Families Come With Complications
I’VE OFTEN WONDERED WHAT makes a family.
As somebody who never had parents and who never technically had siblings, the concept was always a little alien to me. Why would you want to spend your time with people who are similar to you and so are inevitably going to clash with you? Why would you place such importance and value on a group of people who are as frail and finite as the rest of humanity? Isn’t that just setting yourself up for a loss?
I’ve met a lot of families over the years. Traditional nuclear families who paint me a perfect picture of their home life, forgetting that I’ve got their files and know about the visit to the divorce lawyer or the son’s dealings with the police. Families who can’t stand to be in the same room together. Families full of “steps” and “halfs” that determinedly hold themselves together despite the intricate web of interwoven histories that follow.
But there’s one thing that’s always the same. They all come with complications. An elephant in the room, an unspoken secret, or perhaps just a memory of an event that left an unfixable scar right in the middle of the family portrait. It’s messy and confusing and that’s before I’ve even got involved. They fight and break and mend and adapt and sometimes break again. They drift apart, they grow new branches.
So, why bother? I asked a mother that once. She smiled to herself, a silent secret hidden in the corners of her mouth. She was a painter, and she told me how her best paintings were the ones with the biggest messes around them. And that was like her family—messy all around the edges but with this masterpiece in the center.
I’m still not sure whether I agree with her.
But I’m hopeful.
For a moment, I just stare at him. Can you blame me? It’s not every day that Death turns up on the doorstep of your childhood home. Even if Death is someone you’ve become somewhat acquainted with.
Of course he takes full advantage of my surprise. He sidesteps smartly around me, pats my arm, then strides confidently down the corridor and into the kitchen.
For a moment, I stay frozen in shock. Then I remember who else is in that kitchen.
“Oh shit,” I hiss, then hurry after him to find that he has already shaken hands with both of my parents and is now rooting through the cupboards. Mum and Dad stare at him, but strangely make no effort to ask what he is doing, and who he is, as if some deep part of them already knows. Perhaps not who he is exactly, as there would probably be a great deal more screaming, but they certainly aren’t treating him like some sort of random home invader.
Finally, after a moment of stunned silence, Death finds what he’s looking for—a large bag of “flaming chili” tortilla chips, according to the lurid logo splashed across it. “Oh, these look fun,” he crows triumphantly, moving over to my side, whereupon he takes me by the arm and leads me to a chair. In a slight daze, I squish up on one side to allow him to share. He sits, knees bumping against mine, and finally my mother snaps out of her temporary silence.
“Sorry,” she says, and then blinks at how sincere her apology actually sounded. “Who is this?” she asks, looking to me for an answer.
Death looks to me as well, his eyes burning into the side of my face. “Uh,” I begin, then swallow to see if that will help me work out what to say. It doesn’t. So I go for a lame, “He helped me come back.”
Next to me, Death snorts as he pulls open his bag of tortilla chips, shaking his head. “Help is a loose way of putting it. I mainly just watched.” Then he makes a rather troubling gagging noise as he sniffs the bag. “Are you all right?” Mum asks, as Death proceeds to glare furiously at the packet of tortilla chips.
“These are not even remotely flaming chili,” he whispers, as if the tortilla chips were actually fried spider legs.
My mother puts a hand to her mouth, and lets out a gasp that sounds incredibly genuine. “Oh I’m sorry—let me find you some better ones.” She hops up and I watch with bewilderment as she moves to ransack the cupboards with a bizarre urgency. Instinct takes over, and I turn to scowl suspiciously at my chair partner.
“What have you done?” I hiss, and Death leans in until his words can only be heard by me.
“Nothing. The subconscious mind is aware of the importance of my very existence, here in this room, but the conscious mind is never quite able to work out exactly who or what I am, so all it can do is heighten every emotion, and give humans an intense urge to keep me happy, lest I drag them to the abyss,” he whispers, before his head snaps back around to face Mum as she returns with the bag of high-end chips she usually reserves only for special guests.
“Here, try these,” she murmurs, passing them over before moving back to her husband’s side. They both stand silently with a very distinct sense of expectation in their expressions. It’s a little weird, to say the least, and yet I find myself turning to Death as well. After all, he did come across the worlds to be here and I assume it wasn’t just to sample our snack selection.
Death opens the bag, takes a chip and bites into it tentatively. Apparently satisfied, he gives my mother a thumbs-up before turning to the business at hand. “So,” he begins, and I recognize that calm, professional tone that he uses with his customers, “I imagine you’ve been finding this is a little difficult?”
Mum shifts uncomfortably, causing Death to shoot her an indulgent smile. Dad bites his lip, taking her hand. “We’re just...confused,” he whispers.
