“I can’t.” I try, not turning around.
“You have to.” The hand that’s on my back urges me to stand and turn. I allow it. I don’t have a choice. Repeating the motions of removing the sheet, he reveals my son. I can’t breathe. I don’t want to breathe. I want to climb up beside him and follow him and Britanny to wherever they went. It’s too much.
“It’s him… Daniel Chapman. Cover him up!” I demand. “Get me out of here.”
Without question, the sheet is replaced to cover both of their faces, and I’m quickly escorted out. I want to run out of the hospital. Forget what I just saw. Forget my entire life. As soon as the air hits my face, I start puking. I can’t stop. Standing outside the hospital I vomit my entire life through sobbing tears. When I finally catch my breath and am convinced I’ve stopped, I continue my walk to the police car that brought me here.
***
With both of us being only children and having lost our parents, I have no family to call when I leave my wife and son in the morgue. I’m driven home and left in the house we built together… alone. The pain I feel is unbearable. The loneliness crippling. I wander through the house, a bottle of whiskey tight in my fist, touching things. Her clothes. Makeup. Stupid nick knacks I always teased her for wanting. Dust collectors is what I insisted they are. Beautiful works of art is what she countered with. Now all I see are empty memories of her.
My calloused fingers run along Daniel’s bed and across the toys that litter his floor. Tonka trucks and Legos are strewn about. I don’t bother picking them up. They can stay there, resting forever in the place where he left them. Unable to bear looking at his things any longer, I take a long sip from the bottle and shut his door, wondering if I’ll ever open it again.
Family photos line our hallway. Different phases of our lives laid out before me. The memories the photos hold destroy my heart. Suffocating the life I have inside me. The loss mixed with the good times ignites a fire inside of me. Anger swirls through my heart, racing through my veins, fueled by the fifth of liquor that’s almost gone. Without thought of anything but being fucking furious at her for leaving me. For taking him with her. I drag my hand down the wall, knocking every fucking picture off the wall. The sound of glass crashing fuels me even more. As though I’m nothing more than an empty shell of a man with no soul, heart, or conscience, I strategically begin destroying our home.
Nothing that’s in my path is safe. Picture frames shatter. Dishes break. The coffee table is split in two by my fist. Two holes are punched through the wall. I continue my rampage until I can no longer breathe. Until the fight is gone. Until I want nothing more than to lay down and die myself.
I stumble back to our bedroom. The one room I’ve avoided since I entered my house a widower. Where we slept together. Made love. Made Daniel. The room that housed all we felt for each other. The room that held my hand gun. Barging through the door I reach for the weapon from the top shelf of the closet and load it before hauling ass out of that room, back to the living room. My legs can no longer hold me up when my body collapses onto the couch. I chug the last of the whiskey and cry. I cry like a baby. Like a wounded animal. I can’t stop crying. I can’t stop screaming their names. Cursing God. The pain gut wrenching. I’m alone. I have no one else in this world that’s worth living for. Through the tears, I load the gun and ready myself. I hold it to my head. I pray to a God I no longer believe in. I’m ready. Ready to leave this world behind and find my wife and son. Before I can pull the trigger, I hear a voice.
“Jase, what are you doing? Put down the gun.” I recognize the voice immediately and without turning to face her or questioning her, I do as I’m told and put down the gun, falling against the back of the couch. I close my eyes hoping that when I open them she’ll be there and this entire day will have been a nightmare. After a few seconds, I open them and there she is.
“Brit? I thought… you… I thought… where’s Daniel?” I stutter, not knowing what to say.
“Daniel is fine. He’s safe and happy but worried about his daddy.”
“How are you here?” I reach out to touch her but I can’t. It’s like she’s right in front of me but too far away to feel.
“Oh, Jase, I had to come back. You were about to do the stupidest thing you could ever do! I had to stop you.”
“But it hurts, babe. How am I supposed to live without you and Daniel? Why did you leave me here alone? How could you do that to me?”
