Undersold

by B. B. Hamel

  Janice and Shane, Shane and Janice. Janice’s hand on his shoulder, Shane’s hand on top of that. The way her legs were crossed toward him, the easy-going comfortable way they sat so close and spoke, their laughter. How could I have been so stupid not to notice this earlier?

  I made it out of the building and onto the street. I walked fast toward the subway, not thinking about anything but their comfortable closeness. I was lucky and didn’t get stopped by any paparazzi, probably because they didn’t recognize me without Shane by my side. I was just another anonymous brunette girl, a little on the short side, plain and simple. Not like tall, leggy Janice. I made it to the subway, dropped in a token, and rode it up to my neighborhood. I had never walked out of work in the middle of the day like this before, and the consequences of my actions weren’t registering at all. I only knew that I had to get out of there, away from Shane, and clear my head for a while before we talked. Normally, I would have biked home, but because I was getting rides with Shane, my bike was stored in my apartment, unused for a few weeks.

  When I emerged from the subway, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Shane. Where are you? Are you skipping out on our meeting? I ignored it, and went up into my apartment. I undressed, wrapped myself in a blanket, and laid down in bed.

  My room was much neater and barer than I remembered. It had been a few weeks since I slept in my own bed, and it felt good, though cold and empty. I missed Shane, his large warmth beside me, his comforting breath on my neck, his strong arms wrapped around my body. I felt like I was losing him and losing myself all at once. I missed him, but I was angry.

  A few minutes later, my phone started buzzing again. I ignored it, assumed it was Shane, and tried to sleep. I needed rest and time alone to fully process what I saw before I could confront him about it. I knew I was overreacting, or maybe being dramatic, and it would have been simpler just to walk into the room and demand an explanation, but I didn’t have that power with him. Shane had become the beacon in my life, the lighthouse by which I navigated, and suddenly that lighthouse was snuffed out, the crystal beacon smashed to bits, and I was in danger of running aground.

  My phone buzzed again a minute later, and this time I reached over to silence it. As I went to hit the button, I noticed the caller ID said my brother John. It was really unusual for him to call during the day, so I swiped right to answer and held it up to my ear.

  “Hello, John? What’s up?”

  “Hey Amy,” he said, and his voice sounded husky.

  “What’s going on, are you upset?”

  “It’s Dad, Amy.”

  I felt my whole world come to a screaming halt. I forgot about Shane. I forgot about leaving work. I forgot about everything except for my brother’s voice.

  23.

  I got the first train home. I didn’t bother telling Shane, and I couldn’t think about anything other than my Dad. Grief washed over me in waves as I traveled back to Levittown, toward my childhood home.

  We all knew my Dad was really sick. The doctors said he didn’t have a lot of time left, but he had always been such a vital force that it was hard for me to imagine him ever dying. Still, with late stage lung cancer, it was going to happen eventually. That wasn’t something I could ever have prepared for though, and when it happened, I knew my life was changed forever. Now, both of my parents were gone. I couldn’t envision a world where I had no living parents, but it was suddenly my reality. I kept thinking back to the last time I saw my father, and wished I had a chance to say goodbye. I desperately wanted to be able to tell him I loved him. I knew he was looking thin, but I didn’t think much of it. We talked about his day, about sports, and about Jasmine. I told him about my days, and mentioned I was seeing someone, but never told him exactly who Shane was. I’m glad I at least got to mention how well I was doing, and how happy I was.

  And then he was gone. It was the longest train ride of my life, and every recent memory of my father ran through my mind, especially the proud look on his face on the night of my party celebrating the app’s sale.

  At the station, my brother John picked me up in his old Chevy pickup. He liked beat up classic trucks, even though everyone knew he could afford something better. He wrapped me in his arms and we hugged for a while.

  “How you doin’, Amy?”

  “Not great. I can’t really process it.”

  He nodded. His eyes were red and puffy, but he was doing his best to remain strong for me. “I know, neither can I.”

  We climbed into his truck and drove back toward our childhood home.

  “I know this isn’t something you want to deal with, but we have a bunch of stuff to do. Funeral arrangements and estate stuff. I’m taking care of as much of it as possible, but I need some help.”

  “Of course, absolutely.” There was a pause. “Have you talked to Derek?”

  John looked solemn. “Yeah, I called him.”

  “And?”

  “And, he’s in rehab right now. Which is good, I guess. He said he’d try to make it out for the funeral. Who knows what’ll happen with that asshole.”

  “Not the time, John. They had their issues, but he loves Dad, just like we do.”

  John sighed. “I know, I’m sorry. I know we could use his help, but he’s unavailable, dealing with his problems. Like usual.”

  I nodded. It was an old story for us. Derek was too busy getting high or going through rehab or spending time in jail to pitch in with anything. After Mom died, Derek and Dad’s relationship crumbled. I never understood why. Dad had to work long hours to provide for the three of us, and Derek always felt neglected. He was the youngest, and took Mom’s death the hardest, after me. Him and I took opposite paths in response to tragedy. Where I buckled down and studied hard, maybe withdrew from people and the world, Derek partied hard and started taking drugs pretty early on. Him and John would fight about it all the time, and when Derek turned nineteen, instead of going to college, he ran away from home and lived with some musician friends of his out in California. A few years later, Derek came back to Philly, but he was a different person completely. He was in and out of rehabs, usually paid for by John, who was the oldest and most rock-solid of the three of us. He stayed away from Dad, and they didn’t speak for years, as far as I knew.