“It’s perfectly normal,” Death goes on, his voice confident and knowledgeable. “There’s really nothing to feel guilty about. You’ve been through a great trauma and this probably shouldn’t have happened—my bad. Grief needs time, it doesn’t need...disturbance. So, Daisy and I will leave, and when the door shuts behind us, you’re going to find that you have completely forgotten that Daisy was ever here. Just like that.”
I don’t want to leave, regardless of how badly this reunion has gone. I lean close to Death again, until his ear is practically in my mouth. “Do—do we have to?” I whisper, and I am certain I have never sounded this desperate. “Maybe I can fix this.”
He turns to meet my gaze, grimaces a little. “Time to go, Cooper,” he says gently.
The sudden new nickname doesn’t really do much to convince me. But there is a sadness in his voice, and it seems almost weighed down with an understanding of how I’m feeling. This floors me, because I can think of no reason why he would understand this feeling. It’s not like he has a family.
I find myself standing. Death smiles with relief, then stands as well, shooting my parents a reassuring expression. I catch Mum brushing at her eyes, watching me almost longingly.
She steps forward, rests her hands on my shoulders. “I just—just wish you weren’t gone.” Pressing a final kiss to my forehead, she turns away, busies herself with the washing-up. Like she’s already trying to forget what’s happened. Her soft crying floats around the room in cruel, unrelenting echoes.
On the other side of the table, Dad seems to be hesitating, not quite ready to give up.
I look over to Death, hopelessness weighing heavy on my shoulders. I don’t know what I’m asking him, but he shakes his head anyway. There’s a heavy, reluctant finality to that shake. I can’t argue against it somehow. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry,” I croak, turning back toward Dad.
Dad smiles back at me, his eyes a little hollow. “It’s OK. You—you be safe.”
When I hear Dad’s voice shake, that’s when I know I have to leave. I can’t even bring myself to hug him, or say another word. Everything feels sharp and cruel and I just need to escape. I stumble down the corridor on unsteady feet, the door ahead seeming to grow, shrink, and warp before me, like I’m in one of those wonky corridors you go through at a carnival, until suddenly I’m outside.
I find myself taking big, panicked gulps of the fresh morning air. As if it might somehow help. I’m so involved in this that I barely hear Death coming out behind me, so when his arm touches my shoulder, I jump with surprise and have to stifle a small yell of shock with one hand. He hurries around to stand in front of me, hands out and expression steady.
“Easy, Daisy. It’s just me.”
I want to be angry with him. I want to rage and scream at him and make this all his fault. But I know, logically, that it’s not. I chose to come here; he gave me the chance to change my mind and I didn’t. I thought I knew best.
Maybe that’s why I don’t shout at him. Maybe that’s why, when Death’s arms suddenly wrap around me, I don’t resist. I just let my head drop to rest against his chest. “I—I thought I could make it work.”
I feel a sigh brush against the top of my head. I can sense that Death is a little awkward around all this emotion. But, to give him credit, he sticks with it. He keeps his arms around me, even gives my back a few awkward pats. You could almost believe he’s done this before. A moment later, he pulls back, but only a little bit. “Maybe we should go somewhere else that isn’t outside your family home. I’m not sure how helpful it is to be here.”
Eventually we end up back in his office. I can’t quite stomach sitting at his desk so I slide down to the floor, resting against one wall. Death hesitates, then drops down beside me.
Silence descends. Our natural habitat. Except I don’t think I can do this anymore. Silence will not work right now, not when grief is prickling against my skin like a hideous rash. I have to say something, anything.
“Why did you come?” I find myself asking, watching as Death pauses in his fruitless pen fiddling.
“I was...worried.”
“You were...?”
“Worried, yes. I was trying not to be nosy, so I was just popping in and out. You were doing all right for a bit but then—”
I sniff with bitter amusement. “Then I fucked it up.”
Death tugs at a stray strand of jet-black hair. “I wouldn’t say it was you,” he says slowly, as if he’s choosing each word incredibly carefully. I don’t blame him because I feel like if he says anything against my parents, I’ll be saying something right back. Understandably, they’re a sensitive topic right now.
“Look, Daisy. I’m not an expert on families. But I am an expert on grief. It takes its toll, Daisy. More so than your own death, in my opinion. It needs careful handling. I should have warned you about that.” He meets my gaze for a moment but then doesn’t seem able to hold it, and looks away. That strikes a chord with me and I lean forward a little.
“Why do I get the sense that you’re talking from more than just professional experience?”
Death chews at his lips. I can tell that he’s really carefully considering whether to tell me or not. A few days ago, he probably would have brushed it off but there’s something different about him today. Something softer, less guarded.
“Lucas,” he murmurs. “A long time ago, there was Lucas. I hired him, back when I was still...young. I thought it would make things easier, if I didn’t have to be alone.” His hands clasp together and, for a moment, I’m sure I see them trembling. But then a second later they’re steady and I can convince myself that I imagined it. “He was a good kid. An idiot and annoying sometimes, but he was kind—and he was company. I came to think of him as a brother, in a way”
A sense of foreboding settles around me like a winter’s fog. “What happened?”