“It wasn’t my choice, but please know we’re okay. We’re happy. It was our time to go. We both understand that but it’s not your time, Jase Chapman. You still have life to live. Things to do. People to impact. It’s not time for you to be with us yet.”
“What if I don’t want to live this life?”
“Do it anyway… for me. Just know I’ll always be near. Daniel will always be near and we love you very much. Mourn us if you must but then pick yourself up and learn to live again… please.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to. Your work here isn’t done. I have to go.”
“No, don’t go.”
“Goodbye, Jase. I love you. Always know how much I love you.”
“I love you too, Brit. So goddamn much.” I stand to go to her. To hold her one more time but she’s gone before I’m off the couch. I search the house for her. Calling her name but she doesn’t come back. Exhausted and emotionally spent, I fall back onto the couch, the gun still loaded on the table, allowing the whiskey to lull me to sleep. Maybe tomorrow will be easier.
***
I wake in the morning to the sun glaring down through the blinds I didn’t bother closing. I should have closed the fucking blinds. All I want to do is sleep. My head is pounding. My stomach is turning. My body feels too heavy to move but the goddamn sun is blinding me.
I rise up from the couch, careful not to move too quick. My body hurts in places I never realized could hurt. Stumbling to the offending blinds, I close them as quickly as my fucked up hand will let me. As it twists shooting pains radiate down my arm reminding me why I fucked the place up. Confirming what I hoped would all be a dream. They’re gone. I’m here in hell on Earth. Once I’ve shut the sun out, I carefully lay back on the couch allowing my eyes to close. Just as I’m nearing unconsciousness a knock on the door jolts me awake. I try to ignore it. There is nobody I want to see anyway. The knocking turns to pounding… the pounding to shouts of my name. I recognize the deep voice, and I know that he’s not going away. Sluggishly I once again get off the couch and make my way to the front door. Stepping over shattered glass and splintered wood.
“What the fuck are you doing pounding on my door at this hour?” I intend for the words to come out forceful but my throbbing head won’t allow me to speak loudly.
“Seriously, Jase? You were supposed to be at work three hours ago. Are you fucking hungover, dude?” Robby my co-worker and buddy demands, narrowing his dark eyes at me. Fuck him. He has no idea what I’ve been through.
“It’s Sunday, bro, get lost.” I shrug, trying to close the door. His foot juts in, wedging itself so I can’t return the barrier between him and me. Fucker.
“No, Jase, it’s fucking Monday and your ass is gonna get fired for no call/no show!” He hollered while I applied pressure against the door, smashing his foot. My brain ran back through his words, Monday. How the hell is it Monday? Jesus, how long was I out? Feeling the adrenaline that gave me strength drain from my body, I gave up, walking away. Leaving my buddy behind. Without being invited in, he enters my home, the sound of glass crunching under his work boots.
“Shit, man, what the fuck happened here? Jase? You alright? Where’s Brit and Daniel?” I laid my head back against the couch, closing my eyes again. I listened to him crunch his way over to me, “Jase, buddy… are you okay? Dude, what’s going on here?” He paused, giving me time to answer. I’m not going to.
“Dammit, Jase. Fucking talk to me or I’m calling the cops, man!”
“They’re dead. Car
accident. Saturday,” was all I managed to tell him. Without a word, he went into my kitchen where I heard him talking on the phone, to our boss I’m sure, before returning and sitting down on the couch. The crack of a beer can prompted me to open my eyes. His hand reaches one out to me, his own in his opposite hand. “Thanks, man.”
“No sweat. Wanna talk about it?”
“Nope.”
“Me either. I think I’ll just sit and drink with you if that’s cool.”
“Be my guest.” I take a long sip of the cold beverage, feeling the slight burn of alcohol run down my throat. “Thanks again, man,” I say after a few minutes of silence.
