The song was almost over.
“Fake Plastic Trees” by Radiohead. Everett just wanted to hear the last verse. He could circle the block one more time. Ever since he’d gotten the call, he’d been numb, his chest so frozen that he could barely breathe. His adoptive brothers, Marco and Roberto, had done nothing to soften the blow — in fact, Everett was sure they’d relished the opportunity to drop the news on him like it was nothing before hanging up.
Mom’s dead. Funeral’s tomorrow. Show up or don’t, we don’t care.
How was he supposed to tell Clara when he didn’t believe it himself?
How could he explain to his son that Grandma was gone?
He hadn’t even known she was sick.
No way could he take Jimi to the funeral, not when his brothers had made it clear that Everett was unwelcome. He’d done everything he could to keep his son away from the bullies who were, unfortunately, his foster brothers.
Worse, Clara would understand, but she wouldn’t understand. She expected Everett to stick to the schedule no matter what came up, even if the emergency wasn’t his fault.
He was a grown man, dammit. He shouldn’t be scared of his ex-wife. He wasn’t, really. It just made him sick to his stomach knowing that no matter what choice he made, Clara was going to have a problem with it.
He needed something to soften her up … an opening line that might help them start out with a little reset on some of their most recent bullshit, maybe remind her in a quiet way of what they’d once shared. What they could still share … in a new way, if she was ever willing to allow it. They had a child together, they could do better than “make the best of it.”
Now that Mom was gone, that seemed more important than ever. But when was the last time they’d talked without fighting?
Maybe he should start with a compliment about whatever she was wearing. Clara took a lot of her pride in her personal aesthetic, and that was something Everett had always truly appreciated about her.
Wow! I really love that dress! Is it a Jubilee?
Her favorite dresses came from Jubilee. Even if the one she was wearing didn’t, the reference might make her smile. Am I allowed to tell you how great you look in that dress?
One more time around the block. He started the song again.
The car was still quiet, and his thoughts turned even more depressing.
Six days until his birthday. That meant his birthday week had officially started: the most special week of any year for Everett. Usually the only special week.
But from this point on, he was going to remember it as the anniversary of the worst day of his life.
He pulled over to check his phone.
No messages from Marco and Roberto, asking how Mom could have deteriorated so quickly.
His best friends, the Ds, were radio silent as well.
And still nothing from Gavin Cash, the private investigator that he’d hired a couple weeks ago to find his biological family.
His brothers’ lack of communication wasn’t surprising. The Ds were probably busy with their own families. But waiting to hear back from Cash was killing him.
Enough stalling.
One more deep breath, then Everett was out of the car and up on the porch, ringing the doorbell, still deciding exactly how to best compliment Clara’s dress.
She answered wearing a loose blouse and slim-fitting jeans. “You’re here. Finally.”
“You said 7ish.”
“Is this what ish means to you?”
“I’m super sorry—”
“I hope you’re ‘super apologizing’ for Jimi being the last one in class to get his emergency bag and donations turned in. At this point, ‘sorry for being late’ is a given.”
Everett looked down, but only for a moment so he could bear to look back up at her.
“Holy shit, Clara. I totally-double forgot about that. I know I told you like eleventy-hundred times that I had it, and I really, really did. I even bought all the stuff. It’s in the stockroom at Joe’s. I can—”
“Shove it up your ass, Everett. That’s what you can do.” Clara sighed. “You fucking exhaust me. And I know I just swore at you twice and I’m sorry for that. But I took care of it. Miss Bradshaw called me because Jimi was crying. I’m sick of—”
“I know. I’m sorry. You’re totally right.”
“You can’t just keep telling me I’m right without ever doing anything to change your behavior, Ev. You have an example to set for your son.”
His throat constricted in pain, but he forced himself to speak anyway. “Something happened.”
“What?” Clara eyed him, suspiciously. “You’re shutting down Java Joe’s?”
“No! I’m not—” Could she not just give him a break this once, when he was obviously too broken up to think straight? “About this weekend—”
“No way. You are not weaseling out of taking your son again—”
“I’m not weaseling out of anything! I have to go to my mom’s funeral.”
That surprised her. “I’m sorry for your loss, Everett, I really am. But …”
“But?”
“But that doesn’t change the fact that you agreed to take Jimi this weekend.”
Was she deaf? What could she have planned for this weekend that was more important than his mother’s funeral? Was he not allowed a single day to honor her memory?
“I’m not planning a trip to Vegas, Clara. It’s my mother’s funeral.”
“You’re always doing this to us.”
“I’m not doing anything to you. I have no control over when my mother dies.”
“You’re right, Everett. Rationally, of course I get it. And maybe I wouldn’t be ready to claw your fucking eyeballs out right now if you hadn’t done this to me, and more importantly to Jimi, a hundred times before.”
“The restaurant has been busy,” he lied.
“It’s not a restaurant, and it’s only busy if busy is a synonym for bullshit.”
