The rest of my family was gathered uncomfortably in the living room when we entered. My Aunt Donna stood tall, although pale beside my sobbing grandma, while my Aunt Karen kept an arm firmly wrapped around my mom’s shoulders. I wanted to shield Megan from the pain that saturated the room, to flee to a happier place and a happier time, but those days were over. Instead, I scooped her up in my arms, marveling at how light she was. She took after my mom, having a more delicate bone structure, while I had the solid frame of my father.
“The limo is here,” my Aunt Donna said, helping my grandma to her feet. My mom rose at her words and followed behind them, still clutching my dad’s t-shirt in her hands. Megan watched them file solemnly out of the room ahead of us.
“It’s okay, Peanut. We can do this,” I said, pulling her more snugly into my arms.
I set her down as we neared the oversized vehicle parked outside the house. She climbed into the car and onto her booster seat that the limo driver had fastened to one of the long bench seats inside. I waited for my mom to methodically strap her in like she always had before, but she remained fixated on a spot out the window and beyond my line of vision. Sighing, I reached over and buckled Megan myself, pulling the belt tight to make sure it was securely fastened like I had seen my parents do hundreds of times. It had been their diligence to safety that saved Megan’s life in the accident when my dad had slammed into the telephone pole.
The ride to the cemetery was slow and silent as we made our way through town, passing the brightly-colored store-fronts and droves of people strolling around the sidewalks. To them, this was just another normal day. We finally reached Shady Oaks Cemetery, and all I could think was how this place felt like it was mocking me. It was beautifully inviting with lush grass, perfectly manicured trees, and freshly bloomed flowers everywhere, but there was certainly nothing beautiful about coming here. The driver turned smoothly into the graveyard, pulling up slowly to the spot where we would say our final goodbyes. The one thing that my mom and grandma had agreed on was that my father would have hated the whole church funeral thing, so they settled on a graveside service. I could see the seats under the oversized maroon tent were filled with mourners with many more people standing in rows behind them. The kind limo driver helped Megan and me climb out first and all eyes from the tent focused on us. I felt myself flush slightly at the attention I was receiving, which was unusual because I had spent my life thriving on the attention of others. Whether at dance recitals from my younger years or cheerleading as I got older, I was used to hundreds of students cheering for me as I effortlessly tumbled through complicated routines with my parents watching proudly from the stands. I had always been the envy of most of the student body and I liked it that way.
This attention though was different. It oozed with pity and empathy combined with a mix of relief that it wasn’t them in our shoes. I wanted to be anywhere but here, and for a brief moment, I considered fleeing the scene. That is, until Megan’s tiny hand tightened around the three fingers she was gripping on my right hand. I couldn’t leave her here. When I looked down to see her lower lip trembling, I pulled her closer against my hip as we slowly made our way to the seats reserved for family members.
The minster started talking when we were seated. Quiet sobbing filled the air as he droned on about all my father’s attributes. My father was a pillar of our community, well loved by all, but none of them knew what truly made him special. Like the way he made “Pancake Sunday” a special event each week by adding different goodies to the pancake batter to mix things up. Or the way he would act like a rock star when he played Rockband with Megan. They would always beg me to play with them, but I always seemed to have something to do, like paint my nails or text a friend, or some other activity that now seemed meaningless in comparison.
I was brought back to reality as my Aunt Donna stepped up to the microphone to speak. How ironic that my dad’s least favorite relative would give his eulogy. He had joked for years about the stick up his sister’s ass and yet, there she was, probably because she was one of the only dry eyes here. Grandma had asked me if I wanted to say something, but I just didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of sharing my now precious memories with anyone else. Besides, would they really want to hear what I had to say if they knew all of this was my fault?
I would give anything to go back to the day that changed everything. Now, my life was filled with If onlys…If only I hadn’t picked a fight over my car…If only I hadn’t acted slow and sullen to make a point….If only I had picked any other day to be a whiny bitch, everything would be different. We would have been on time and the crazy asshole behind my dad and Megan would have picked another car to take out his road rage on!
“This was my fault,” I thought bleakly as I scanned the attendees, searching for a break in the crowd. My eyes settled on a lone figure leaning against a tree twenty feet from where I sat. Our eyes locked and bile rose in my throat.
This may be my fault, but it was equally his.
I shouldn’t have come, I thought. I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Something just pulled me to the funeral. This should be their time, I know I don’t belong. The family would probably freak if they noticed me and yet, here I am, like an idiot.
