Tag: Grief

I stood at the doorway. I could hear the sounds of laughter and children screeching through the heavy door. I took a deep breath and grasped the doorknob, opening it and stepping through the threshold. The noise of the inside washed over me, and my entrance into the small hallway went unnoticed.

“Yes, yes dear, I love you too,” said a sultry voice off to my right. I turned to see Aunt Tammy eyeing me from the bar room. It was empty except for her, and she was already slipping her phone back into her purse.

“Gregory, dear!” she exclaimed. She had an assortment of glasses in front of her, bottles of every color and size. “It’s never too early for shots, let me pour you one.”

“No, no! I’m okay, thanks,” I said.

Aunt Tammy squinted her eyes at me. “Suit yourself.” She threw the shot back in one quick gulp, then plopped the glass down with a clink. She stalked toward me, and I could feel my body tensing.

“So,” she said. She rocked on her heels. “You’re the oldest now.”

My stomach sank. Not her too. I tried to hide the pain from my face.

“Are you nervous? About… Well, he always did the blessing.” Aunt Tammy put her hands up, cutting me off. “Not that you have to do the blessing.”

“I’m thinking about it. And no, I’m not nervous,” I said, running a hand through my hair. She smiled a sad smile, clearly not believing me. We hugged and then we turned to the scrum of people.

“Where’s Kate?” she said.

I winced. “We… broke up.”

Aunt Tammy feigned a gasp, then laughed.

“It’s nothing, Aunt Tammy. Just not a good time for a girlfriend.”

“Not a good time! You’re thirty-four! Get married already, Greg.” She waved out of the shadowed cave we stood in toward the greater living room. It was packed with bodies, children running in between small packs of adults, the noise deafening even over here. She narrowed her eyes. “Or maybe not.”

We had a laugh at that, then I said, “Into the fray,” and strode into the living room.

Cheers erupted from the children. Nieces and nephews came scrambling up, with chants of “Uncle Greggy!”, even little cousins who didn’t know any better took up the chant, and I was swarmed by little pressing bodies.

I went on the attack. Roaring like a monster, I snatched up the first squirming wriggling form that reached me, swinging them up and around like a battering ram, pushing through the crowd. I didn’t have to fake laughter as the kids attacked back, redoubling their efforts. I hugged and kissed foreheads and patted heads, pushing my way to the small circle of adults.

My twin siblings laughed and embraced me. Sterling gave me a vigorous hug, slapping my back a little too hard. Avery was next, giving me a soft hug.

Our little circle broke off into the small kitchen. “So,” Sterling said. “How are you feeling?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, my smile faltering.

Sterling put his hands up in quick surrender. “Nothing, bro. You want a Shiner?”

I shook my head. “No, no I’m good, man. Sis, how we doing?”

She looked at me from under her shaggy bangs, her eyes big and round. “We’re good, Greg. Are you going to do it?”

I looked between the two of them. Then Sterling said, “The blessing, brotherman. You gonna do it?”

I shrugged. “I’m thinking about it.”

Avery gave a bitter laugh. “I don’t know how anyone is supposed to be thankful right now.”

Sterling caught my gaze and interrupted, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “Say. Where’s Kate?”

I stiffened, my palms up. “I… we…”

Avery gasped audibly. “No! You didn’t. On Thanksgiving?”

“Nothing like that! I broke up with her a few days ago.”

Sterling laughed out loud, shaking his head. “You sure you don’t want a Shiner, man?”

“I’m sure,” I said, a little more stern than I wanted. “Where’s Papa?”

Avery pointed to the back door, “Turkey duty.” I nodded, then hugged them again. They returned to their spouses, and I pushed through the mosh pit of cousins and uncles and aunts, snagging hugs on the way through, laughing at crude jokes, planting a smile on my face. I did my best to ignore their looks, the questioning gazes.

I went through the back door, pushed aside by a flood of kids. I shook my head at the passing chaos and made my way down the concrete path to the outdoor kitchen. Papa stood next to the gigantic, stainless-steel fryer, a fat cigar in his mouth and a whiskey glass nearby. He wore a baggy Hawaiian shirt and flip flops. His hair was shaggy and long, since Grandma passed he rarely got it cut anymore.