  John and I used to spend hours talking about Derek and his drug addiction, but lately we had stopped trying. At a certain point, Derek had to want to help himself. I was hopeful about this new stay in rehab, but realistic. Addiction was serious and difficult and draining on everyone involved, and I was too busy grieving for Dad to deal with another round of Derek’s problems.

  We finally pulled into my childhood home’s driveway. It looked the same as always: two stories, Cape Cod-ish style, blue shutters on white vinyl siding. It was small, but it was cozy and comfortable. Every house in Levittown looked the same; it was originally built as cheap housing for GIs coming back from World War II. The community used to be vibrant and thriving, though in recent years it had gotten a reputation for being the poor, unruly side of town. The truth was, Levittown was a good neighborhood. I had really fond memories of a childhood spent riding my bike between the sections with other local kids, going to the local pool, and playing in the local park.

  John and I climbed out of his truck and walked up the front path. We opened the door, and the silence punched me in the nose. Normally, Dad would be sitting upright in his hospital bed, watching sports or crime shows at high volume. Jasmine would be busying herself around the house, doing some small cleaning, checking Dad’s medications, and whatever else she did. Dad never complained about Jasmine, which was a small miracle, and we were all thankful for her. Now, her absence was powerful.

  “Weird, isn’t it?” John walked into the living room. Green shag carpet, straight out of the 70s and wood paneling dominated the house. There were pictures of us as kids, and of Mom as a young woman, smiling from the shelves and walls. The old TV was quiet on its stand, and Dad’s hospital bed was gone.

&nb
sp; “Really weird. Makes it feel more real, though,” I said.

  John nodded. “That’s how I felt, too. Jasmine has been a huge help in all this. She contacted me immediately, and I told her I’d take care of getting in touch with you guys. I called you right away. Apparently, she called the funeral home, took care of the hospital equipment we had, and put me in touch with an estate lawyer.”

  “She’s absolutely fantastic, I’ll have to make sure I thank her.”

  “Yeah, we all should.”

  I looked around the house. The quiet continued to smash down on me.

  “What do we do now?” I asked.

  John shrugged. “I figured we’d start packing the house up a bit. At least go through everything. Then we have to go down to the funeral home, set everything up with them, and talk to the lawyers.”

  “I can’t imagine putting their things in boxes.”

  John sighed and sat down on the couch. “Neither can I, Amy. I don’t know what we’ll do with all this stuff. I don’t want to do anything with it, if I’m honest. But we might as well start dealing with this the best we can.”

  I moved over and sat down next to him. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders.

  “I can’t believe he’s gone,” I whispered.

  “I miss him too.”

  We sat in silence together for a few minutes and looked around the house. I remembered Mom making dinner in the kitchen while Dad played with the three of us in the living room, letting us ride around on his back like a horse, or wrestling with us. He’d pick us up and toss us into the air, then throw us onto the couch. We’d do that over and over until Mom eventually made us stop to eat dinner. I remembered asking him for help with homework, and laughing when he didn’t know all the state capitols. I remembered his face, tear-streaked, when I woke up in the hospital after the accident, and him explaining what had happened. I remembered him holding me as I cried. I remembered the long nights he worked, John watching over Derek and me, and how tired he was all the time, dragging himself into his truck and out of it. I wished I could go back and make his life easier, but knew I couldn’t. He was gone, and the best we could do was pick up and keep going, be good to each other, and give him the best farewell we could.

  I stood up from the couch and walked upstairs as John busied himself in the kitchen. I sat on the floor of my childhood home and looked at my phone. Shane’s texts had gotten more worried, and I knew that I wasn’t being fair, so eventually I sent him a message.

  Father passed away. Need time off work. I kept it simple and didn’t mention the scene with Janice. It kept playing through my head, and mixed with my grief. It was hard getting out of bed those first mornings, but I had to help John make arrangements.

  I’m so sorry Amy. Take all the time you need. That was all he said, and his worried messages stopped. I missed the buzz of the phone, almost as if it were actually Shane’s voice, but memories of my life in my old room started to come flooding back, and I soon forgot him in my grief.

  A few days passed, and it was Saturday. I hadn’t heard from Shane for two days. I’d been staying in Dad’s house with John, and the funeral was set for the next morning. We had packed up a lot of the house, and had spent a lot of time reminiscing about the stuff we found. Some of it I never knew about, like my mother’s wedding dress, and most of her jewelry; I guessed Dad didn’t have the heart to get rid of it. I packed away a few small things to keep in memory of them.

  Eventually, the grief turned from overwhelming to barely manageable. I didn’t want to cry every hour anymore, but the hole Dad left was still fresh in my chest, and it was difficult to get through the day.

