My Heart for Yours

by Jolene Perry

  “All right. I’ll leave you. I wouldn’t want you to be dealing with puffy eyes in the morning.” His thumbs brush across my cheeks.

  I open my mouth again to tell him that I’m here for a funeral, and it’s perfectly acceptable for me to have puffy eyes, but I don’t. Why am I so bitter, and how did everything get so mixed up?

  “Goodnight. Thank you.” But I just want him to go. To let me be alone.

  His fingers brush up and down my arm a few times, and he slides his hand through my hair as I close my eyes. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers.

  Now I want to cry. He’s not a bad guy, and probably if I had the guts to tell him what I wanted, he’d do it. Or he’d try. But instead I lie silent and mumble another thank you as he leaves my room.

  I roll on my back when he leaves, stare at the ceiling, and know I need out.

  THE MESS

  Tugs at my heart

  Pulls at my wings

  Tells me to run

  Tells me to hide

  Breaking of souls

  Destroyer of love

  Unspoken words

  Untold lies

  The harder the hurt

  The harder the fall

  The strength to stand up

  But no longer fly

  I think this proves that I’m completely wrecked.

  Nine

  Tobin

  I pull up to my house and park next to Eamon’s black Jeep. I’d gone to Traive’s house to pick it up yesterday before the visitation. I wonder what my parents are planning to do with it– if they’ve even noticed that it’s back. I pause at the front door, unsure of what I’ll be walking in to. It’s late; my parent’s would normally be long asleep by this hour. But can you really sleep the night before your oldest son’s funeral?

  The mail is piling up on the small table in the entryway. I’ll have to go through it in the next day or two before something is turned off for not getting paid. I hang my keys on the hook next to Eamon’s and pause outside the kitchen, listening to my parents’ hushed voices.

  “I just don’t understand how this happened,” my mom says, her words weighted with drowsiness.

  She isn’t going to understand. Ever. I don’t know why she’s even trying to. Nothing that happened that night will ever make sense. Not to her and not to me. I know he was crazy as hell, but playing chicken on the railroad tracks? Leslie said he had his back turned. It didn’t seem like he heard the train. How is that possible? And if he did hear it, why didn’t he move? He had nothing to prove to anyone. We all got it. You’re a badass. How the fuck could you not hear it? How could you not feel the tracks vibrating beneath your feet? How could you think it was worth it to stand firmly there—until you weren’t?

  ***

  I was on my way home from work when I saw Leslie on the side of the road. There was an ambulance and a cop car parked a little ways up. It took me a minute to process what I was seeing, so I had to slam on my brakes and pull off to the side and run back toward her. She was on her hands and knees, dry heaving onto the asphalt in between wails of agony.

  “Tobin?” Leslie said when she saw me walking toward her. “Tobin, they told me to wait up here. You shouldn’t go down there.”

  I stared down into the ditch, looking for whoever ‘they’ were, but the trees and grasses were too thick there. I couldn’t see anything but light behind the woods.

  “Leslie, what’s going on?” Her long hair was stringy and damp with tears. She either didn’t hear me, or she didn’t know how to respond. “Leslie, where’s Traive?” Traive and Leslie had gotten married while they were still in high school. I don’t think I’d ever seen one without the other. She gulped loudly.

  “The train…” gulp, wail, cough, “he didn’t move when the…the…” She crouched back down and I realized I wasn’t going to get anywhere with her. I pulled off my hoodie and wrapped it around her shoulders. I wasn’t sure if she was shaking because she was cold or not, but I had to do something before I left her sitting there.

  I jogged down the hill and through the trees. The branches whipped across my arms and the bushes scratched at my legs. When I got to a clearing, I was blinded by the spot light from the train stopped on the tracks. I had to step over piles of beer bottles that littered the ground. There was a cop talking to the driver of the train. I could tell by his uniform that he worked for the railroad. His hand was on his shiny forehead and he just kept shaking it back and forth. It was then that it finally dawned on me. It hadn’t been more than two hours since I’d last talked to Eamon.

  “Wanna get a beer after I get off of work?” I’d asked.

  “Nah, man. I’m meeting up with Traive and Leslie. We’re gonna have a few drinks, maybe go sleep out at their camp. You game?”

  I passed. I had to work in the morning. So where was Traive now? What the hell happened here? I made my way toward the cop.

  Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The gravel near the tracks crunched under my heavy boots and alerted him that I was coming. He looked up.

  “Son, you can’t be down here,” he said.

  “I’m just looking for my friend. What’s going on?” I kept my eyes fixed on the train. Even though it was parked and obviously not going anywhere, it’s size made me nervous. The train track arms regularly malfunctioned up on the main road, staying down with lights flashing for days sometimes. Everyone else would pause before weaving around them and continuing on their way. I couldn’t. I came to a complete stop and waited. And waited. Until someone honked, annoyed by my caution.