“Hey, Pop,” I said in greeting. He turned to me and grunted, smiling around his cigar.

“Hey, Kiddo.” We hugged. He waved me toward the fryer. “Step into my office, son.”

I followed, taking my place next to him. We checked gauges, tracked time and adjusted the heat.

I could feel the question, the one they all wanted to ask, but he stayed quiet, steadily chewing on his cigar.

I broke the silence. “I’m thinking about giving Grace for the family. Since… you know.”

Papa nodded. He picked up his whiskey glass with the same hand that held the cigar and took a sip. “Yeah,” was all he said.

“Problem is, I’m not sure how.”

Papa grunted a laugh, a raspy sound. “Well, son. Thankfulness, grace, blessing. It’s a heart condition,” and he patted his chest. Then he saw my face. “A thing you feel in your mind, smart ass. It’s something you have to live and feel. Then you pray to our Heavenly Father and thank him.”

I nodded. “But how,” my voice cracked, and I felt a lump in my throat. “How are we supposed to be thankful?”

Papa peered at me. “You angry?”

I coughed. Thought about it. “Yes.”

“At yourself?”

“Yes.”

“You know, when your father passed and your mother did… Well, what she did, it was easy for me to be angry too. I bathed in it. Was my daily bread. But now, with Bradley, I feel only heartache. I say give your anger to God, son. He can be angry enough for the both of you.”

I chewed on that, then Papa’s watch buzzed at him.

“Pull that turkey, here.” Suddenly I was handed the triangle hanger and was digging into the boiling greasy liquid, hot oil spattering out at me. I fished with the hook and lifted out the golden brown bird, my mouth salivating at the sight.

“Good, God,” I said.

“See, you sound pretty grateful to me,” Papa laughed, sticking the pan under the bird and hoisting it out. “C’mon, let’s get Sterling to carve ‘er up.”

I followed the stout man into the house, shaking my head at him. I didn’t feel any less angry, but something felt a little lifted from me. I walked with a lighter step.

In the kitchen Avery poked and prodded Sterling as he carved the turkey, laughed and called out every time he made a mistake. The generous spread was laid out, and the line started to make its way down, filling plates to the edges, little mountainous feasts in every hand.

The main table was full of adults, side tables were pulled and filled with teenagers and children and anyone in between.

At one end of the main table, Papa sat. I sat at the other head, then stood. Everyone turned toward me, and I felt my throat constrict. My hand had a slight tremor to it.

A murmur spread through the family, sighs of relief that I would step up to the task.

“Please bow your heads for the blessing.” The hush spread as quickly as the murmur had, and soon every head was hung in solemn silence.

“Heavenly Father, thank you for bringing us all together to share in this Thanksgiving dinner. Thank you for keeping Papa’s timing honest and Sterling’s knife hand steady to deliver another good turkey.” Soft agreement followed. “Father God, there’s an absence today that weighs heavy on our hearts, but we hope and pray that you can bring peace to Monica and the kids, who must go on without a husband and a father. I ask that you take some of our anger and frustration, and instead help us understand why you needed to call Bradley home to you so soon, and to help us trust in your design. And Father, I ask that you help us all get home safe tonight, especially Aunt Tammy, we know how she likes to drink.” A soft ripple of laughter at that last, and I raised my head and looked out at my large, crazy family. Every head was bowed, except Papa’s, who smiled and nodded to me.

Then I realized that no one had raised their heads yet. I cleared my throat, then said, “Amen.”

Martin awoke bolt upright. He felt wide awake despite the nightmare he was having. He looked at the red glowing alarm clock, the digital numbers reading 2:14 A.M. A good two hours before he would wake up for the day. With a sigh, he started to crawl fully out of bed. He wasn’t getting any more sleep tonight, and he knew it. He could always get a few hours grinding on his Orc Hunter though. He hesitated halfway out of the bed and leaned back down to kiss the top of his wife’s head. She murmured in her sleep but didn’t wake.