“You’re welcome,” is his only reply. As the night progresses, we get drunk, and I finally open up. I tell him about the accident and having to identify the bodies. About the drunken haze I’ve been living in since. He sits and listens patiently while I spill my guts. When I’ve said all I could possibly say and I’m exhausted from the pain, he pats me firmly on the back. “Megan and I are here for you, buddy. If you need anything let us know. Boss said take your time coming back. I’ll be back to check on you in a few days.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime. Do you have plans for a service?” The question catches me off guard. I don’t have plans. I’m barely coming to terms with the fact that their gone. I don’t want to let them go yet.
“No, I was supposed to go to the funeral home today but… well… you see how that went.” I faintly remember a conversation that I would need to go choose the burial method on Monday. I think I pushed the words out of my head. The last thing I want to do is decide burial or cremation. Casket or urn.
“Yeah, well take your time to grieve then get your ass up and deal with shit, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.” I don’t bother walking him to the door. Thankfully he knows his way out. Though we’re not the best of friends, he’s a good guy and he and his wife came over a few times for barbecues. As good as it felt to let all that shit out, I’m ready to be alone again and once he’s out I immediately drift back to sleep.
***
One year later
It took me a good three days before I was able to leave my house and go to the funeral home. I threw together a small service and buried my wife and son. The day was warm and bright. I was sure she’d be happy with the service and the caskets I chose for the two of them. Knowing I could make her happy that one last time was the only thing that gave me comfort.
Though it was hard, I managed to go back to work. After a few days I realized it was just what I needed. A way to keep my mind off of what I’d lost. The guys didn’t talk about it much or ask me questions which I appreciated. Last thing I wanted to do was talk about everything that I had lost. My life was beginning to resume a level of normalcy that, at times, caused a sick guilty feeling in my gut. Why should I go on living a happy life without them? Any moment I find myself laughing or smiling guilt creeps in. The only thing that keeps me sane is remembering Brit’s visit that night, assuring me that they’re happy. I realize I was losing my mind that night and I’m grasping at straws thinking she actually came to see me, but it’s the one thing I hold on to.
“Hey, Jase, how about them Blazers?” Robby asks, pulling me from the thoughts that threaten to drown me on a daily basis. Robby’s been coming over a lot since the accident. Far more than he ever did before. Most of the time I don’t mind the company but every now I then I feel smothered. Sometimes I just want to be alone. I don’t think it’s too much to ask, but Robby apparently feels the need to babysit. I hate feeling like a fucking charity case. He means well. I know he does. I’m the asshole here. I miss the connection I had with Brit. Real, human connection. I’ve accepted the fact that I’ll never have that again, but I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss having someone like it.
“Yeah, they’re great,” I reply offhandedly. “You keep watching, man. I need to swap my clothes. Can’t keep walking around looking like a bum.”
“I’ll be right here.” He lifts his beer toward me, then points at the couch.
“’Course you’ll be right there,” I mutter under my breath as I walk away. He’s too engulfed in the game to give a shit what I said but I still glance over my shoulder to make sure he didn’t hear me. I’m not that much of a dick. He’s still glued to the TV so I leave any guilt for being an ass behind and head to my garage to swap clothes.
I hate fucking laundry. I’ll wear my clothes for days before I break down and start a load. Brit would be disgusted if she saw me most days. One thing about that woman, she was a clean freak. The house was always immaculate, and I always had clean shit to wear. Now it’s semi-clean on most days, with the exception of my laundry.
I open the lid of the washer as I take a swig of my beer and reach one hand into a washer full of water. Fuck. “Piece of shit fucking washing machine. Dammit!” I holler at the broken piece of shit as my foot connects with the bastard.
Robby appears in the doorway. “What’s going on out here, bro?” I hate it when he calls me bro. He’s not my brother. Hell, we probably wouldn’t be hanging out so damn much if my wife were alive. I appreciate the company at times but I can’t even call him a friend. I can’t call anyone a friend. Don’t have that emotion left.
Taking a calming breath of air so I don’t take my frustration out on him I look up. “Sorry, man. Washer broke. Gonna have to call it a night. Looks like I’m taking a trip to the damn laundromat.”
“No worries, Jase. Game’s a blow out anyway. Need any help with that?”
I appreciate his offer but am in a shitty mood now. It’s time for him to go.