  “Tobin?” Traive’s voice came out of the darkness to my left. He half-ran, half-stumbled toward me.

  “Are you okay, dude? Your wife is up there hyperventilating,” I said to him with a small chuckle.

  The closer he got, the more I could tell that things were definitely not okay. His eyes were red and wild.

  “Tobin,” he repeated. He latched on to me, and I couldn’t help but feel a little awkward by the show of affection. My eyes searched the woods as he sobbed into my shoulder.

  And then I saw it.

  A single Chuck Taylor. Faded. Blue. Tossed to the side of the tracks. With no owner.

  “Wait,” I pushed away from Traive. “Wait!” I repeated. My brain was trying to process everything, but at the same time trying to deny what I thought I knew.

  “Where’s Eamon?” I yelled.

  “We tried to tell him, Tobin. We yelled. I tried to go to him, but Leslie wouldn’t let me. He just didn’t move,” Traive said.

  I felt the woods start to spin. I really took in the scene. The medics on the other side of the train. The stretcher. It was covered with a sheet.

  There was something under it.

  Someone.

  My brother.

  ***

  “Tobin, you home, baby?” Mom calls.

  I take one more deep breath and round the corner into the kitchen. Mom and Dad are sitting at the breakfast table with plates of untouched food in front of them. The trashcan is overflowing. The only light on is the one above the sink. Its bulb is about to burn out so it flashes every few seconds, making the entire scene even that much more pitiful.

  “Hey Mama,” I say. I stand behind her and start to rub her shoulders, but she feels too frail. I stop, afraid I’ll hurt her.

  “Are you hungry?” she asks.

  “No, Ma’am. I ate earlier,” I say.

  Dad is silently staring down at his plate. I want to tell him that he needs to snap out of it. That he needs to be strong for Mom. But who am I to say that? I don’t know what I’d do if I were in his shoes. I’m having a hard enough time keeping it together. How can I expect my dad to? I push the trash down into the can and tie up the bag before putting a fresh one in. I glance into the sink, but there are no dirty dishes. No one is eating in this house. I sort of don’t know what to do. Several minutes pass and the ticking clock above the stove is the only noise in the room.

  “It sure was nice to see Delia and her mama ton
ight. It was so sweet of them to make the trip,” Mom says.

  I long for the painful silence of just seconds ago.

  “Yep,” is all I have to offer.

  “Do you think she’ll be at the service in the morning?” Mom asks.

  I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I didn’t have a chance to ask her before I left her earlier. Jesus, what if she shows up with her boyfriend? Nah, she wouldn’t do that. She’s got more class than to show up to a funeral with a date like it’s some society function.

  “No idea,” I say.

  “Did y’all talk about…how is she feeling?” Mom can’t bring herself to say the words. She never has been able to.

  “She’s good.”

  “Do you need me to press a shirt for you for tomorrow?” Mom asks.

  “No, Mama. I’ve got it under control.”

  She nods. I should have said yes. The woman has no purpose right now. She yawns deeply and then lays her head down on the table top.

  “Tobin, I’d like you to say a few words about your brother tomorrow. It’d mean a lot to me,” Mom says. The thought of standing in front of a church full of people, talking about my dead brother makes me feel nauseous.

  “Ma, isn’t there someone else? Traive? Uncle James?” Someone. Anyone other than me?

  “He was your brother,” she says, like this is something that had never dawned on me before now. The use of past tense is a new thing, though.

  Was. Will I ever get used to it?

  “Yes, Ma’am,” I say.

  She makes an expression like she’s trying to smile, but it just won’t work, so it comes off looking more like a grimace.

  “Can I help you to bed?” She’s got to be able to sleep. The purple circles under her eyes are so deep they look painful.

  “I’ll do it,” Dad finally speaks. He pulls Mom’s chair out and helps her stand. He pats me on the shoulder before they hobble out of the kitchen and up the stairs, holding on to each other. Keeping each other moving forward. Keeping each other alive. I don’t know what that’s like. The last time I felt like I had someone depend on me like that, she up and bailed, quickly finding someone new to take care of her. I guess it wasn’t what I thought it was.

  I contemplate what to do next. I know if I go upstairs, I’m going to have to listen to my mom cry herself to sleep like she’s done the last several nights. I don’t have anywhere to go and don’t really want to be around anyone, but I can’t stay here.

  I grab my wallet out of the dish by the door and the keys to my truck and slip out into the dark.

  THE FALL

  The fall of a lifetime

  The fall of a girl

  The fall from her window

  For a different world

  The touch of a boy

  Like she’d never had

  But the way he left her

  Made her sad

  Was really bad

  I suck. This is crap.

  You said they wouldn’t all be good, and that it was okay.

