The house was still dark when my mother shouted my name, her voice laced with panic. I’d been dreaming of confronting Xander with the ring and demanding an explanation, though I couldn’t recall any excuse he offered that made any sense. Or any excuse at all. Maybe I’d just blocked it out. Or maybe my mind hadn’t been able to come up with anything that made even dream logic.
When Mom called a second time, the dream vanished, and I sat up in bed. It was pitch-black outside the window. I couldn’t figure out if I was awake or still dreaming. Disoriented, I fumbled for my cell phone resting on the bedside table and checked the time: 4:18 a.m.
I sat up, rubbed sleep from my eyes, and turned on the lamp. Dean’s denim coat hung across the back of the chair. The chain and Dean’s ring lay on the desk where I had left them the night before. I had twisted it in my hands, slipped it on and off my finger, and studied those initials for hours before finally collapsing in exhaustion. I couldn’t help but reach out and touch it again. The cold metal sent a shiver up my spine.
Mom called again from the base of the steps, pushing me fully awake.
“Coming,” I shouted as I slipped on the jeans I had worn the night before. After pulling the sweatshirt over my head, I stumbled barefooted out of my room.
When I reached the top of the stairs, I froze at the sight of my mother’s tear-stained face staring up from the first floor. She wore a robe over her nightclothes and leaned against the wall.
I raced down the steps just in time to catch her in my arms as she sagged toward the floor. I feared I already knew the answer, but I begged her to tell me what was going on. She blubbered, the words confused and slurred.
I raised her to her feet and guided her to the couch, pushing the blanket she slept under to the corner of the cushions. Once I had her settled so she wouldn’t collapse to the floor, I asked her again, “What’s wrong?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She looked lost and alone, and I felt such pain for her. I gathered her into a hug and let her cry against my shoulder.
When her sobs subsided, I gently sat her back against the couch. She tried again to speak but couldn’t. Instead, with a shaking hand, she pointed toward the rear parlor.
I squeezed her hand and urged her to wait on the couch for me to return. With more dread than I had ever felt, I forced my feet forward and entered the darkened room. I reached for the light switch then decided against flipping it. The light coming from the lamp in the next room was enough to let me know what had happened. Dad was pale and still. His eyes were closed, but his chest no longer rose and fell. After his long battle, he had slipped away quietly in his sleep.
I felt a tear roll down my cheek. We never got to say goodbye. How fitting.
My father was as organized in death as he had been in life. A folder in a desk drawer contained everything we needed, including step-by-step instructions from hospice.
The first phone call set the machinery of death into motion. Fire department medics arrived with flashing red lights and confirmed the obvious. Dad had been a volunteer with the department for years. Both of the first responders knew him and his wishes. The do-not-resuscitate order in his file was perfunctory.
They radioed to cancel the ambulance and shut off their strobes as a sheriff’s deputy pulled into the drive. He asked a few questions and offered his condolences. By the time the medical examiner cleared the scene, the funeral home workers had arrived. The body was respectfully carried out of the house and driven away.
The driveway was again empty. The house fell silent. My tough, strong mother, who had always been the foundation of our family, wilted. I helped her dress. Made her eat some breakfast despite her protests that she couldn’t possibly. Bundled her into my rental car and carefully snapped the seat belt into place around her.
I drove her to the funeral home and sat with her as she nodded numbly in answer to questions, mostly confirming what she and Dad had already decided. He had even made all the payments. The obituary was prewritten and we only needed to add the date of death, but even that made her cry all over again.
She was, for the first time in over four decades, alone in the world without her partner. My heart ached for her through each step of the process.
The preacher, Reverend Jacob Brawley, a different one from when Dean had died, arrived and prayed with her. He assured her that everything would be handled as they had discussed. He introduced himself to me, his big hands engulfing mine in a firm handshake.
When we were finally done, I got her to stumble back to my car and drove her home. Russ’s pickup truck waited in the driveway. He and Sarah rose from their seats on the porch and came down the steps. She hugged my mother and helped her up the steps and inside, urging her the entire way to eat some lunch to keep up her strength.
Once they were inside, Russ said, “Sorry about your dad.”
He shook my hand, and I mumbled my thanks. We settled into the rocking chairs on the porch. The frenetic energy of the morning seeped out of my body, replaced by a deep tiredness. Not just the early start of the day or the lateness of the night before had zapped me. The awfulness of everything consumed me. A man I’d barely thought of a week earlier had died and left a gaping hole in me. Would I have felt this much pain if I hadn’t come home? Despite the agony, though, I was glad I had.
As I relaxed, my mind could think of the things I’d left undone.
Just the day before, I had promised both Sarah and Russ that I wouldn’t hurt Harrison. He would expect me to join him for our day’s jam session. I should have called and told him what had happened.
“Don’t worry. As soon as we heard the news, we figured you wouldn’t be there. Harrison totally understands,” Russ assured me. “He’s at the house watching his brother and sister so Sarah and I can be here.”
We rocked in silence for several moments before Russ said, “I’m sorry Skeeter never got to hear it, but Harrison is okay with telling your mom. When you think she’s ready, of course.”
I nodded. Not yet. Not today. But before the funeral. I wasn’t running from it.
But one thing must get handled today. I wrapped my fingers around the ring in my pocket.
In small towns, news traveled fast, so maybe Xander already knew of Dad’s death. Maybe he was so disconnected from people he hadn’t heard. Either way, he would have seen the jimmied desk drawer as soon as he got to the store. Would have known the envelope was empty when he opened the drawer. Would know what had been found. Would have suspected it was me who had taken it.
I explained to Russ that I had an errand I needed to handle without giving him a reason.
He didn’t pry. Without even knowing what I was doing, he asked, “Want me to go with you?”
The thought of having Russ back me up gave me strength, just like Dean had always done, even if I’d been too blind to notice. But this one, I needed to handle on my own, so I declined.
“Whatever you need, Little Mac.”
The nickname no longer bothered me at all.