“You’re not being fair.”
“I have gigs all weekend — which is how I earn a living to support our child, something that wouldn’t be as urgent if you were keeping up with your child support.”
Everett stifled his anger that she’d brought up the issue of money yet again. “I can take Jimi next weekend if you can switch—”
“I committed to these dates months ago, because I’m an adult who makes plans and follows through with them.”
“If I had known my mother was going to die—”
“It’s not the money that kills me, it’s what you’re doing to Jimi. You told him that you guys would do something ‘extra-special,’ which I remember hoping meant more than going through the drive-through at Popeye’s for a chicken sandwich.”
Was it his fault that Jimi loved Popeye’s more than the elevated version that Everett had created for him? The boy had inherited Clara’s palate. “I get it.”
“I’m not sure you do.”
“I always get it, Clara.”
“So then … you just don’t care? You just always expect me to pick up the slack because your café is more important than my music career?”
“That’s not what’s happening here. My mom died, Clara. There’s going to be a funeral.”
“I think you said that.”
“I wouldn’t keep mentioning it if I felt like I was being heard.”
“Don’t get snippy with me, Everett.”
“I barely raised my voice. You’re the one who—”
“Great. The Blame Game. You’re always looking for someone else to hold accountable, and you always have an excuse about how it’s the universe’s fault that you can’t live up to your responsibilities. Instead of just doing the hard work of doing the hard work, you’re always looking for a new person to fix your problems for you.”
“That’s not fair. You know I’ve been working on all of those things, Clara. You can’t just expect me to change overnight.”
“I don’t expect you to change overnight.”
“My mother died.”
“I’m really sorry about that. But your son is alive, and he needs you to stop making excuses for why you can’t be his father right now.”
This was why their marriage had disintegrated. Because Clara couldn’t stand it when his emotional needs took precedent over hers. She expected him to man up and move forward, no matter what happened. He was contractually obligated to be the strong one, because he was the husband, and she resented it when she had to be the supportive one for a couple of minutes.
The ice around his frozen heart grew thicker.
“You have every right to be angry,” he forced himself to say. “Can I please come in and say goodnight to him?”
“He’s in bed.”
“Does that mean no?”
“You asked what time would be good for you to ‘drop in.’ I said ‘seven.’ I get a ‘see you sevenish’ back, then you show up here shortly after eight. Which happens to be our son’s bedtime.”
“I know what happened,” Everett said.
“You think I didn’t hear you driving around the block, blasting Radiohead, stalling until you knew Jimi would be asleep?”
“I was finishing a phone call,” Everett lied, not quite brave enough to pretend that his imaginary call had to do with his mom’s funeral, but hoping she’d assume it anyway. “Well, tell him I stopped by and that I’ll see him soon.”
“So, tell him, ‘Daddy came by after your bedtime to tell us that he couldn’t honor his commitment for this weekend?’ Something like that?”
“Good night, Clara.” Everett turned with a dramatic sigh.
“Good night, Everett.”
He heard the door close behind him.
He got in his Aspire and pulled out his phone, not even caring if Clara was still watching.
Still nothing from his brothers.
What a couple of assholes. Their mother had died, and they were still ghosting him.
He deliberated on which of the Ds to call first, determined that it was Derek’s turn, then said “Call Derek” as he started the car.
“Yo. Ev. Whatup?”
“Just leaving Clara’s.” Everett pulled into the street.
“You tell that little man I said hi?”
“He was already in bed. Clara was trying to punish me.”
No response from Derek.
“So, are you sure you guys won’t come to the funeral?” Everett asked.
“How many times are we gonna talk about this?”
“At least once more.”
“We weren’t invited to the funeral,” Derek said. “And therefore, it isn’t appropriate for us to go.”
“It’s bullshit that you guys weren’t invited.”
“I can’t disagree. But put it out of your head, alright, man? Take care of yourself, and come see us when it’s over. We’ll be there for you … you know that, right?”
“Yeah,” Everett said, feeling the edges of a smile. “I know.”
“See you when I see you. I gotta hit the rituals.”
“I hear you.” Sort of.
But after Everett hung up, the temporary warmth of his friend’s support faded in the chill of more ice. All Everett had ever wanted was his family’s acknowledgement. His adopted father had only barely pretended to care while he was still alive. And so far, Cash had been unsuccessful in finding his biological family. If — when — his brothers excommunicated him, he would no longer have any family at all.
He drove the rest of the way home in silence, pondering the nature of loneliness. He didn’t hear the texts when they came in, thanks to his leaving his phone on Do Not Disturb while driving. But his heart went buoyant when he picked it up to check after finding a parking spot two blocks from his shitty apartment building and saw a message from Roberto.
He felt a flicker of hope. But then he saw it was a link to an article: 7 Ways to Get Out of a Family Funeral (Without Feeling Guilty).
Everett climbed the steps to his building, stomach in knots, thinking about how awful tomorrow would be.