The End of All Things Beautiful

by Nikki Young

  “Sure,” I answer sharply, packing up my laptop bag and slipping on my coat. I walk past him, but Jack reaches out and takes hold of my elbow, stopping me before I can leave.

  I look up into his eyes and what I see is sympathy, pity for what he knows I’m feeling but can’t fully grasp.

  “You know you can talk to me, Campbell.”

  “No I can’t,” I say not trying to be ambiguous, but speaking the truth. I don’t know what more to say so I leave. I feel like that’s all I’ve been able to do when it comes to my life.

  Leave.

  Walk away.

  I arrive home to an empty house with the letter burning a hole in my laptop bag, but I still can’t bring myself to read it. Fearful of what it might say, what it might do to my already unstable life, so I leave it in the bag.

  I reach for my laptop and type Tommy’s name into Google. I have no way of contacting his wife and while I know it’s far too late for any salvation or apologies, I feel compelled to find out if funeral arrangements have been made.

  In my short search I find out that Tommy’s wake and funeral will be held only forty minutes from where I live, just west of the city in a suburb just like the one we grew up in.

  The wake is tomorrow, but I won’t attend. I know I’m not welcome and I wouldn’t dare show up and have his wife and family upset by my presence. Before everything happened, Tommy’s mother and father adored me, but I’m certain their sentiment has changed. I just disappeared, never saying goodbye and now after his death, I’m certain his wife has filled them in on her assupmtions.

  Growing up next door to each other, we became fast friends at a young age and our friendship, for some reason, lasted long after most girl and boy friendships would’ve faded. While I fell in love with Benji, I loved Tommy in a way that was completely unconditional, like family. I remember walking out of school on my first day of third grade, the first year that I didn’t have Kelly, Sam, Benji, or Tommy in my class and he was waiting for me. I started crying. At the time I didn’t know what that feeling was or why it upset me, but looking back on it now, it was that feeling of empathy he had for my situation. It was a selflessness that came completely natural to Tommy. He knew I would be upset and made sure his was the first face I saw at the end of the day.

  I locate the address of the church and the cemetery knowing I can easily attend and remain unnoticed this way.

  During my research, I was unable to find an obituary, but I did find the address to his house and am now feeling an overwhelming need to see where he lived.

  Before going to bed, I decide to take the next two days off, despite knowing this will send up a red flag at the office. In the six years I have worked for my brother, I have only taken off five days. Not even one day a year.

  I’m not prepared to return to work right now and I know eventually I’ll have to read the letter.

  And it’s going to be brutal.

  Chapter Five

  The letter is now on my nightstand, staring at me when I roll over the next morning. I pick it up and slide my finger along the sealed end but immediately toss it back to where it was.

  I can’t read it. I’m not ready.

  Every single fucking time I look at that letter my mind becomes overcrowded with what ifs and all the horrible things that could be said. But I think what scares me more is the fact that I know Tommy well enough to know that what’s in that letter isn’t horrible. He could never hate me, just like I could never hate him. What’s in that letter will bring me to my knees, will devastate me and remind me of why I’ve held onto his memory for this long.

  And even though I won’t open it, I know it contains absolution, a conclusion to an end, a way to finally move on.

  I drag myself out of bed, not bothering with a shower; I pull on a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt. My hair still in a messy ponytail from the night before, I grab my keys, the letter and my purse and head out to my car.

  I punch Tommy’s address into the GPS, prepared to do god knows what when I get there. I guess just drive past his house. I’m sure it puts me in the category of a stalker or some shit. At this point what do I have to lose? His wife already hates me and thinks I was in a relationship with him where I broke his heart so badly that he never recovered. If she only knew that the truth is so much worse.

  Forty minutes later I’m driving by a two story in an upper middle class neighborhood; a nice house on a quiet street. It’s the kind of house that doesn’t appear to be out of the ordinary. It’s not the kind you look at and think, The people who live there have issues. There’s a welcome flag hanging on a pole on the front porch, a few fall mums in pots, a pumpkin sitting next to them, along with a well-manicured lawn and a BMW SUV in the driveway.

  I’m not sure what I expected. I guess I hoped that he led a terrible life and his passing wouldn’t be in vain. I wanted him to be a cruel and disgusting drug addict or a wife-beater or something that would relieve me from the guilt I feel over him dying. But I know deep down he was none of those things; he could never be. And I hate myself for even thinking it.

  I drive by three more times before eventually telling myself if I don’t plan on ringing the doorbell or at least getting out of my car, I need to move on. In a neighborhood like this, my presence could possibly be misconstrued and I could find myself on the receiving end of a visit from the local police. That’s the last thing I need.

  During the ride to Tommy’s house and back, my phone has been ringing incessantly making my anxiety shoot through the roof. I remember why I rarely take days off. The fact that my office can’t seem to get by without me for one day is proof of that.

  I take my phone from my purse and see that I’ve missed fifteen phone calls, under the assumption that most are from work, I scroll through quickly only to find that ten are from my brother and the other five are from Carson. I’m not sure how to handle this, but I do know I need to give Claire a raise because I haven’t received a single work-related call.