I scanned the perimeter, passing over the bowed heads and shaking shoulders of the mourners, searching for my whole reason for being here. Finally, after a moment, my eyes settled on her and my palms began to sweat. Even shrouded in her grief, she looked heartbreakingly beautiful.
A week ago she wasn’t even on my radar. There was a definite pecking order at our school, and our crowds just never mixed. I would have never given her a second thought until my father had irreversibly changed all of our lives.
I remember sitting on the couch with my aunt watching the news coverage as Kassandra led her distraught mother and pale younger sister from the hospital. My dad’s road rage had made us national news. The media happily gobbled up the heartbreaking tale of how one man treacherously ran an innocent driver off the road in a drunken rage. My eyes zeroed in on Kassandra. I took in her every feature as she bravely stepped between her family and the reporters, all demanding to know how they felt about what my father had done. She ignored their shouting, refusing to take part in the frenzy. The pain on her face was all too real, even through the TV.
Now, here I was, watching from a distance like some kind of stalker as she gripped her younger sister’s hand. My whole intention was to stay out of site, which backfired when her eyes met mine. I felt like I had been sucker punched in the gut. Her hatred was unmistakable.
This was my fault.
That son of a bitch, how dare he show up! I tore my gaze from his and stared blankly at my aunt as she finished up her eulogy. By the intense sobbing around me, it was clear her words had impacted everyone. The minister finished the procession shortly after and my mom’s whole body shook as we filed past my father’s casket to say our final goodbyes. I put my arm around her with my own tears falling hot and fast as the finality of the moment settled in. As much as I had yearned for this to be over, I felt panicked at the thought of leaving my father behind.
The rest of the day passed
in a blur, as family and friends filed through the house paying their last respects. My mom escaped to her room the moment we entered the house and I watched her retreating back with envy. I wanted to escape. I yearned to be around my friends, laughing and joking and pretending all of this was just some nightmare, but I plastered a small painful smile on my face and endured every hug that came my way. The mood was somber, with everyone sitting around sharing stories about my father. My grandmother sat on the couch with very little to say, while my Aunts sat close by, lending her the comfort she needed. I’m sure this was all just everyone’s way of coping, but each story just made me miss him more. Finally, I just couldn’t take anymore and had to get out of there before I screamed.
I stumbled down the hallway, swiping tears from my cheeks as the sobs ripped painfully through my throat. Sinking onto my bed, I pulled my comforter over my head to leave the world behind. I heard my door open quietly and held my breath, hoping it was my mom. I missed her support and wanted my shift of being the adult to be over. My mattress dipped down slightly and I felt a small body squirm under the comforter with me. My heart broke as Megan snuggled her small body up to me, offering the only comfort she could. It felt like we were stranded on our own deserted island. I returned her comfort, pulling her tightly into my arms. In a way, we had lost both of our parents.
The days following my dad’s funeral tumbled along in a painful blur as we learned to cope with the new direction our lives were on. Three days after the funeral, my grandma and aunts boarded a plane to head back home. I was relieved to see them go, anxious to have our space back to ourselves. Hopefully, their departure would bring mom out of her shell. She’d never really gotten along well with my grandma over the years. The animosity stemmed from comments my grandma had made years ago about my father marrying beneath him. She was convinced my father would someday realize his mistake. What she’d always been too blind to see was just how in love my parents were.
Unfortunately, my hopes that mom would snap back to normal didn't materialize. She’d spend hours staring off into space with tears streaking down her cheeks. For the most part, she was as non-talkative as Megan, but would at least answer direct questions. By day five of being on our own, the silence began to wear on my nerves and the walls felt like they were caving in on me. I nearly wept with relief when my best friend Lacey called to ask if she could come over. I was desperate to have someone I could talk to that would sympathize with my pain.
Lacey and I headed up to my room as soon as she arrived. I closed my door and sank down on my bed ready to unload all my hurt.
“How are you doing?” she asked, giving me the opening I needed.
“Not good,” I said as tears filled my eyes. “My mom walks around the house like a zombie wearing my dad’s old t-shirts, and Megan still hasn’t said a word since the accident.”
“Ugh, that’s morbid,” Lacey said, shuddering.
“Well, I’m sure it’s normal,” I said, feeling the need to defend them even though I was just venting.
“Maybe your mom should get like some Valium or something.”
“She doesn’t need medication,” I said sharply, offended by her condescending tone.