by R. J. Lewis
The death had travelled across town like a shockwave. People I didn’t know came around, paid their respects, and all the while it was me at the door, answering it time and time again, It was the last thing I wanted to do. Visitors fed me stories of the father I loved and what a great man he was. Food flooded in. Casseroles and desserts, cards and flowers, and letters – so many letters of sorrow. It hit me hard. People had loved my father. I had never known just how many lives he had touched selflessly working a job that put him at risk every single day.
My hero.
My role model.
The man that loved so hard, he brought another child into our lives just to see that child smile again.
And he died trying to do a noble thing. Adrian had explained what had happened the very next day. “He saw a couple outside arguing. The husband shoved her against the car and was beating on her while their kid cried in the backseat. Instead of driving away, your father cut in, tried to break the fight apart without realizing the man was armed. He shot him in the chest point blank and then he ran from the scene of the crime. We’ve caught him since. He won’t see the light of day. There will be justice, Elise. I promise.”
Could there ever be enough justice done for a senseless death like that? Would life imprisonment truly be enough? It wasn’t fair that man was breathing and my father wasn’t. It was the first time I ever thought along those lines, and it frightened me the route my brain took at the thought of justice. But my justice sounded more like revenge the longer I tortured that man inside my mind. I had to switch off so I didn’t lose myself to anger.
The night before the funeral, I picked out a black dress for Mom to wear and hanged it up on the hook behind her door. I tried to comfort her as she lay in bed, the covers over her small body. Her short blonde hair covered parts of her blank face, and every time I brushed them away, they fell back again. She was doing it. She was trying to hide. She didn’t respond to my touch, so I left her after a while. Then I knocked on Aston’s door and waited for him to open.
He didn’t.
I turned back around and paced the house.
*
I didn’t know what was happening to my life, and I felt like I was just there going through the motions. I didn’t cry again since the hospital. I swallowed it all down, unsure of where it’d been bottled up exactly. Somewhere dark, maybe. Somewhere I couldn’t find, hopefully.
On the day of the funeral, Adrian showed up at our house in the morning, wearing a black suit, looking surprisingly sharp. His dark eyes met mine and he smiled sympathetically as I waited for Mom and Aston to come down. I was wearing a black plain dress. My hair was down in loose waves, hardly presentable. I couldn’t help but feel like Mom should have been there. She should have pushed me to comb through the strands of my hair, to put make-up on and look more decent. To carry on even though I ached.
But she didn’t care.
“You’ve been so strong, Elise,” Adrian told me quietly, admiration in his voice.
“No,” I replied numbly, “I think I’m just too broken to feel anything.”
Mom came down first, still plagued by grief to notice me. Then Aston followed. My body stilled, and my eyes locked on him as he made his way down the staircase in a black suit and crisp white shirt. It was the first time I’d seen him properly since the hospital, and god, I really needed to see him. He’d already lost a family as a child, and now he was losing another person he loved all over again.
It was without explanation that I was capable to shove aside my pain and want to heal him. I just had to. I needed him not to hurt. It scared me how much that meant to me.
As we walked outside to Adrian’s car, I grabbed at Aston’s arm and stared up at him, waiting for him to acknowledge me. He glimpsed at me briefly, but there was nothing there in his eyes. I let go of his arm and let him walk ahead of me. I felt lost. Everywhere I turned there was no way out.
Give him time. I told myself. He just needs a bit more time.
The viewing was the single hardest thing I had ever had to do. I purposely kept my eyes drawn away from the man that raised me from birth. It wasn’t real. He wasn’t my father. No, he was just an empty capsule. The father I loved was lost, gone, and I never got to say good bye. Every time he wanted to spend time with me, I was too embroiled in my teen angst to give him the attention I used to give him as a little girl.
As his butterfly.
I sucked in deep breaths as we stood by the casket. People flooded in, and it was all a daze to me. I nodded, I whispered thanks, but that was it. Lamely, I tried to grip Aston’s arm again, but he stiffened and didn’t look at me. I turned to Mom and held her arm. She was soft, but she didn’t look like she cared that I was touching her. I retreated from both, like an outsider, and glimpsed at Dad’s empty body.
He looked strange. Familiarities mixed with powdered make-up and whatever the fuck else they did to him. Why did I let them do this to him? He wasn’t my daddy. I whipped my face away, and suddenly it was all too much. I had this urge to just run. To get away from reality. To be clear of everyone and everything. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. I tore myself apart. I could taste shards of anger in my mouth, and felt the venom all the way to my toes. I needed out. I screamed internally, hoping for a break, for tears to finally come, for my being to rupture so I could collapse and mourn.
I needed that relief.
On the outside, I continued to whisper thanks, my legs remained in place, and my dead eyes watched on, patient, kind, and grateful.
Just like Daddy taught me.
*
The funeral came and went. It was a nice day too. I would have liked some clouds in the sky at least. Or a fucking drizzle of rain. Something that wasn’t blue skies and sunshine. You’re not meant to hurt on a beautiful day. That wasn’t how it was supposed to work.