Death’s green eyes are dark, clouded over. Usually they remind me of a forest on that first day of summer but now it looks like midwinter in there. “He got taken away. He was...too kind, I guess. And he tried to help this girl, this terrified little girl. He spent hours with her because he wanted to be sure she was OK and—and he missed his next appointment. It wasn’t the first time, either. He broke the rules, Daisy. And, then the next day, he was gone. Just like that. And I was alone.” Instinctively, I reach for his hand. He doesn’t tug it away, which is a pleasant surprise. Instead, he squeezes our hands, tight enough to make his knuckles flare white. “That was when I began to understand what grief was.”
In this moment, he seems so human. And while part of me wants to allow him to move on, to be freed from reliving what was clearly a painful moment for him, I can’t let him go just yet. “So what is it? What is grief?”
Death sighs. “It’s dark and angry and cruel. It can’t be packaged into tidy little emotions and it certainly can’t be reasoned with. It’s like being possessed by the damn Devil himself.” He finally meets my gaze again, slowly retracting his hand from under mine. Slow enough for me to know that I don’t need to be offended. “All I’m saying, Daisy, is that you shouldn’t take your parents’ actions personally. It’s not that simple.”
I sigh, finding comfort in picking at the edge of my sleeve as memories whirl around my head. “My brother. Ollie. When he was little, he got hit by a car.” The words slip out, a little clumsily. Almost as if they weren’t quite ready. “He was ten, I was six. He wasn’t concentrating, typical Ollie. I didn’t think things could change so fast—one moment he was laughing at my joke, the next he was on the ground.”
I can feel Death’s gaze stuck on me, focused like a laser. No going back now. “Mum and Dad, they told me to say goodbye to him, at the hospital. I remember how weird their voices sounded, like they were pretending to be someone else. They weren’t sure he was going to make it, he had lost so much blood and his lungs were really bad. But then he pulled through and they were so happy, so relieved. They kept saying how they couldn’t bear to bury their own child...” I feel my voice shake as I reach the crux of this little trip down to memory lane. “And now they have.”
Death tilts his head, expression incredibly thoughtful. “So you feel guilty?”
“Well, yeah. But it’s more than that. They used to drive me mad with their overprotectiveness all the time, and even though I knew why, it still frustrated me so much. And now, seeing them like that, I just wish I could go back and do it differently. Not go out in the middle of the night for bloody milk. I think I’ve always felt like I’ve let them down, one way or another, and this just sort of proves it,” I mutter, voice bitter as I find myself shuffling down a little against the wall.
Death shifts a little more so he’s facing me more directly, considers me with a thoughtful expression. “Daisy, I’m pretty sure families never listen properly to each other. Lucas and I never did. But somehow we all manage to take in the important things. And that made you who you are today. Sure, if you listened to them and stayed safe all the time, you might still be alive. But you wouldn’t have gone with Violet to London and found your own life there. You wouldn’t have looked after her like you did. That’s worth something, right?”
I shake my head, let out a sigh. He takes this as a cue to go on.
“We can’t stop families being messy, Daisy. No more than we can stop death.” I find myself smiling because Death really is as unpredictable as the wind. So obtuse sometimes and then he comes out with nuggets of wisdom like this.
I don’t reply, but I don’t need to. I can tell he knows that he’s got through to me. We sit in a now rather comfortable silence, both lost in thoughts that, at least for my part, feel a great deal less intimidating. “Thank you,” I finally say. “For telling me about Lucas. It helped.”
Death rubs at his nose, that more familiar smirk of sarcasm returning. “Well, I’m glad my traumatic experiences are of use to you.”
I sit up a little straighter again. “So, what now? Traumatize my aunts? Or Eric?” I’m only half joking, which Death seems to pick up on after a few seconds.
He shoots me a weary smile, stretching out his arms before twirling his pen deftly over his fingers. “Maybe give it a few days, eh? Although, I suppose we should be celebrating in a way.”
I tilt my head, curious. “Why?”
Shrugging, Death points the pen at me. “Because, Daisy, you have now appeared to the living for a significant amount of time, twice. That is pretty impressive.”
I smile, feeling a rare moment of warm pride in my chest. He’s right, and that’s good, because I’m not ready to give up on getting back to my life one day. And this is a step in the right direction. Even if it is a step on a thorny, painful path.
Just as I’m considering this and what it could potentially mean, the room fills with a dull and droning alarm. It wails loudly, causing me to instinctively cover up my ears. Death stands, returning the pen to his pocket and adjusting his name tag with a heavy sigh of exasperation. “Really? Now?”
“What is it?” I ask, standing as well.
“MDS,” he replies and, when I continue to look blank, he grimaces and goes on. “Mass Death Situation. Or, in other words: get your umbrella because the shit just hit the fan.”