On Thursday, the day before my graduation, I’m calling Noah for the millionth time, when my phone rings. I’m expecting it to be my parents, since they called a few hours ago to let me know they’re on their way, and they’re only a couple hours from me. So, I’m confused when my dad’s attorney’s name appears on my screen.
“Frank, how are you?”
Frank Abelman has been my dad’s best friend since they were kids, and his attorney since the minute he passed the bar. He’s also the closest thing I have to an uncle, since my dad’s brother passed away when I was younger and my mom’s family lives in Brazil. She met my dad shortly after she came here on scholarship to attend college and never returned. Her parents were against them being together and pretty much disowned my mom.
“Isaac, where are you?” The sound of his voice has my blood turning cold.
“I’m at home. What’s wrong?” He never calls me unless there’s a reason. He’s a busy man, and while he’s like family, he isn’t really a family man. Not like my dad.
“There’s been…” I hear him swallow thickly over the phone. “Your parents… They’re gone.”
CHAPTER TWO
ISAAC
Gone. My parents are gone. It’s been five days since Frank delivered the news and I still can’t wrap my head around it. One minute, we were making plans for my graduation weekend and the next I was planning a funeral.
Pink tulips. My mom’s favorite.
Two empty caskets because their bodies were unsalvageable.
“Someone ran them off the road and their car caught fire and blew up. We don’t know who did this. It’s being investigated as we speak.”
As I lay a rose over each of their caskets, in front of their friends and family and my father’s work associates, my body is still numb, my heart shredded. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Growing up, I knew my dad’s world was dangerous. My mom and I never went anywhere without a guard, and my dad always had men with him. He was threatened many times, but it always felt like he was untouchable, invincible.
Guess he wasn’t.
The day drags on. The priest finishes speaking and then there’s a celebration of life afterward. Everyone gives me their condolences, but my head is too hazy to even recall who half these people are.
Finally, it’s over, and Frank asks me to go with him to discuss some things.
“Can it wait? It’s been a long day.”
“Sure,” he says, tight-lipped. “Will you be staying in your family’s home?”
“No, I’m going back to my place. I can’t be here.”
Everywhere I look, the house reminds me of my parents, of my childhood. The corner store is where my mom and I used to ride our bikes to buy candy. The park is where we would go for walks and have picnics. I went to school here, grew up here, with my parents by my side every step of the way. I can still hear my dad cheering on the sidelines at my football games at the field in town. My mom whistling as I walked across the stage at my high school graduation. I need time to breathe, time to get my shit together, and I can’t do it here with every memory pulling me down.
“I understand,” he says, “but we should talk soon.”
He hugs me and then we part ways. Not wanting to be in this city any longer, I take off straight back to my place, using the two-hour drive to get lost in myself.
When I get home, I take a hot shower and then get dressed. I’m rummaging through my mail when I see an envelope addressed to me with my mom’s handwriting.
It’s postmarked seven days ago—before she was killed.
I tear it open and inside is a handwritten letter. She loves to write, has several pen pals all over the world, and once in a while she would write to me. She says there’s nothing more personal in a technologically-filled world than writing a letter by hand to someone.
My dearest Isaac, the letter begins, but I can’t read anymore because tears—the first that have escaped since my parents died—well in my eyes, blurring my vision. I swipe them away, needing to read my mother’s final words.
My dearest Isaac,
It’s been a little while since I’ve written to you. Next week you’re graduating from college and I’m so proud of you. You’ve grown up into a strong, smart man, who I’m honored to call my son.
As I read the letter, sobs begin to rack my body, and tears, hot and heavy, spill down my cheeks. She goes on to tell me how much she loves me and looks forward to one day meeting the woman who will capture my heart. That she can’t wait to become a grandmother. How she’s so thankful to have found my father and to have been able to have me.