Page 19
Only a handful of people have shown up to say their goodbyes, and after the priest finishes, a few of them approach me with their sorry’s and sympathetic pats on the shoulder.
All of them believing this man was my father.
Lost in a trance, I stare down at the casket. His death was relatively peaceful toward the end, with all the morphine he was given. There one minute, gone the next. He slipped away into a perfect eternal sleep.
A warm wrinkled hand slips into mine, offering a gentle squeeze, and I turn to Tammy beside me, whose red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked cheeks show more emotion than mine. I’ve not cried, at all.
Not because Russ didn’t mean anything to me. The guy raised me for the last nine years of my life, but there’s such a vacuous emptiness inside of me, I can’t bring myself to feel much of anything.
“If you need anything, dear, Roy and I are a phone call away.” Tammy is the only semblance of a mother I’ve had these past few years. None of Russ’s regular hookups bothered to treat me as anything more than a nuisance to their pretend life with a man who scoffed at the idea of marriage. None of whom are even here today.
“Thank you.”
Long spindly arms wrap around me, and my whole body stiffens with the contact, but it doesn’t last long, and when she releases me, I exhale my relief. Russ and I didn’t do affection. He was the shitty roommate that I had to clean up after, and I was the belligerent teenager he had to put up with. Yet, somehow, there was an understanding between us. An unspoken bond that took a lot of years to build, and crumble, and build again. I knew he gave a shit, even if he never really said it.
A man doesn’t up and drop everything in his life to care for some strange kid he doesn’t know without some stake in the game. If it was money, so be it, but it couldn’t have been much, given the poor guy died penniless. Even if he wasn’t always perfect at raising me, he saw me to adulthood, and even taught me a few things along the way. And that’s saying something, because I was equal parts feral and neurotic. A hot mess that blazed through his lazy lifestyle like a wildfire.
He never once raised his hand to me, even on the times I’m guessing he wanted to, the times I might’ve deserved it, because raising me was no picnic, I’m sure. When I think about it, the most admirable thing about Russ was his patience. The way he could hold out on my tantrums. Sure, I’ve seen him lose his cool sometimes, throwing shit around the cabin, and he even broke out a window once, when he threw a greasy part off a motor through it, which happened to be the source of my frustration that night—his always leaving his grimy tools and parts all over the place. Yet, it always rounded out to an apology. Him down on one knee, head bowed in remorse, fidgeting while he stuttered to say he was sorry for yelling.
No, Russ was far from perfect, but if I could’ve picked someone to raise me, aside from my own father, I probably wouldn’t have traded him for anyone else.
It isn’t long before the seats are empty and the first drop of rain hits my nose. Of course it’d rain today. I gather up the flowers a few of the guys Russ worked with gave to me, and make my way to the old truck parked off on the narrow gravel path.
The drive from downtown back to the cabin seems to take twice as long, and the rain kicks up, pelting the windshield like it’s angry at me for something. Maybe it’s Russ, telling me he’s pissed for making such a fuss over him. Not like I wanted that dog and pony show, but what was I supposed to do? Tell Tammy no, after she and Roy handed over all that cash?
It’s a quarter mile drive down the path to the cabin in the woods, and the canopy of surrounding trees darkens the sky. I park the truck in the same spot Russ parked every day for the last seven years. Through the windshield, the somber little cabin stands still, quiet.
Too quiet.
Painfully quiet.
The flutter in my ribs signals the racing of my heart, and in seconds, a wintry cold sweeps across my chest. The fist of panic tightens. Tighter. The air turns thick and heavy, and I have to breathe harder to fill my lungs.
I rest my head against the steering wheel when a swarm of dizzy numbness crawls over me. Breathe. Breathe. Pinching my eyes closed, I force long inhales and exhales through my nose. My hands tremble with the frigid rush still pulsing through me.
Inhale. Exhale.
It’s a good ten minutes before I manage to get the attack under control, and when I do, I feel as if I’ve run laps around the yard. Exhausted. So goddamn exhausted I don’t want to move, but it’ll be dark in a couple hours.
And that’s when the shadows will come for me, as they always do.
After grabbing the flowers from beside me, I exit the truck, and while the drops of rain add a slight chill, the water feels good on my skin. Fuck it all. I tip my head back, kicking off the tight dress shoes I borrowed from Tammy’s daughter, and climb my butt onto the warm hood of the truck. The engine’s heat leaches into the back of my legs while the cold rain sprinkles my face, and I ease back against the windshield. An unrelenting pressure weighs down on my chest, suffocating and unbearable, until I finally crack, and the first tear slips down my temple, to be quickly washed away by the rain.
A sob breaks inside my chest, more tears escape, every one of them swept up by the shower pouring from the sky. It makes me cry even more, long, ugly sobs ripping from my throat, drowned by the sound of pelted metal. My dress grows saturated, my hair sticking to my shoulders in long, soaked plaits. The hood beneath me cools enough that I no longer feel the heat, and a shiver ripples beneath my skin in a rush of goosebumps.
Because it’s finally sank in.
I’m alone.
Completely and utterly alone.
* * *
Wrapped in a wool, native-print blanket, I sit in front of the dancing fire, half-heartedly eating the lasagna Tammy passed along the day before. On the floor in front of me is a notice from Marty, the owner of this cabin, that I have until the end of the month to vacate. The salutation is his condolences, with the obligatory ‘God bless’ that I can just imagine him saying in that patronizing, nasally northern tone.
“Fuck you, Marty.” I toss the paper into the fire, watching it ignite, and set the plate of lasagna on the floor beside me. Wiping my eyes, I reach into the mostly empty shoe box I’ve pulled out of Russ’s things, knocking away the small trinkets, like Russ’s lucky bottle opener, the lighter he always used for his cigars, the swiss army knife he carried religiously, and finally, the old wallet I found once before. I flip it open for the picture inside, of the little boy and what I’m guessing is his mom--a gorgeous woman, with long blonde hair and striking gray eyes.
“How the hell did you manage to snag this one, old man?” Not that Russ was an ugly guy, if a woman happened to be okay with a slight beer gut and a balding crown.
