave it to me last year, after starting her second round of chemo. She said it was for optimism; that it carried a protective shield and would encourage confidence. I remember telling her to keep it, because she needed all the protection and optimism in the world. But she wanted me to have it. Her eyes glossy with tears, she told me to be strong, and to never give up on anything that meant something to me.
At that moment, I knew she was giving up. Not in a bad way… I mean, Ophelia Wright never gave up on anything. She was just as strong as Dad, maybe even stronger. But I could see on her beautiful, pale face that she knew her life was coming to an early end. Cancer is something you can’t just wish away. All the yoga, meditation and clearing of your chakra in the world won’t get rid of it if it wants to take you.
It’s like black mold, the spores of which can spread with evil determination, faster than most modern medicine can keep up. Once you have it, it eats away at your foundation until there’s no other option but to board up and condemn.
“Fuck…” I smash my face into my pillow, sliding the citrine underneath as I cover my eyes with my hands.
A sudden knock at my door distracts from the impending ache in my skull for just a moment. I turn a bit and call out, “Come in.”
My father steps into my room and walks over to my bed. There’s an air of quiet shock about him that’s been there since the day we said goodbye to Mom in hospice. She refused to die in the comfort of her own home, because she was afraid Dad and I wouldn’t be able to live here anymore.
She was right. We’re barely keeping it together as it is, thanks to all the memories.
Dad kneels beside my bed, like he always does when he comes in to talk to me, only this time he’s pale, his jaw lined with days of stubble and dark circles under his eyes from an obvious lack of sleep.
“Hey, Tiny,” he rumbles. Even his voice is exhausted. “You hungry?” I barely shake my head, but he keeps talking. “Lazarus is bringing food over.”
This isn’t news. Lazarus has been here almost every day since Mom passed. All my grandparents left three days ago, and we finished off the last of the condolence meals given to us by friends and family yesterday. There’s no food in the house, and Dad’s been too out of it to order groceries or worry about feeding us. Not that I really care… My stomach tells me I need to eat, but my mind can’t even wrap itself around the concept of ingesting nourishment right now.
It all seems like so much work. But it’s good that Lazarus is bringing food. I don’t want Dad wasting away.
“Can you at least come down and eat with me?” My father’s tone is almost pleading, and it’s just so sad it takes a thousand swallows for me to choke back the tears. “In like an hour?”
“Sure,” I tell him, unsure, but then what do I have to be sure about, anyway? Plus, I’ll do anything for Dad.
He’s all I have left.
“Thanks, baby girl,” he presses a kiss on my forehead and stands up to leave.
I’ve always loved that about my father. He doesn’t linger. He’s my ultimate protector, my provider, my guardian. He doesn’t coddle or sympathize or pry. He’s just… Dad. And I love him.
Before he can get too far, my eyes
dart to that goddamn dress again and I gasp, “Dad!”
He turns fast over his shoulder, giving me a worried look. “Yea, T?”
“Can you get rid of that dress please?” I gulp, curling up into a ball, pulling my knees to my chest.
He follows my gaze to the black dress and sighs out a rough breath, dropping his head a bit.
“Of course, baby.” He grabs the dress on the hanger and takes it with him as he leaves.
Exhaling becomes slightly easier.
Chapter Three
Traci
Pacing around my room. Head going crazy.
Too many thoughts. Too loud.
I just want them to quiet down, but they won’t.
I can’t focus on anything other than all the noise, and it’s bringing a swift throb to the inner lining of my skull. I tried lying down and closing my eyes, but it gets even louder when I do that.
So I’ve resorted to pacing.
Pacing pacing pacing.
Last night Dad told me to wrap my mind around going back to school. I haven’t been able to wrap anything around it, let alone my mind.
I don’t want to go back. Not yet. I’m not ready.
It’s been two months since Mom died, and I’m still just as lost as I was that day. In fairness, I’ve been fucked up since she was diagnosed three years earlier, but in the beginning there’s always hope.
It starts off like a balloon, full of air. The statistics, rates of remission and success stories have you blindly chasing a dream, naïve to the reality of the situation. But as time goes on, experiencing reprieve only for it to come back a few months later, the balloon slowly deflates, losing the air of hope more and more each day they spend sick and dying, until eventually it’s just a rubber sack filled with nothing.
Hope is foolish, especially where cancer is concerned.
“Ugh!” I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes until I see spots.
I’m wearing a hole in my bedroom floor until something finally stops me.
A crash. It was pretty loud, coming from somewhere down the hall. Confused and curious, I creep to my bedroom door and open it, peering out into the dark hallway. There are no sounds. The house is almost eerily quiet.
I’m just about to go back to my pacing when I hear another crash and some grumbling. It’s definitely coming from my dad’s room, which is at the other end of the long upstairs hallway. Our house is huge, but noise travels, especially when you’re banging things around, like my father apparently is.
I’m worried about him. I hope he’s not hurting himself. He’s been more of a mess than I am, and I know it’s only a matter of time before he snaps, which he very well could be doing right now.
Deciding to go check on him, I amble through the corridors that lead to his wing, if you want to call it that. When I reach the bedroom door, it’s open a crack, so I peek inside. My father is surrounded by boxes, sorting through clothes. My stomach clenches hard enough that I almost fall down.
I know what he’s doing. And it rips my stagnant heart right out of my chest.
He’s getting rid of Mom’s things.
Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I back up against the wall, banging my head into it. This sucks. This sucks so damn bad.