Martin pulled his pajama pants on but skipped the shirt. The boys never woke up, no matter how loud he was. He wouldn’t need it. He stumbled in the dark, using the red glow to light his way, and entered the hallway. On the opposite side of the cramped hallway was the boys’ room, and he skulked past them. He was halfway down the hall when he noticed the light coming from the kitchen, spilling under the door.

His pulse quickened as he approached the door, his hackles raised. He knew he shouldn’t have sold his guns, but the wife insisted. Now here he was, unarmed and about to have to fight some hobo. Martin put his ear to the door to the kitchen and listened. He heard the soft muttering of a voice, and his heart eased. It sounded like a young boyish voice. That must be Dylan, his younger son. A smile crept on his face as he creaked the door open.

The doorway opened into the kitchen. The table was on the right, against the wall. He took in the scene. His younger son sat at the table, playing cards spread out in front of him. He flipped four cards over and groaned.

“Fuckin a,” Dylan muttered.

Goose flesh spread along Martin’s arms, the hair on his neck stood on end. The casual ease of the words came out like a seasoned cusser. Was 8 too young to be so fluid with the art of naughty words? Possibly. Martin’s heart dropped as Dylan spoke again, this time pointedly.

“You just gonna stand there, Pop, or you gonna join me?”

Pop? Since when was he Pop? A scene from one of his favorite Stephen King movies played clearly in his mind. The boy from Pet Sematary, after returning not himself. ‘I wanna play with you, Daddy,’ the little boy had said.

Martin circled around Dylan so he could face him. “Son? You feeling alright?”

The boy had a snarling look of concentration. Flipping 4 more cards, he cursed again. The cards were arranged in a game Martin had never seen before, and he knew cards. He was in the army, after all.

“No, Pop, I’m not alright. You think I would choose to be up at 2 A.M.?”

The shock was wearing off now, and his patience was running thin. “I don’t care how you’re feeling, you need to not take that tone with me.”

The boy winced, such an adult reflex on his young face. “Damn this body. You’re right, Pop, sorry I’m on edge. Say, how old are you?”

He wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming, but the whiplash of words was hard to parse. Body? Old? He tried to think of the last time he had told his son his age and realized it must have been a while. It had been a while since he’d had a real conversation with him now that he thought about it. With the early morning, the long commute, and the late night, there just wasn’t time.

“I’m 33. Why do you ask?”

The boy still hadn’t looked at him, and he finally did. His eyes had a hard look about them. A look Martin thought with a chill, that he recognized. Who are you? he suddenly wanted to say, but the words were stuck in his throat.

Dylan let out a wry chuckle and began scooping the cards with a deft hand. There was a second deck nearby, and he gestured to it. “Aggravation? I remember that one better than Scoundrel. Damn shame too that was my favorite.”

Aggravation he recognized, obviously. That was the family version of Phase 10, taught to him by his own grandparents. Martin’s mind raced, trying to remember any time Dylan could have learned it. He didn’t recall. He nodded his assent, but his son was already expertly shuffling the two decks together.

In silence, Martin watched. The boy dealt the 12 cards needed to start, then fanned his hand awkwardly in his small hands. Martin pulled his cards up and fanned similarly. He had a good starting hand, but he didn’t move to play. Finally, he had found his voice, but the adrenaline still thrummed through him. “Who are you? Who are you really?”

“Oh, come now, Pop. You don’t recognize your own son?”

“You certainly look like him, yes.”

The boy grunted, then after taking his draw immediately dropped his two books. He had four 7’s and three Kings. No wild cards. A first turn down was pretty lucky.

He discarded an Ace, then said, “I’m Dylan, for real. But… I’m older. I came from the future.”

The shock of it was like a blow to the face, and Martin couldn’t keep back the light laugh. “Is that right?” His hammering heart eased at once. His son was having a go at him.

Wasn’t he?

“I overshot, you see. I wanted to go back 12 years, instead I hit 28. I mean, it’s not like I had a manual.” He paused, noticing Martin was still arranging his hand. “Christ, what are you waiting for, Christmas? Take your turn, man.”