“Nope, I got it. See ya Monday. Thanks for the beers,” I manage to say. It’s a half-assed thank you. I know it. He knows it. He takes it anyway.
“See ya. If you need any help just let me know.”
“Yeah, will do.” I begin pulling the drenched clothes from the water, dropping them into the laundry basket.
“Later, Jase.”
“See ya,” I respond, not really listening, just wanting him to leave. My night just got fucked.
***
I arrive at the local laundromat, same place I came to wash my shit before I met Brit, and plop my basket down on an empty table. Wet clothes are fucking heavy. I glance around, not a ton of people here. It’s Saturday night after all. The only people in here is an old lady that is seriously out of place and a woman who appears to be just as out of place as the old lady. Both are dressed to the nines. The old lady looks content though. Sitting in a chair with a smile on her face. She’s got a very kind face. Someone is lucky to have her as their grandmother.
The other woman looks to be close to my age. Dark hair is pulled back tight showcasing her high cheekbones. The jeans she’s wearing hug her ass and look expensive. I watch her struggle to use the machine and chuckle to myself. She’s frustrated, that much is clear, confirming my first impression, she doesn’t belong here.
“Are you laughing at me?” she asks, catching me off guard. Shit. I’m used to mumbling shit under my breath and nobody paying attention. How the hell did she hear me laugh? I turn to look at her and I’m greeted with daggers shooting from her eyes. “Are you deaf, I asked you if you’re laughing at me?” Her arms fold across her chest pushing her tits up just enough to advert my attention. “Hello,” she tries again.
“Umm… I’m…” I stutter, not really sure what to say. I decide honesty is best. “Well, yes I was laughing little but…”
“You’re a real asshole you know that?” she spouts, not letting me finish. She’s not only beautiful but feisty too.
I raise my hands in surrender. “No, I’m not. Well, yeah I guess I am. At least I’ve turned into a mega asshole but I was laughing ‘cause you’re kinda cute fighting with that machine.”
“Cute?”
“Yeah. Cute,” I reply, almost not believing the words myself.
I haven’t laid eyes on another woman since losing Brit. Haven’t wanted to. Haven’t n
eeded to. She was my one and only. Immediately guilt washes over me but before it can crush me she responds, “Well, if I’m so cute then the least you could do is come help me. I have no idea what I’m doing.” Her arms fall from her chest, her own surrender.
“Uhh, sure. One sec.” Quickly I toss my clothes in the machine and start it up before going to help her.
“What’s the problem?” I ask approaching her.
“Damn thing swallows up the soap the second I put it in. Doesn’t matter how much I pour, it disappears.” Her hands rest on her hips while she looks at the washing machine with bewilderment.
“Are you serious?” I try to hold back my own bewilderment that she really has no idea how to work a washer. How is that even possible? I’m a dude and I’ve known how to wash my shit since I was ten years old, and my mother got tired of finding weird shit like frogs in my pockets.
“Yeah, why?” Her sassiness is almost comical. I hold back a laugh.
“Shit, how much soap have you poured in there?” I glance at the jug of soap sitting on top of the machine.
“Half the bottle.” She shrugs.
I shake my head, trying to choose my words wisely. I’ve come off dick-ish enough. No need to push my luck with this woman.
“Uhh, okay. Well, you’re going to have to rinse those clothes out a few times. See, the soap is supposed to disappear into the hole. That’s how it gets into the wash. If it sat on top your clothes wouldn’t get clean. See mine over there, all sudsy?” I watch her look toward the machine that was washing my clothes. When she realizes what she’s done a deep crimson creeps onto her cheeks. I can see embarrassment in her eyes.
“Wow, I feel like an idiot. I knew that. You must think I’m…” A deeper shade of crimson is now highlighting her cheeks.
“No, it’s okay. Common mistake.” I try, hoping to ease her embarrassment.
“It is not,” she counters.
“It is. I did that my first time here too.” I lie, trying to make her feel better.
Widower (The Laundromat Chonicles Book 4) Page 2