  Standing alone near my bed, I looked over my room, at the yellow-green walls and yellow carpet, at the Ikea furniture and the boy band posters. I had good and bad memories of this room, but they were mine. It was strange how Dad had kept all of our rooms exactly as we had left them, even Derek’s. There was something heartbreaking about the Backstreet Boys posters, yellowing at their corners.

  I imagined Shane in this room with me. I imagined his form and his lips pressed against my body. It was hard thinking about him, and I wished I could have him there with me, but even if I hadn’t walked in on him and Janice in that moment, he wouldn’t have been able to come. It would have been breaking all of his privacy rules. Still, I found myself imagining those hours we spent together wrapped in each other, and it softened the hard sting of every other moment.

  Out of nowhere, I heard the doorbell ring, which was strange. As far as I knew, we weren’t expecting anyone. I got up and walked hesitantly toward my bedroom door. I heard John open the front door downstairs.

  “Didn’t expect to see you here,” John said, muffled by the distance. I moved toward the top of the stairs, confused.

  “Yeah, well, neither did I, but I’m here.” I recognized that voice. I walked down the stairs slowly.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” John said. Framed in the door was Derek, looking haggard and tired, but in the flesh. I ran down the last two steps, moved passed John, and threw my arms around him. He smelled like sweat and hospital, and he needed a haircut and a shave, but he was there. I didn’t expect him to actually show up; he was a flake, and he didn’t get along well with Dad. I was so happy he showed up for once.

  “Hey Amy,” he said, laughing. In the early days, Derek and I were very close. His drug abuse pushed us apart, but the memories of him and I going for long walks and talking about Mom’s death erased everything else for the time being. I felt like a teenager again, and he was my little brother, trying to help me deal with the bad turns of my life.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” I said.

  “I am too.”

  “I’m fine with you being here,” John said, jokingly. We all laughed, and I pulled away from Derek.

  “Well this is a little weird,” Derek said, smiling.

  “We haven’t all been home together in years,” I said.

  “Not since you left,” John replied. We moved into the living room and plopped down on the couch. The house was mostly in boxes, and Derek looked around, surprised. It was emptier than we had ever seen it.

  “You guys did all this?” he asked.

  “Yeah, we had to. Got to take care of all this stuff while we have off work.”

  Derek nodded, and gaped around him. I understood what he was feeling. It’s a strange thing to see your childhood in boxes, stowed away. More than that, it was your father’s life, his existence, gone. In a way, the empty house was the most tangible part of Dad’s death.

  “When’s the funeral?” Derek asked, breaking the silence.

  “It’s tomorrow,” I said.

  “Really eerie, seeing all these boxes. I expected to see Dad sitting in his chair, watching the TV when I walked in.”

  John laughed. “It would have been a hospital bed, for the last year or so. But he never did change that habit.”

  I grinned. “Dad knew what he liked and hated to do anything else.”

  Derek and John laughed.

  “What time is everything tomorrow?” Derek asked.

  “Why, got something to do?” John said, and I felt the old anger creeping back.

  “No, I just have to be back at rehab by five.”

  “Everything should be done by three,” I said.

  He nodded, and then we lapsed into silence again. It felt good, comfortable, and the three of us pretended like nothing had happened in the years since we had last sat like this. There were still broken promises and turmoil lurking below our conversation, but right then it was fine, and we grieved and spoke and joked together like siblings.

  24.

  The funeral was a blur. I thought I knew my father in life, but as people I’d never met before expressed their condolences, I realized how much I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I expected for a turnout; close family and friends were a given, but beyond that I had no clue. That day, I met so many people my father had touched in his life, whether it w
as through work on his delivery routes, or old friends of his, or relatives I hadn’t heard from in years. It was a much larger turnout than I ever imagined, and the sheer number of people who cared about my Dad touched me in a way I hadn’t expected.

  More than that, old friends of mine who I hadn’t spoken to in years turned up. People from college and high school were there, and came only to support me. Darcy was there, of course, and having her around made things a little easier. I was broken up and touched all at once by my old high school friends sharing their memories of my Dad.

  There were reception lines and eulogies and caskets and flowers, and it all swirled around me like dust, a useless and empty gesture for my Dad, who was gone forever. I seesawed between acceptance and heavy grief.

  Afterward, after the casket was lowered and the prayers were said, we walked away from his grave, tucked up under a tree in an old cemetery, buried next to my mother. John, Derek, and I leaned up against John’s old truck as the people made their way home. I waved to Darcy as she left, and she blew me a kiss back.

  “Not a bad place, all told,” John said quietly, looking around. It was chilly out, and we were wearing light coats and black clothes.

  “We might be here one day,” Derek said.

  “Yeah, I’d like to be at least near Mom and Dad,” I said.

  We lapsed into silence. It had been an exhausting few days, and I’d cried as much as I could cry. The only solace I felt was that Dad wasn’t suffering anymore, although I wanted him back more than anything. The wind moved through the trees and we listened to the sounds of cars and people talking quietly, engines starting and moving off, tires through dirt.

  “I want to say something.” Derek broke the silence.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “I know me and Dad didn’t get along, but he was a good father. Seeing him gone like this....” He looked out across the cemetery. “Makes me want to get my shit together, is all I’m saying.”