Since my back is to the world, I let myself fall apart. My face slick with tears, my mouth open and twisted, my sobs loud. I can’t bear to be near his body. Not when it is already starting to get cold.
Did I say what I wanted to say? Was my good-bye enough? Will I ever forgive myself for wanting his death to come sooner? I have no answers. Things that will never happen again torture me: I’ll never hear his voice, buy him another Father’s Day gift, see him smile, drive in the car with him, watch him serve customers behind the bar.
None of it.
I wasted so many moments while he was alive by being moody and jealous. It was so easy to resent the fun he and Vance always had. Why didn’t I ever join them?
I should’ve joined them.
After a while I’m dry. I am unable to shed another tear. No one has bothered me since I’ve been in the Common Room, which is very thoughtful. It’s most likely hospice protocol to let family members grieve privately. I wonder how my brother is, if he’s still in there with Dad. Maybe we should be together right now. Before walking back, I use a bunch of tissues to clean up my face.
Just before I enter Dad’s room, a terrifying thought jabs me: I am an orphan.
Vance will be the only person to whom I can say, “Do you remember when Dad…” If my brother pulls away from me—which is absolutely possible, considering our relationship—I will be alone.
I’m just outside Dad’s room, and I can hear Vance crying. The sound catapults me back to when we got the news of Mom’s death. The heartbreak, the despair, the fear—it’s all there in that miserable sound. The door glides open, and the scene before me rips a fresh hole in my heart. Vance has the chair pulled up to Dad’s bedside, as close as he can get it, and his head rests on the mattress. And he is bawling.
Somehow my body produces more tears, and they spill over. I walk to the other side of the bed. Vance lifts his head. We lock eyes, desperately searching each other’s gaze for something, anything. He drops his chin as his body shakes with sobs.
There aren’t any useful words to say so we don’t talk.
Dad looks awful, and I desperately want to close his mouth. His skin has taken on a yellowish-gray tone that looks about as far from living as possible.
After a while the room goes silent. Vance and I are cried out. It is in this quiet that I glue my eyes to my father’s chest. It’s still as stone. His labored breaths are done. What are we going to do without him?
A light knock on the open door makes us both turn and look. It’s Peggy. “Just so you know, boys, you can sit with your dad as long as you like. We don’t put a time limit on things here.”
Vance sniffles, nods, and stands.
“When you’re ready, come and get one of us, and we’ll explain what happens next. Take all the time you need here with him, okay?”
I bob my head this time. She does the same before heading back into the hall.
Vance and I are alone with our father’s body, again.
“D-dad was too y-young to die. He was too fucking young!” Vance gets louder with each exclamation. “This can’t be h-happening!” His eyes leak, sending fresh tears down his cheeks. He runs his hands through his hair as he paces. I think he’s about to punch something. What he just said is true, except the “this can’t be happening part.” It has already happened. We are currently in what Vance would call a “shit storm.”
My mother would be hugging us, kissing our foreheads and telling us we’d be okay, but she’s been gone for three years now. I haven’t had a hug since her funeral.
I wish I had the guts to go embrace my brother, squeeze him tight, so we could share this heavy sadness. But I don’t want to get punched in the face. He looks like he’s about to blow.
Vance continues going from bed to sitting room and back. “How can he be dead? We have no parents, Oscar! What are we going to do without Dad?”
I clear my throat. “That’s what I keep asking myself. What are we going to do without him?”
He kicks the side of the dresser. The lamp wobbles, and my arm shoots out to steady it. I don’t want Vance to get in trouble for losing it again.
“Maybe we should tell them we’re done. Are we done?” I ask.
Vance turns back to the bed. “The thought of him lying in some freezer all alone makes me want to puke.”
I hadn’t thought of that, and I shiver. The image of him on a metal gurney, all alone in the morgue produces a wave of nausea. I actually may vomit. I throw my head back and take in a huge breath through my nose. The queasy feeling remains.
We need someone to come and tell us we’re done. We have no idea what we’re doing. Why won’t they help us? We’re drowning in here. Tiny white stars flicker in my eyes. I can’t catch my breath. My whole body is on fire. I stumble backward and—