The Beginning and End of Everything

by Stevie J. Cole

  “I called the medics,” Dad breathed. “They took her, but there was nothing they could do.”

  A numbness settled over me.

  He just let them take her, without even coming to find me. And I hated him for it. A world without my ma in it—my world imploded until I was left standing alone in the dark, sucked into a dark void where nothing good existed. Without her, ebbing loneliness would consume me. She was all I had.

  I couldn’t bear to look at the empty caravan, at my worthless father, pretending to mourn a woman that he did nothing but hurt. So I left.

  I needed something. Something I’d never turned to before, so I went to Connor’s.

  As soon as he opened the door and looked at me, his face fell. He pulled me into a bear hug, and I let him, but I was numb.

  “I need to go to the church,” I whispered.

  Without question, he pulled away from me and grabbed his coat. I don’t know why I wanted Connor to go with me. Partly, I thought God wouldn’t listen to me, but Connor was good. If I went with him, maybe I stood more of a chance. The entire way there, silent tears continued to track down my cheeks, but I didn’t feel the despair that went with them, not really. I just felt lost, like I was watching someone else navigate the ever-harder path that was my life.

  When we stepped inside, I headed straight for the statue of the Virgin Mary. The closer I got, the more intimidating she seemed, though her face was kind, forgiving. It just made me think of Ma. I fell to my knees in front of her and closed my eyes. I thought about my ma, and I begged Jesus to let her into heaven. As I knelt there, I realized it was too late. Too late for prayers, or help. She was gone. It felt so utterly final. She just…no longer existed.

  I didn’t know why I went there. Perhaps I was looking for some kind of redemption or peace. Part of me felt like I deserved this because I wasn’t good. I stole and sinned. But God was supposed to forgive all sins, and Ma…she never sinned. Where was her forgiveness? In a cold, dark hole in the ground. That’s where.

  It was there in front of the statue of the virgin that I finally felt it all, every sharp, jagged edge of my pain sliced through me until I simply sobbed. I broke down crying until I could cry no more, and then I went back to Connor’s house too fractured and scared to go home. My ma was dead, and I’d never really had a father.

  I was an orphan.

  17

  Poppy

  Cathedrals in Ireland are a stark contrast to the churches in America. They’re cold and solemn. The slightest of whispers sound loud, echoing from the vaulted ceilings, but what doesn’t differ is the thick fog of dread that clings to the air during a funeral.

  The wooden pew creaked when I shifted my weight, crossing and uncrossing my legs. My gaze drifted from Connor to the stained-glass window to the wrought iron chandelier. I looked everywhere but to the front where Mrs. O’Kieffe’s casket sat.

  The slight rustle of people moving, the intermittent cough—all silenced when soft footsteps fell over the stone floor. Brandon pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket as he made his way to the pulpit. Clearing his throat, he exhaled and smoothed the note over the podium. “My ma was the best person I knew …” Brandon’s words were lost on a choked sob.

  Each beat of my heart felt like a thunderclap. I just wanted to hold his hand, to make sure he knew he wasn’t alone, but when I flattened my feet on the floor and gripped the edge of the pew to rise, my father placed a gentle hand on my knee, subtly shaking his head.

  “She was kind,” Brandon continued, his voice wavering. “And nice to everyone. It didn’t matter how bad I was or what I did. She always loved me. Always stood up for me.” His chin dropped to his chest on a ragged breath. “And now she’s gone.” Moments passed before he lifted his tear-streaked face to look out over the crowd. He looked so lost, like someone left without anyone to fight for them. “My ma would have said that this isn’t goodbye, just see you later. And I really hope there’s a heaven because I can’t wait to see her again.”

  Glancing at the coffin, he wiped his face and stepped down, stopping beside his mother’s body. His fingers clutched the side of the casket when the clergyman came to close it, and I had to look away. I couldn’t bear to watch him break.

  Connor grabbed my hand, threading his fingers through mine.

