Page 6

CHAPTER 6

MARCUS, AGE 15

I wish everyone would go home. Our house is too small to have this many people in it. I haven't even seen most of these people before.

At least my aunt Susan and cousin Sean are here. Sean is probably my favorite relative, and easily the only person I want to be around right now. He lost his father when we were ten, so he understands what I'm going through. Not that I've talked to him much. I haven't been able to do more than stare at the framed picture of my father, surrounded by vases of flowers that make our small living room smell like a funeral home.

It basically is a funeral home right now. I can't bear to have one more person pat me on the shoulder and tell me they're sorry for my loss. Or remind me that I'm an impressionable age to lose my father. Or that my mom is going to need my help and support.

"You're the man of the house now, Marcus."

I head into my dad's old shed in the backyard until the last of the cars pull away. Sean finds me and lets me know the coast is clear, only then do I join them inside.

Somehow, it's worse now that everyone's gone. It's too quiet. The only sounds are my aunt Susan wrapping food in cellophane and packing it into the overfilled refrigerator.

Why do people bring so much food when someone dies? Eating is the last thing I want to do, and I'm not sure my mom has eaten a full meal since I got home from camp last week.

After being told my father collapsed at work, I hastily packed my bag and allowed myself to be shuffled into the camp director's car. She drove me herself, three hours back to Pinecrest, and didn't leave until I was in my mother's arms.

At only forty-eight years old, my father had a heart attack. He was alone in the stockroom of the grocery store he's been working nights at. He'd worked a full day at the chain sporting goods store that opened in the next town over and then clocked in to work a shift stocking the grocery store. He shouldn't have been working there. He said the job kept him fit and young, but I knew he was working himself to the bone to pay off the debt he went into trying to salvage his store. Debt my mother would now be left with to handle on her own.

Dad wasn't conscious when I finally arrived at the hospital. When I was led to his bedside and told he wasn't going to make it, everything inside me froze. I couldn't speak. I couldn't cry. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't even say anything to him, not even when they left me alone to give me some privacy to say my goodbyes. I couldn't make the words happen. I just hope he knew how much I loved him, and that I couldn't have asked for a better father. He was everything. My supporter. My rock. My best friend.

And now he's gone. I’ll hear the sound of that flatline in my nightmares for the rest of my life.

Susan's voice is muffled, gushing over how much everyone loved my father as she makes a list of people to send thank you cards to. "Just look at these beautiful flowers. These had to have been expensive."

Seems like a waste of money to me. Of course, I don't say that out loud. I wouldn't want to sound as bitter as I feel or come off as ungrateful for any kindness someone tried to show our family. It's not their fault the sky is falling and nothing will ever be right again.

My mother gives her sister a watery smile and walks over to the extravagant display of flowers. She looks for a card to see who they came from so my aunt can add their name to the list. The moment she finds it, she freezes. Her breaths start coming farther apart, and I worry for a moment that she's about to collapse and I'll be an orphan. Instead, a sound like I've never heard before comes out of her mouth. It starts as a low, guttural, mournful moan and grows into a scream. A loud, primal scream like an animal is trying to escape out of her.

The first vase of flowers shatters against the wall, and all of us flinch.

In all my life, I've never seen my mother like this. She rarely ever gets upset, only cries during sappy commercials and romantic movies. The most aggressive thing I've ever seen her do towards another person is roll her eyes. But right now, she's unhinged, throwing the vases and bits of plants everywhere as she tears the display apart.

"Julia!" My aunt yells for her to stop, and I try to intervene, but she pushes me away.

All we can do is stand back and watch her rage until she gets it out of her system or runs out of things to throw. Eventually, after what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, her screams become sobs. Pictures have been knocked off the walls, there's water everywhere, and glass and debris litter the carpet. It's like a small tornado blew through half our living room.

Mom stands in the middle of it all, blinking at the wreckage. A low, sorrowful moan pours out of her as her body goes limp. I surge forward, catching her before her knees land in the shards of glass. With my arm around her waist, I lead her away from the mess. She's leaden in my arms, intelligible words coming through her sobs.

"That bastard." "This isn't fair." "It's his fault." "They took… everything." "If that bastard wasn't so power hungry and greedy, Roman wouldn't have lost the store. He wouldn't have worked himself to death." She looks up at my aunt piteously. "He worked himself to death, Susan. He shouldn't have had to do that." Hiccups dot the rest of her words. "They ruined him…. They took him from me."

In a last painful outburst, she dissolves into a fit of broken sobs, her voice hoarse from screaming. Aunt Susan makes Mom a cup of tea. While she sips it between sobs, I find the card crumpled amongst the debris on the floor.

Our deepest condolences.

There's no signature, but the card has the logo for AJames Enterprises stamped on the back.

They didn't even have the decency to write it themselves, or sign their names to it? What was the point in even sending it?

Mom is so wrecked that she can barely hold her own head up, so I carry her upstairs to bed and tuck her in. When I move to get up, she holds onto my arm, so I crawl in next to her and hold her while we both cry, soaking the pillow that still smells like dad. We both nod off. When I wake the next morning, the mess has been cleaned, and Susan is cooking. After breakfast, Sean and I walk down to the park I used to play at as a kid and sit on the swings. I stare at the sandbox, the shadow of a memory tickling the back of my mind.

My mother leading me away from the park after something upset me. Going to my dad's store, where he let me play in the back room that was for testing equipment. It's the first time I remember holding a basketball. I have a vivid memory of him picking me up and holding me over his shoulders so I could make a basket.

"It gets better," Sean says. "Some days it hurts more than others, but sometimes I have a day where I realize I haven't thought of him all day. Which is good, but also kind of terrible. There's no winning," he says with a self-deprecating laugh.

"I just don't know how to be without him." He’s always been there for me. No matter how much work there was or how busy he got, he always made time to go out on the driveway and shoot baskets with me. It’s when we had all our best talks.

“It’ll take time, but you’ll figure it out.”

As we walk home, I make a mental list of all the things my dad did around the house, and vow to make up for his absence so my mom doesn't have to feel like she's on her own.

Mom stays in bed for another three days. While she's down, I visit the grocery store where Dad worked and clean out his locker. There isn't much in there, just his spoiled lunch, a sweater, and his car keys. I'm not old enough to drive on my own yet, but I am old enough to work. With this thought in mind, I find the manager and talk him into giving me a part-time job. He won't let me take my dad's stocking position, but he gives me daytime hours as a bagger for the rest of the summer. Mom probably won't like it, but she's going to need help.

Susan and Sean stay for another week. Mom is quieter than usual, the light has been drained from her eyes, but she's up and moving. Slowly, but surely, we find a new routine. The hole my dad's death leaves makes me feel empty inside, and with a bitter taste in my mouth every time I look at the crumpled card I've taken to carrying around in my pocket.

The flowers were obnoxious, and the generic condolences were a slap in the face. But why would my mother blame the James family for my father’s death? Because AJames Enterprises pushed my father’s business to close? I know she was really upset when she said all those things, but I’m missing too much of the story.

Running my lips over the back of the card, I think back to less than two weeks ago, before everything changed. Would he have gone through with it? Would I have let him kiss me?

I know I would have. I wanted him to. I still want it, even though it seems our families are doomed to hate each other forever.