People scattered back to their lives, leaving the three of us empty souls standing at the gravesite. Adrian waited by the entrance of the cemetery, giving us our space. I never stood so close to my family and felt so far away from them.
Mom kissed the arch of the gravestone and walked away first. Her steps were slow, and she looked so fragile. I stepped forward to offer her my arm, but she shook her head at me and I wavered back, turning to Aston.
He stood tall, hands in his pockets, head down. His gelled-back blond hair had come apart and strands framed his face. His eyes closed briefly, and when he opened them again I was by his side. My arm brushed against his, and I yearned for the warmth of his body. I edged nearer, until I was flushed against his side. We didn’t speak, but I looked at him, waiting.
Was it wrong I needed love right now? I ached for human touch. If he could just wrap his arm around me, I was certain I’d feel better.
“Aston,” I whispered in agony.
No response.
“Why won’t you talk to me? It hurts so much.”
He shook his head, finally acknowledging me. “I don’t mean anything by it. I just…I need to be alone, El.”
“Being alone is the worst thing you need to be, Aston. Let me be there for you.”
His green eyes shot to mine, the raw pain lingering there as he replied, “You don’t understand, do you? This was my fault. He…He would still be here if I didn’t…if I didn’t take him to that restaurant. I could have had a day out with him any other time, but I was too fucking impatient, and now look what I’ve done.”
He was blaming himself? No, no, no. He couldn’t do that.
“That’s not fair, Aston. None of this was your fault. None of it.” I took his hand with both of mine and squeezed. “Believe me. We need to stick together. That’s what Dad would have wanted.”
He gently withdrew his hand from me. “No, El,” he replied softly, “that’s not what he would have wanted. He didn’t want us together.”
My eyes widened. I felt like I’d been punched in the chest. I stared at him for a few moments, searching for signs he was lying. “No,” I denied, “that’s
not true.”
He looked at me hollowly. “It is, Elise. He didn’t approve.”
I shook my head, not understanding. “Why wouldn’t he approve?”
“There would have been no future for us.”
“Why?”
“He said we were too young. We…we might hurt each other and the family would break apart.”
I swallowed, ignoring the weight I felt from his words. “But we won’t hurt each other–”
“El, the point is he didn’t want us together,” he repeated again, harder this time. “He said it. Out of his own mouth. Those exact words. ‘I don’t want you together.’ I’m not lying. I’m telling you what he said, and you need to listen.”
I continued shaking my head. “That doesn’t change things.”
“It changes everything,” he retorted, pointing at the headstone. “And that’s the fucking proof, El.”
“That’s not true. He didn’t mean it that way –”
“He did, and he was right.”
My lips trembled. “You didn’t fight for us?”
His eyes narrowed, and he glared at me. “You have no idea how hard I fought.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean –”
“Don’t make me talk about this right now, El. It’s not important, not after everything that’s happened.”
“But it is important. I need you right now –”
“Would you just stop it already? Just…give me space. Leave me alone. I” – he closed his eyes briefly – “need to be alone.”
He turned and walked away. I stared after him, panic rising. “You’re just angry,” I said, my voice small. “You don’t…you don’t mean it.”
Either he heard me, or he ignored me. Either way, he left me, and standing there, feet away from my dead father, a gaping hole in my chest, no arms to wrap around me to make it better, I finally felt it.
I felt the rupture.
I felt the stab of pain rising.
I felt the raw ache behind my eyes.
And, on a breath, I felt the tears fall. They fell heavily – and mercilessly – down my face. And to my horror, no relief followed.
*
Interesting what death can do to a family. Bring you closer together, or break you apart. I was in a family that didn’t want to mourn together.
Every day for two weeks straight I waited for someone to pick up the pieces. I’d pretend everything was normal when I woke up in the mornings. I got the coffee ready for Mom, removed the box of pop tarts from the pantry for Aston, and then I made myself a bowl of cereal and sat at the table, waiting.
I didn’t eat. I kicked the Fruit Loops around in my bowl with the spoon, waiting for normalcy to return. It just never happened. They resisted, and my fight for togetherness went ignored.
Still. I busied myself. I cleaned the house and brought trays of food to Mom and Aston. They were always left untouched outside their door, so I’d take them back down, wash them and put them away before starting all over again the next day.
Doing the laundry was the hardest. I had a basket of Dad’s clothes I couldn’t bring myself to wash. I’d meander to that room and pick up his uniform shirt. I’d bring it to my nose and inhale his cologne, and I swear to fucking God, it was like he was in that room with me. With his scent everywhere, I pretended he was standing next to me.
“I love you, Daddy,” I’d say to the silence. “I miss you.”
I crumbled in that laundry room every single day.
When was it going to get better? Why was the pain fiercer than it was yesterday?
Mourning didn’t make sense when you weren’t getting anywhere.
Aston
It felt like I was back there again; a kid left to his own devices, shunning the world around him. My wall came up, and it felt better this way. I felt numbed out. Nobody could hurt me like this.