  Footsteps echoed into the ceiling as several men from the camp—Old Man and Uncle Darren included—walked to the front of the cathedral. They each grabbed one of the coffin’s handles and hoisted it onto their shoulders, carting it through the open doors at the side of the church.

  Connor and I didn’t say a word as we followed the masses outside, weaving through the moss-covered crosses and tombstones. My father squeezed my arm before stepping to the side to stand with Mr. and Mrs. Blaine.

  Brandon stood right at the edge of her grave, a lily in his hand. He held it over the grave and hesitated, and I knew this was the hardest part—knowing that any minute, the person who means the most will be covered with dirt and left. Leaving the dead feels wrong and leaves us empty. After a hard breath, Brandon dropped the lily into the grave.

  Mr. O’Kieffe moved beside him. He pulled a hip flask from his pocket and took a hefty swig before he scooped a handful of fresh dirt from the ground and sprinkled it over the coffin. He choked back a sob and stumbled off with the flask to his lips, leaving Brandon alone at the edge of the grave.

  Brandon’s jaw ticced. His nostrils flared. His fist clenched and unclenched, and just when I thought he would turn around and come over to Connor and me, he collapsed on his knees.

  And I crumpled right along with him.

  In a heartbeat, I was him, and he was me. I recalled being exactly where he now was, buried under a mountain of indescribable loss, unable to see how the world could keep turning when mine had been taken away.

  I rushed toward him, kneeling and wrapping my arms around his neck. “I love you,” I whispered into his messy hair, clutching him harder while his chest heaved. The gut-felt sob that followed sent a poison-laced dagger straight through my chest. As much as I wanted to take all his pain away, I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything to change what had happened.

  All I could do was make sure he knew that I would never leave him.

  By the time people left the cemetery, Mr. O’Kieffe was staggering drunk, and Connor’s parents took Brandon home with them, which made me feel better. The last place I wanted Brandon was in that caravan with his dad.

  Daddy and I sat down to a dinner neither of us touched. The day dredged up feelings—memories that were never easy for either of us to address. Life had a million wonderful moments, but man, those crappy ones could take a toll. My chest went tight at the thought of death. At how final it was. How cruel it was to those it left behind.

  Knotting the friendship bracelet Brandon had given me on my eleventh birthday, and I wondered how bad it would be if I broke that promise I made to him not to tell. I’d always worried about Brandon, but now, I was terrified for him. His mother protected him as best she could, and I just wanted him to be safe.

  Daddy looked up from his plate of spaghetti. “Not hungry, either, huh?”

  Shaking my head, I took both our plates to the sink and rinsed them. By the time I dried my hands, I’d almost convinced myself Brandon would forgive me if I broke my promise. I turned around, but when Daddy’s eyes met mine, all I asked was to be excused.

  It shouldn’t have shocked me when I walked in and found Brandon sprawled out on top of my comforter, his hands behind his head, and gaze aimed at the ceiling. But it did.

  "Hey, possum," he whispered.

  “Hey.” I locked the door, then moved toward the bed. "I'm glad you're here.” I wanted to say so much more.

  "Nowhere else to go.”

  I sank to the mattress beside him. The words, “I’m sorry” were on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed those down like a bitter pill. Nothing I could say would make things better, and I knew that.

  Brandon rolled o
nto his side with a heavy sigh before he laid his head in my lap. His eyes closed, and he grabbed my hand, placing my fingers in his unruly hair. "Make it go away," he whispered, fighting tears.

  Pieces of my soul splintered apart while I scratched through his hair. I hoped he realized that I would always love him.

  "I wish I could," I said, my voice thick.

  He grabbed my thigh and squeezed until it hurt, and I took it. Brandon needed something to hold onto, and I was glad it was me.

  I wanted it to always be me.

  18

  Brandon

  April 2006

  Weeks changed to months. Months changed to years. Life went on, and yet it didn’t. I put on a face. Pretended I was okay when I wasn’t. I’d become so good at perfecting the image of a bad boy who didn’t give a shit, I’m not sure even Poppy or Connor knew just how much I wasn’t okay.