Now it was Martin’s turn to grunt, and he drew a card. He pulled a 2, a wild card, and he decided to drop down as well. These first hands were always a slogfest, and his young son clearly knew that. He dropped two 4’s alongside his 2, and three Jacks. Then he dropped a King and a 7 of his own onto Dylan’s books. He also discarded an Ace.

Dylan nodded approvingly. “It could have been worse, I guess. Could’ve ended up in the womb.” The boy visibly shivered as he drew another card.

“That certainly sounds worse,” Martin agreed. “So, what happens in 16 years?”

“Shit,” Dylan said. “What are you, a mathematician?” His son took a shuddering breath. “Something bad happens in 16 years. I wanted to stop it.”

Martin studied his son, and yes, he did know that hard look. He’d seen it himself, in the mirror.

Dylan collapsed the fan of his cards and began idly sorting them, front to back. Martin realized he recognized his grandfather in the movements.

“What happens?”

“No, no, don’t you see? I’ve been here a week already, man. I’m too early. I’m too fucking early, man. If I change things now, how many butterflies do I trample over?”

Martin nodded slowly. Yes, he did see.

“When a thing happens, you’d give anything to go back and change it. You know?”

“Of course,” Martin said. And he found that he did know. His mind wandered to a jungle, in a faraway country. Yes, there are always things you wish you could go back and do differently.

Dylan nodded, a knowing look in his eye. “Shit, right, I’m sorry Pop of course you know. Well, I’m here. I’m too far back, sure, but I’m here.” His voice was hoarse, intense.

“What’s stopping you, son? From doing something?”

“The growing up lesson. The one only someone like you or I would know.” His voice was choked up, now, and Martin couldn’t help it. He was overcome by an inexplicable, overwhelming sorrow.

“Which one of us is it?”

Dylan recoiled from the question. The boy was physically fighting back tears. He managed to point over his shoulder. The angle was clear. It was to his older brother, Charlie. Oh hell.

Martin let out a shuddering breath, one he hadn’t realized he was holding. “And what’s the lesson?” he whispered.

“That we heal,” the boy said, his quiet sob breaking.

Martin maneuvered around the chair, and he grasped his son. The man trapped in the child’s body. The boy clung to his father, his grip tight as he sobbed. Martin didn’t know how long he cried like that, but he held his boy and patted his back, his own tears lightly running down his cheek.

“I met my wife after… Would I meet her again, if I change things? I’m so far back, dad. How many beautiful butterflies would I squash in my selfishness?”

“I don’t know, son. But each man must himself decide what is right—”

“—and what is wrong…” Dylan finished. He pulled his head back, a sly mischievous smile playing on his face. With bright tears in his eyes, he looked again like a little boy of 8. Like his boy. He hugged him tightly again.

“Guess you’ve heard that one before,” Martin said with a chuckle.

“Sometimes… it’s so clear. I’m back in that doorway. I’m running down the hall, and I just can’t stop. I want so badly… so badly…”

Martin patted the boy’s back, nodding. Yes, he had a doorway of his own, one he knew well. “We do heal. It’s terribly unfair, isn’t it?”

“Terribly unfair,” the boy agreed. Martin still carried him, and he found himself lightly rocking. His son cradled his head into the crook of his shoulder, and his breath picked up pace. He was fading fast, he realized, but he kept his slow steady rock.

Eventually the boy’s breath was even in sleep. With careful steps Martin carried him back to bed and tucked him into the blanket. He pushed the hair away from his forehead, and Martin realized the boy, the man, had made his choice.

The man’s voice rang in his skull. ‘How many butterflies will I squash?’ How could he continue with this terrible knowledge? He would lose one of his sons young, so horribly young. It was an uncomfortable, sinking sorrow that swept over him. His mind protested loudly, he should’ve convinced him to stay! To change things!

‘How many beautiful butterflies.’

Martin headed for the bathroom. He needed to shower, and he’d do the only thing he knew. He’d go one day at a time. He’d feel that pain anew one day, and he knew in time he’d learn that lesson once again.