I was in agony, so I opened my books and drowned in numbers and problems and anything that consumed my brain. My emotions were mute this way, and it was the kind of thing I needed to endure the guilt of what I’d done.
He died and it was my fault. He clutched me to him as he bled out, his eyes focused on mine, until they weren’t anymore.
“Come back, come back,” I’d sobbed. “Come back.”
He didn’t come back, and now I was reminded of him everywhere I turned in this house. I felt imprisoned. I couldn’t handle the walls that were closing in on me. I needed out and away.
Knock. Knock.
Fuck.
Knock. Knock.
She knocked every fucking day. She never stopped. Every night, every morning, every time she left a tray of food there to rot, she knocked on that fucking wall, waiting for me to return. But I didn’t want to return. I couldn’t handle this pain anymore.
*
The end came when I woke up in the middle of the night, my chest pressed tight. I could hardly get a breath in. I rolled off the bed and collapsed to the floor, trying to inhale and exhale. My vision blurred, and I ended up balled in the corner, knees to my chest. Me, a hulking man of 200 pounds, cradling myself like a small child and sobbing.
His lips had moved. I swore they had. He’d tried to tell me something just before he went. I wanted to know what it was.
“What were you trying to say?” I whispered.
I’d never know, and there was a horrible finality in that. I’d never get closure. When you were responsible for taking the life of someone you loved, how selfish did you have to be to seek closure in the first place?
I’d always been selfish, though. I should have died when I was five. That was the first strike against me. I’d felt my soul slipping away, but I fought it because I was in my real mother’s arms and she was warm and comforting.
Then I was selfish with my adopted father, begging him not to hurt me, to never leave me, to stay. I guilt-tripped him and he took me in. Look how that ended, with me over top of him, watching the life bleed out of his eyes.
And then there was Elise... If I’d ignored her affection, none of this would have happened. If I hadn’t obsessed, none of this would have happened. None of it.
The worst thing that ever happened to the Wright family was me. It was a painful realization, but it was true, and the truth was a hard pill to swallow.
Knock. Knock.
My head shot up. My hands shook as I glared at that fucking wall. Why didn’t she stop? Would she never go away?
Knock. Knock.
Knock. Knock.
Knock. Knock.
I ignored her. She needed her mother to feel better, not me. I couldn’t give her the support she sought. Dad had been right. We would never have worked.
I was an idiot for ever believing it.
18.
Elise
I woke up one early morning to the sound of movements next door. It was the most noise I’d heard from Aston’s room in forever. The last time had been when he’d crashed to the ground in the middle of the night, but he’d ignored my knocks, so I didn’t know what had happened and any attempt at seeing him would have been unsuccessful. He kept his door locked, and the wall felt like it was now a hundred feet thick and a mile tall.
More movements. I pressed my ear against the wall and listened in. He was rummaging around non-stop. I heard the sound of drawers close and the closet swung open and shut, followed by a zipper and something wheeling across the floor.
My heart lurched when it hit me. He was leaving early. He wasn’t meant to go for another two days. He was running, leaving me behind. Was he even going to say good bye?
His bedroom door opened, and I waited for him to come to me. Instead, he kept walking. I slipped out of bed and left the room. His bedroom door was wide open. His bed was done, and as I peeked inside, I saw how bare it was.
This was really happening. He was leaving.
I frowned, confused and upset. I glanced at his desk and then on the floor outside my room. He didn’t leave a note behind, nothing to justify his abrupt departure.
I turned around and raced down the stairs just as I heard the front door shut. I didn’t run out after him. I swung by the kitchen and glanced at the counters, hoping for a note to prove me wrong. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. In that split second, with me standing at the threshold of the kitchen, my gaze on the front door, burning anger ripped through me.
He was just going to leave? After everything? Just like that? Was I NOTHING to him?
I ran out the door and down the porch steps. He was on the driveway, loading his suitcase in the trunk of his car. He looked dressed and ready for the road. His hair was wet from the shower, and as I neared him, I smelled a waft of his cologne. Yet another man’s fucking cologne I would pine for.
“What are you doing?” I demanded harshly.
He glanced at me without stopping. “I’m going, El.”
“Oh, you’re going,” I repeated, casually, because this was completely fine, right?
I didn’t think so.
I rounded the car to where he was and grabbed at the suitcase he’d just loaded. I pulled it out and threw it on the driveway. “No,” I seethed, locking eyes with him, “you’re not going. You’re not meant to leave for another two days.”
Aston’s eyes narrowed, and he turned to grab the suitcase off the ground. Just as he picked it up, I grabbed the same handle he was holding, gritting out the same words, “No, you’re not going!”
He stopped pulling back and leaned forward so that his face was inches from mine. “It’s done, Elise. I’m leaving and you’re not going to stop me.”
He ripped the suitcase out of my hands and threw it back in the trunk. I felt panicked. Didn’t he realize what he was doing? We hadn’t fixed us yet. He couldn’t leave without repairing what was wrong between us.
“Then talk to me first,” I pleaded, tears already spilling out of my eyes. “Please, Aston, just stay for another hour. I’m not asking for the day. Just an hour to talk to me.”