  Dad drank more, which led to him throwing more punches. I either took them, for my ma, or I lost my shit and hit him back. And he got up from those blows less often now.

  My life was a constant state of chasing anything and everything that would make me forget how pointless my existence was. Every so often, I’d think of Ma, and guilt would make me check in on the old man. Today was just such a day, and the caravan was just as much of a shit hole as it always was.

  I threw two empty bottles of whiskey in the bin and began washing the dirty dishes cluttering the tiny kitchen.

  "Keep it down, boy." Dad turned up the volume on the TV and cracked opened a new bottle of whiskey.

  I’d tried to keep on top of everything, for Ma’s sake. I went to school, though my grades were bad. I fought most weekends, and I cleaned up the caravan. After a year with the old man, my patience had worn thin.

  I chucked the plate into the overflowing sink and stepped into the narrow hallway. "You know. You could wash your own dishes."

  "What did you just say to me?" He heaved himself out of the chair and stumbled toward me.

  My shoulders squared. My fists tightened. I thought of what he put Ma through, of how he treated her—how he’d treated me. “You were a piece of shit when Ma was alive, but now—"

  "I put food on the table.” His nostrils flared. “A roof over your head!"

  I laughed. "The only money you make is betting on my fights. And a roof?" I gestured around the caravan. "You call this a roof?"

  "You think you're the big lad now, eh?" He took a threatening step toward me, and I braced myself.

  I should just leave this shithole and never come back, but Ma would turn in her grave. And that's the only thing that had me stopping in every few days to stock the fridge and clean up.

  "Ma would be disgusted.”

  The force of his fist when it collided with my face sent me crashing into the kitchen door. He usually stopped at one punch, but this time he went for a second, smacking the other side of my face. When he reared back to throw another, I ducked and swung.

  One punch and he fell to the floor with a thud. Out cold.

  I left him there, swiping my leather jacket and a bottle of cheap whiskey on my way out. On my way through town, I stopped in front of Poppy’s house and stared up at the window I used to climb through. It had almost been a year since I’d climbed that trellis. I saw the way Poppy looked at me sometimes—the same way all the other girls looked at me right before I kissed them. The same way she’d been looking at me since we were eleven years old when neither of us even understood what that look meant.

  Ma’s words from years ago played on repeat in my head. “Girls like Poppy Turner, they end up with boys like Connor.” The concerning thing was, I couldn’t trust myself not to ruin Poppy the same way I ruined everything else. And I couldn't lose her. Some days she felt like the only thing that kept me going, so I turned around and headed across town to Lola Steven’s house. Because all I needed was a warm body and a bottle of whiskey to forget about my life. Just for a little while.

  "Oh my god. I think my dad's home," Lola gasped, yanking the duvet over her bare chest. She waved a hand through the air in a piss-poor attempt to dissipate the thick cloud of smoke that made it smell like Snoopdog had moved into her bedroom. A roach sat burning on a plate on her bedside table. We were so screwed.

  "What? Now?"

  "You need to leave.” She grabbed my boxers and threw them at me. “Right now!"

  I yanked on my underwear and nearly fell flat on my face when I rushed to step into my jeans. The floorboard on the landing groaned. Throwing clothes around in an attempt to find my shirt, I panicked. "Shit. Gotta go." Forgetting about my shirt, I gave her a quick kiss, grabbed the roach and shoved it between my lips, then forced up the window. One of my legs was already over the ledge before I spotted the bottle of whiskey on her dresser. I swiped it and threw my other leg over just in time for her father to throw open her bedroom door. His face was puce red, his eyes aimed right at me.

  "Aw, shit." I jumped for the garage roof and hit it hard, my knees landed on the asphalt top. The whiskey flew out of my hands and skittered across the roof before it rolled off, smashing to pieces on the concrete below.

  "You get back here, you little fucker!" her dad shouted from her bedroom window.

  By the time I got off the roof and made it around the front, he was at the front door, holding a shotgun.

  I had never run so fast in my damn life.