Before I can consider going inside and asking him if he needs help, footsteps in the dark distract me. My pulse raps as a shadowed figure stalks closer to me. I inch away in fear until I notice the glowing gray irises that resemble an overcast sky.
Lazarus.
He wanders over, still immersed in the darkness of the hall, and muscles all over my body tense up, though I’m really not sure why. It’s just a physical reaction I’ve always had to him, and his spooky-yet-dominating presence. As if my body knows to put up a shield to him, even though he rarely speaks to me, let alone gives me a reason to fear him.
Lazarus stops right in front of me, and I have to tilt my face to look up at him because he’s so much taller than me. His black hair is swept back a bit, with a few strands falling in his face, and he looks tired. Not as tired as Dad, but still visibly distraught. It’s the slightest difference in his face, but I notice it. And it twists my gut even harder.
His severe eyes dart to the crack in the doorway, then come back to me. “What is he doing?”
I take a moment to find my voice. “I think he’s… clearing out her things.”
Lazarus is quiet for a few generous seconds before he sighs, “Fuck.”
“Yea.” I can’t stop staring up at him.
He’s just such a strange person. I’ve always felt this way, and yet I’m noticing more recently how complex he seems to be. I never really paid him much mind before, because he never paid me any, and our interactions were strictly through my parents.
But then Mom died, and everything changed. The whole world flipped upside down, and now it’s just me, Dad, and Lazarus, all the time. He’s the only person I see, other than my father and the occasional landscaping people and housekeepers who take care of the things we don’t.
No school, no friends, no little dinner parties. Our lives have been put on hold.
It makes me understand why Dad wants me to go back to school. And because if I don’t go back now, I’ll be held back a grade, which doesn’t work for me. I want less school, not more.
“Are you doing alright?” Lazarus’s voice rumbles at me, tugging me out of my head.
I’m shocked he’s asking me how I’m doing. Lazarus doesn’t interact with kids much, that we know. But I suppose he’s here to help Dad, and in turn help me out too, which I have to appreciate.
“As alright as one could expect.” I give him a brief nod, and his face changes, from that typically surly and partially bored expression to one mildly impressed.
“You don’t speak like other kids your age, do you?” He lifts a brow, and an unexpected pulse of pride ripples through me.
If Lazarus thinks I sound smart, then I must be. He’s smart, so he would know.
I’ve always known that I’m smart, and not just because my parents constantly gush about how brilliant I am, but because I do well in school, and I can sense a difference between myself and my classmates. I think that’s why I’m such a loner. I can’t relate to my peers. I enjoy talking to adults more than playing games, gossiping and doing all the things kids my age do that seem pointless to me.
I shake my head slowly, wanting to say something cool that will impress Lazarus more, but before I can he turns away, leaving me alone like an afterthought as he heads inside my dad’s room. I gulp and shake off the odd feeling of rejection, preparing to storm back to my room, like the kid I still am. But first I linger to hear what they’re saying.
“I told you to let me know when you were going to do this so I could help you,” Lazarus speaks to my father, quiet and calm, revealing very few emotions, as usual. He’s such a damn robot, and the only people who ever get him to act like less of a tin-man are my parents.
Just one parent now…
“I know, but I just couldn’t…” My dad gasps, as if he’s out of breath. I peek through the door and see him pacing, like I was not ten minutes ago in my bedroom. “I can’t look at this stuff anymore, Laz. I’m going out of my mind. I see her fucking everywhere. Everywhere. I’m just…” His voice cracks and I blink over my own tears. “I’m fucking hopeless.”
“You’re not hopeless, Day,” Lazarus says, his tone striking a chord in my heart for some reason. “You’re here. You’re still fucking here, and you’re not going anywhere. So just… let me help you. Okay?”
Dad steps out of view from where I’m peeking inside the room, but it sounds like he’s sitting down. Then Lazarus walks away, and I move so I can see them, sitting on the couch across the room. Lazarus faces my dad, giving him his full attention, and it’s very interesting to witness. It’s strange to me that he can be warm and compassionate for my father, when he just seems so stiff with everyone else. It’s like he has a permanent guard up against the entire world, but when my
dad is around, it drops, just enough.
“Thank you,” Dad exhales a rough breath.
Lazarus places a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t need to thank me. I’m here too, and I never won’t be.”
My heart thumps at his words, and I decide to go back to my room, taking comfort in the fact that my father has someone to be there for him. As much as I try to do it myself, it’s out of my abilities. I am still a kid, after all, whether or not I feel like one. And I’m dealing with my own issues.
Dad is lucky to have Lazarus around. I just wish I had someone to help me through this dark forest of chaos and pain, too.
Someone like Lazarus Weston.
Chapter Four
Traci
If the kids at school thought I was a quiet nerd before, I don’t even want to know what they think of me now.
Dad kept me out of school as long as he absolutely could, but eventually I had to come back. I’ve missed so many of my lessons, and even if I wanted to get caught up, it’s hard getting back into the school flow. It’s all so much more difficult than I anticipated.
I can’t focus on anything. The grief inside me is thick, making it hard to hear what people say sometimes. I spend a lot more time than normal in the nurse’s office, dealing with headaches and I general lack of energy that makes it impossible to focus on teachers and school.
Really, I just feel like it’s all pointless. Maybe it’s not right for an almost-thirteen-year-old to think this way, but honestly, I rarely feel like a kid anymore. Not since she left this world.
I stopped talking to my friends months ago, because they don’t know how to talk to me, and it’s frustrating for everyone. Though I can’t blame them. None of them know what I’m going through, and when they try to talk about regular things with me, it feels forced.
