EARLIER THAT DAY
Pres’s baby girl was stillborn, full-term. I stand outside the crematorium with the crowd of mourners waiting for Pres, and his wife, Bronwyn, to emerge from the doors. The couple is in a small room at the back of a chapel—a room with two large furnaces and nothing more.
I think about them standing in there. What should be the happiest day of their lives is being spent here, in this graveyard amongst people who offer placating words that make no sense to me. I say let them be angry, let them hurt, let them feel everything. They’re standing in front of a furnace instead of a nursery, their baby in a tiny coffin instead of a cot. That same tiny coffin is bring pushed into a machine which is far too big for a thing that small. I hate that I know these things.
When the rumble of the furnace turning on starts, I can almost feel the heat permeating the room. I loosen my tie because it feels like I’ll pass out if I don’t. The door bursts open, and Bronwyn staggers out, her brown hair hanging over her face. Her breathing ragged. Someone, a relative maybe, reaches for her, holds her shaking shoulders, leading her away from the crowd.
I pull open the door she exited, and two crematorium staff look at me. I walk over to stand beside Pres quietly, just watching the large metal structure that holds the baby he’d been waiting for, for nine months. Mia, that was her name. I remember him telling us that it meant mine. He was a typical dad-to-be, overly excited bordering obsessive. He used to call Bronwyn so often I wondered if he was a hovercraft husband. They made lists together. It was nauseating, but sweet too.
Pres and Bron made me want to hope again. They made me wonder if there was more to life than what I’d been living for the last couple of years. But then this happened, and I knew I was right not to believe.
When the crematorium staff tells me there is nothing more for us to do there, I lead my friend outside. His brother and a few family members approach, so I slap his back lightly, then leave to check on his wife. She’s sitting in the passenger seat of their whiteMercedes Benz, surrounded by a few family members. She’s staring into space, but nobody seems to notice. I do. The crowd ramble on, some laugh about mundane things, brown leaves fall, and her glassy gaze makes my soul hurt, so I walk away.
PRESENT
Grief is a personal thing. There is no one size fits all bullshit those self-help books like to feed you, unless you’ve been there, you can’t throw judgment. You can’t say a fucking thing. You can take pictures of the dead, or don’t. You can video call a deceased person’s sister who couldn’t make the funeral because she was days away from giving birth or not.
Grief can drive you mad. It can set you straight.
It can break you or piece you back together.
I know, I want to tell Preston, I know what you mean. How you feel, what you’re going through. But it isn’t about me like I told Aidan the night before. It’s about Pres, this man beside me whose world is crumbling.
“I’m sorry, man,” I tell my friend because I truly am. He looks over at me, raises his flask. I tap mine to his.
* * *
I wakeup to yelling and cold water being splashed on me; no, that’s an understatement, someone is trying to drown me. I gasp as water enters my nose and mouth, and for a second, I think I’m dreaming. When I finally manage to pry open my eyes, I have to squint through the sunlight.
“You fucking selfish, asshole,” Bronwyn yells, her hair a wild mess of curls. She’s in pajamas and a robe, feet bare, tears streaming down her usually cheerful face.
I try to stand but end up falling over onto the wet ground. I look over at Pres, who is in no better condition. She continues yelling, and Pres gets off his ass and grabs her around the waist as she howls and thrashes against him. Her torrential storm finally let loose on the world.
We fell asleep out there last night. Aidan must have disappeared sometime in the night.
I watch them, two broken people, holding onto each other like lifelines. They fall to the ground, and he clings onto her for dear life. “Shh,” he murmurs against her head. “I got you.”
I walk away, my insides shattering. I head straight for the bar at eight in the morning, and I don’t give a fuck what people think.
* * *
It’smy last day at the station. I look at the portraits hanging on the walls, all our goofy smiles. There’s the usual “Firefighter of the month” pictures and the time we had to pose shirtless for charity. It’s kind of athingeverywhere. I remember those guys in Australia did the same thing to raise money for the wildfires.
“Still time to cancel that plane ticket?” Aidan tells me.
Turning toward him, I offer a smirk. “And miss out on all you pussies crying for me?”
“You’re the pussy that’s going to be crying all the way to Sunnyville,” he retorts.
I bow my head, shaking it. “I’m going to miss your miserable ass.”
“So youhavebeen thinking about Aidan’s ass?” Kyle, another one of my friends, pipes in.
“Not as often as you do, fucker.” I chuckle. Aidan and Kyle were the first friends I made at this station. They welcomed me and always made me feel like I belonged.
I look around the room at my friends, my brothers, men I’ve walked and fought hell alongside for years. They laugh and goof around. It’s a farewell party, so I don’t feel very cheerful.
Change can be a good thing, but sometimes when you’re a part of something like this team, it’s bittersweet. I miss Preston too. He’s been on leave. I’ve tried to stay out of his and Bronwyn’s way.