  I legged it straight to Poppy’s house. By the time I threw myself through her bedroom window, I could barely breathe.

  Poppy and Connor both glanced up from the books spread out on the bed between them.

  The boom of a shotgun rang through the air, and all of us jumped.

  Poppy’s eyes went wide. “What did you do, Brandon?”

  “You come back ‘round my girl, and I’ll have you castrated!” Mr. Stevens shouted from the street.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” I said.

  Connor nodded. “It looks like you’ve been chasing the private school girls again.”

  Poppy snatched her notebook from the bedspread and scribbled something on the page. “Let me guess, Lola Stevens?” She shot daggers at me before going back to her writing.

  “It’s the uniform, poss. What do you want me to say?” I looked to Connor for back up, but he just shrugged. He was too much of a pussy to agree with me in front of Poppy. “Even golden balls there would be tempted if she’d give him a shot.”

  And Lola would definitely give Con a shot. Captain of the rugby team, Con was no longer the chubby kid cramming Milkybars in his pocket. Most of the girls in school wanted his attention, of course, he never noticed anyone but Poppy.

  Poppy directed an inquisitive brow at Connor, tapping her pencil on her notebook. “Would you?”

  “No!” His cheeks tinged pink. “Of course not.”

  Poppy’s jaw dropped a little. Then she shoved him so hard he nearly toppled off the bed. “You just blushed! Oh my God. I can’t with you two.”

  “Ah, don’t be hard on Con. He doesn’t possess balls, despite all evidence to the contrary.”

  Connor grabbed the stuffed possum I’d given Poppy for her birthday last year and hurled it at my face.

  “Well, you two chase after girls like Lola Stevens all you want.” Poppy snatched the stuffed animal and placed it back on her bed. “I’ve got a date next weekend. With a guy who would never go after Lola Stevens.”

  The muscle in my jaw spasmed. The thought of some guy touching her made my fists clench. “With who?”

  Her gaze narrowed while a subtle smirk played at her lips. “I’d prefer to keep my date private, thank you very much.”

  “You’re okay with this?” I asked Connor while thumbing at Poppy.

  He shrugged. “I mean…” Then he shrugged again.

  “I don’t need either of you to be okay with anything.”

  “I’ll find out who it is, Poppy. And then…” I fixed my gaze on her and sighed. “You know what happens.”

  If looks could kill, t
he one Poppy shot at me would have put me in my grave. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

  “Tell me who it is.” I pushed to my feet. “If he’s nice, maybe I won’t have to kill him.” It was a lie, there was no guy on earth nice enough to date my possum. Well, Connor, but even that thought had me riddled with jealousy.

  Poppy swung her legs over the mattress and rounded the foot of her bed, stopping inches in front of my face. The top of her head barely brushed my chin. Her chest bumped up against me and made me all too aware of her curves. My jeans tightened, and I shifted on my feet, fighting my body’s natural response to her. It had grown increasingly harder to ignore the way I felt about Poppy and the things I dreamt about doing with her, but it was those very feelings that kept me leashed.

  I loved her too much to let her fall for someone like me. And she would.

  We both knew she would.

  Her storm-grey eyes looked particularly turbulent. “Fuck off, Brandon.”

  A shocked expression tore across Con’s face, but a smile crept over mine. Good girl, Poppy Turner had finally gotten a mouth on her. And it was hot.

  “Didn’t know you had it in you, poss. Gotta say, I’m a little turned on.”

  Her nostrils flared on a deep breath. “I’ll be sure to use that word on my date then.”

  I groaned at the thought. This wasn’t getting me anywhere. I’d find out exactly who Poppy was dating, and then I’d fill him in, the same way I had every other guy who had looked at her.

  19

  Poppy

  My telling Brandon and Connor that I had a date was the absolute dumbest lie I could have told. If I fessed up, they’d never let me live it down. And while I’d toyed with the idea of pretending that the mystery guy had stood me up, a lie like that, and Brandon would make it his life’s goal to find out who the guy was so he could pummel him.