  I know they’re worried about me. I get it, but right now I need to be left alone. And that’s exactly how I spend the rest of the day.

  Alone.

  The next morning I wake up early, ahead of my alarm, knowing I need to be in the suburbs for Tommy’s funeral. Dressed in all black with my hair down, I take my sunglasses even though the sky is dark. It almost seems too fitting given where I am heading. A darkness hanging in the air, the clouds low and gray as if they know the mourning of someone is occurring today.

  I still haven’t called Jack or Carson and today I woke up to find a voicemail from my mother. She isn’t one of those parents that worries about her kids, while she loves us both dearly, once we left her home, she figured we were old enough to take care of ourselves. She and my father now live in Florida, visiting only when necessary and calling only when she has news to share, which has never really bothered me.

  I know Jack called her; otherwise she wouldn’t be calling me. And as the message plays, my thoughts are confirmed.

  “Hi, Campbell, it’s your mother.” Her voice makes me smile along with her introduction. It’s an inside joke. When I first left for college she’d call to check up on me once a week; leaving a message identifying herself like I didn’t know who she was. She still does it and it makes me laugh every time. “Jack called. He’s worried about you. So if you could do me a favor and call him so he stops bothering me, I’d love it. Hope you’re well. Love you.”

  She’s casual, not at all concerned about me or about Jack’s need to get ahold of me. If anything she probably finds it odd that he’s searching for me knowing we spend little time together outside of work.

  I won’t call her back either, the difference is, she won’t care. And I’m sure that should bother me, but it doesn’t. At least not right now.

  I stuff the letter into my purse as I’m leaving my house. The edges of the envelope are starting to show signs of wear and the spot where I began to open it, is starting to curl. I’ve pretty much carried
it with me everywhere I’ve gone since Tommy’s wife handed it to me.

  At this point it’s the only connection to him I have left and by leaving it behind, by not having it with me, I feel like I’ve lost him completely.

  The ride to the church is incredibly long, the traffic unyielding and when the rain begins to fall, relentless and pounding, it makes it almost impossible to see. The clouds are an ominous deep gray color and when the first bolt of lightning streaks across the sky, I’m suddenly hit with the memory of something I once read. Rain on a funeral means the dead are on their way to heaven. If I believed in that shit I might have felt better, but it’s all bullshit. A fucking joke. Do religious people really find comfort in these thoughts?

  My mind wanders to the accident. I want to chastise myself for even thinking it, but there is no way Tommy is on his way to heaven, whether I believe in it or not, not after what we did.

  I pull into the overcrowded parking lot of the church, and I can already feel my chest closing in on me. This was a mistake, my mind is screaming at me as my heart beats painfully and rapidly against my ribs.

  I shouldn’t be here. This isn’t a part of my life, he wasn’t a part of my life anymore and I know if I’m seen by his parents or his wife that I’m fucked. Yet I’m compelled by something greater than me, something that is forcing me to enter this church. Salvation, redemption, guilt or a morbid need to know that he’s really dead; I don’t know what it is, but I know I can’t leave.

  I look at the clock and then watch the last few people exit their cars and enter the church. I’m holding back, waiting for a moment when I feel like I won’t be noticed. The service has already begun and I’m hoping to slip in and take a spot in the back.

  The rain has let up, but everything is shrouded in a deep gray, a light mist falling, ceaseless and depressing. But despite the rain, I don’t hurry, my legs heavy and my body aching as I finally trudge up the steps of the church. With my hand on the door, I pull, the large wooden door creaking and I close my eyes and swallow hard. I can picture the entire congregation of people turning around to stare at me, interrupted by the noise of the door in what I expect to be an utterly silent room.

  Eternally grateful, I find the door opens to a vestibule and I let out a long exhale in relief, but it’s not over yet.

  I turn and come face to face with a small child who looks to be about four years old. He looks up and me and I know in an instant who he is. Practically identical; it’s Tommy’s son. I’m crying before I even have the chance to turn around and run. He smiles up at me and then I feel his tiny hand slip into mine.

  He’s standing next to me, his eyes never leaving mine, his hand warm and soft against my skin. And when he whispers, “This is for my daddy,” I nearly fall to the floor. Not only does he look exactly like Tommy, his voice is the same melodic voice I remember from when we were kids.

  I nod my head, wanting to take this small child in my arms, to hug him and hold onto him as if it were Tommy standing here. I want to tell him that his father was an amazing man. The most kind and selfless person I have ever known, and that if he remembers one thing about his father, it was that he loved with all his heart.

  I’m clutching his hand, my fingers tightening because letting go feels like I’m letting go of everything Tommy and I once had. I find a strange feeling of solace take over as the boy squeezes my hand in return.

  The door leading into the church opens slowly, but just barely and an older woman pokes her head out. Her eyes flick from the boy to me and back to the boy again before she speaks.

  “Thomas,” she quips sternly, “What are you doing?” She reaches out and snatches his other hand and yanks him out of my hold. My hand grows cold instantly and I immediately miss the feeling of comfort I found with him.

  Thomas pulls back against her hand and he looks back at me with that same reassuring smile on his face.