  I’m just not sure if I still believe you.

  Ten

  Delia

  I miss the way Tobin smelled when he’d come home from work. Like metal, sweat, and fire. I loved what his welding job did to his arms, shoulders, and back. Kelly, Rachel, and I would walk in front of the welding shop a hundred times a day just to smile, or wave. That was the summer Tobin and I got together. The summer that forever changed my life. The last year I spent in Crawford. And I spent as much of it with Tobin as I could.

  My favorite time to watch him work was when Tobin couldn’t see me, and I was alone. I’d just watch for a few moments. Even with his mask on, I could tell he was deep into his work. He was an artist as much as he was a builder or repairer. Something I don’t think most people recognized about him. I know my dad didn’t.

  I thought once we got back to town, it would seem more real, but even being here, it still seems impossible that Eamon’s gone. I hate that he’s gone. I hate it for young men everywhere, and for me and for Tobin and for the people who Eamon helped find strength, even when they didn’t think they had any.

  Tobin did that for me. I was never stronger, happier, and more alive than when I was with those two—even though I don’t think Eamon had any idea what to do with the way

  Tobin and I felt about each other.

  Eamon took me in like one of his own, because even though he thought we were crazy, he could see how much I loved his brother.

  Tobin was the only thing I ever stood up to my dad for. Even if I only did a crap job of it, I tried. Until suddenly Dad seemed right, and I was just too tired to fight anymore.

  ***

  “The only time we’ve been at odds, Delia, was over that boy.” Dad stood in the doorway of my new room in D.C. as I laid in bed, my whole body aching. It wasn’t just the move, all of it was too much for me to deal with.

  I wiped more tears, but didn’t say anything.

  “I want you to think about how that turned out, Delia. Think about it long and hard. I want you to know that taking over Senator Lyle’s seat was an honor I was chosen for, and I’m not going to be one of those men making excuses for my kids because I expect you’ll damn well do what I tell you to.” Dad’s jaw was set, his dark hair greased back, and his three-hundred dollar custom shirt was pressed and heavily starched to perfection.

  I wanted to scream at him and tell him I hated him and that I’d do whatever I damned well pleased, but Tobin wasn’t there. Tobin hadn’t called. Tobin broke my heart before I broke his, he just didn’t see it that way. He said he couldn’t answer when I’d called, that he needed space, time to process what was going on with us. But I needed him. For him to finally decide to be there after I was gone was too little too late. I figured he would be relieved. He was finally rid of me.

  “We understand each other, Delia?” I swear Dad grew a foot taller as he leaned into my room.

  “Yes sir.” I wanted to snap out the words, but instead I sounded weak. Just like he wanted me to. Damn Tobin. I’d needed him to fight, and he’d just let me go. He had to know that I couldn’t be strong anymore. That I didn’t know how to stand up to my dad without him by my side.

  Mom stepped through the door, not meeting’s Dad’s glare. She patted him on the arm. “I’ll talk to her.”

  “Delia and I have already talked!” His voice boomed. “And she knows damn well what I expect. We have a dinner tomorrow night, and she needs to be cleaned up and ready to go.”

  I wondered if by ‘clean up’ Dad meant that he’d noticed that I was wearing one of Tobin’s shirts. I stole it from his room the day before we left town. It was the only thing I’d ever taken without permission from anyone. The soft, button up plaid shirt was old and worn and smelled deliciously like Tobin. Most of the time, I kept it folded in the back of my closet, not wanting to wear it too much and have the smell of him wear away. But on really bad days, I couldn’t help but put it on. Wanting any shred of him to be there with me.

  Dad disappeared, and I broke down into a fit of sobs that tugged and pulled at my insides. Who still thought this way—that their family was there to serve them or something? Everything about being in D.C. felt backwards.

  Mom was quiet, as always, but rested a hand on my shoulder. “You have to understand Delia. Your father was raised by a very harsh man and has worked really hard to get to where he is.”

  At that moment I hated Tobin for backing away almost as much as I hated Dad for pushing me forward. I wanted to scream at Mom that I didn’t care about Dad and where he was from. He should already see that he’d taken everything from me.

  And as Mom sat next to my bed trying to explain away her husband’s behavior, she pulled another long drink from the cup she’d left on my nightstand.

  All I knew in that moment was that I was too tired to fight anymore. I’d fought for time with Tobin. I’d fought for Tobin. I’d fought for control of this situation that we put ourselves in. But Dad was right—where was Tobin now,
when I needed him?

  ***

  I roll over in bed and try to get comfortable again, but I can’t do it.

  Out. Out. Out. It’s all I can think as I slide off my mattress.

  This routine I could do in my sleep. I lock my door, go the bathroom and smear a few drops of jasmine oil on my wrists before I remember I’m not meeting anyone and didn’t need to do that.