  “Bye,” he whispers like he knows he’s supposed to be quiet and I give him a small smile back.

  The woman’s face is harsh and she glares at me with a look that says, you should know better than to stand so close to a child you don’t know.

  I watch Thomas being pulled back into the church, his child-like innocence lost forever and as the thought hits me so do the emotions that come along with it.

  The vestibule suddenly feels hot and stuffy. I pull at the collar of my coat, unbuttoning it as I begin to sweat and grow nauseous. I’m crying again, but this time it seems loud and booming in the echoing silence of this small room.

  I suck in a hard breath and before I know it I realize I’m going to be sick, all of this is too much to handle. Knowing Tommy’s dead, seeing his son, the church and the thought of this child growing up fatherless, it’s all too much to bear.

  I step outside, the cold, damp air crashing into me but doing nothing to subside this feeling. Finding a small garbage can, I vomit into it as the tears continue to fall. I’m not sure I can go inside; I’m not sure I’m capable of handling any of this.

  I reach into my purse searching for something to wipe my mouth on when a woman hands me a tissue and a piece of gum.

  I give her a weak but grateful smile and she returns it as she asks, “Are you okay?” I almost laugh out loud at her question and I want to respond with, “I haven’t been okay in nine fucking years.” But I think twice and just nod my head.

  “Are you sure?” she asks, an almost over exaggerated sympathy dripping from her voice and it annoys me. I hate people who pry, especially strangers. I responded to her, so why is she still here?

  She waits for me to answer and I say the first thing that comes to my mind, what I know will get her to back off and what is also a complete lie.

  “I’m pregnant,” I retort with irritation.

  I immediately walk away and go back through the doors of the church, this time not attempting to silence my arrival. With my eyes on my feet, I trail along the back pew before taking a seat on the outside edge of the last row.

  The service has already started and I can hear the muffled cries of the people coming from within the pews, the vaulted emptiness above us unforgiving to the sounds.

  As the priest speaks I try to focus on his words, I try to listen, but my focus is shit and everything I’ve taken in from this point sounds garbled as if I’m underwater. But what comes through loud and clear is the conversation that is being had next to me by two women.

  Each one more perfect than the next, with their expensive blowouts and manicured nails, a stepford version of a wife and mother that I imagine live in the neighborhood where Tommy lived. I only met Samantha for a brief moment when she showed up at my office to deliver my letter, but even in her state of grief, I could tell she led the life of perfection on the outside. But what people couldn’t see, what she hid from everyone was that her life was falling apart.

  “It’s so tragic,” the woman with brown hair whispers, the compassion in her voice laced with falseness.

  “Tragic?” the woman sitting next to her scoffs, a blonde with a bad fake tan. “It’s anything but tragic. Tommy was a drug addict and a horrible person. All of this is so contrived and fake.” Her hand flits from her lap, gesturing around the church.

  “Seriously?” the brunette questions as she slides closer to the woman next to her, curiosity written all over her face.

  “Oh my god,” she says, her eyes rolling. “You really think he traveled for work that much? Please, he spent more time in rehab than he did at home.” She pauses momentarily and looks reproachfully at the front of the church like she’s trying to find someone. “And poor Samantha. She never would’ve married him if she hadn’t gotten pregnant with Thomas.”

  “But I thought they had been together since college?” the other woman asks, her curiosity spiking even more.

  “They were, but he was always so damaged. I think Samantha thought she could save him. Obviously not,” she adds, again rolling her eyes as if to say Samantha was stupid to even think it. “Samantha
once told me he was still hung up on some girl or at least that’s what she thought. Their marriage was a mess and so was Tommy.”

  The brunette’s eyes widen like this is the first time she’s hearing this. “Wow, I always thought they had the perfect marriage. She hid it well.”

  “Would you want everyone in the neighborhood to know your husband was blowing your life savings on drugs on a regular basis?” the blonde asks with rude emphasis. “She’s better off without him,” she adds and that’s about all I can take.

  I turn my body so I’m facing them, my lips pursed as I stare at them, waiting for them to notice. It doesn’t take long and their conversation ceases immediately. With perturbed looks on their faces, they wait for me to turn away, but they have no idea who they’re dealing with here.

  “Listen, you gossipy bitches, we’re at a fucking funeral,” I mutter through gritted teeth, trying to control my need to raise my voice. “And how dare you fucking judge him. You have no idea what he’s been through; why he did what he did to cope with his life. Remember that when you decide to pass judgment on someone or something you know nothing about.”

  I push up from the pew and leave just as quickly and quietly as when I arrived. I’ve had enough and as I’m walking to my car I find my hand clutched around the letter in my purse. I didn’t even realize I’d put my hand in my purse. But now it’s holding onto the one thing I have left. The one thing I have left of him.

  Chapter Six

  I still haven’t said goodbye; it’s not like I believe it will bring me any peace, but I’m finding it harder to say goodbye than being left behind. But I also don’t think I even know how to say goodbye to him in a way that won’t be painless. I’m afraid of the pain and the rush of feelings and emotions I can’t seem to control. Yet I find myself driving to the cemetery.