Her tears became mine, and mine became hers, and we shared in our sorrow together.
Dad had a harder time visiting Henry than we did, so mom and I often went alone. He didn’t talk about it, but I think somehow he blamed himself for never being able to save Henry. That he believed if he’d only done more, Henry would still be here.
I prayed a thousand prayers that Dad would free himself from those shackles, but he never did. He wore the scars of a man who buried his son, while bearing grief and guilt on his shoulders.
It’s not pretty. It’s ugly.
It’s not nice. It’s ruthless.
It’s not fair. It’s cruel…
When someone you loved could no longer love you back.
It left a void in you that no matter how loved you are, nothing will fill. Over time, you’d learn to live with that emptiness, and build memories around it like a bridge to serenity.
Mom had found a way to do that, but Dad and I were still drowning in that void.
That’s the risk you run when you love others though. That somehow you’ll reach and they won’t, you’ll bleed and they won’t, you’ll live and they won’t.
The death of a loved one was crippling.
Some time later, long enough for the clouds to have taken over the sky, I pressed my lips to the brass plate and whispered, “I love you,” to my big brother.
Mom said her goodbyes and that she’d see him next Sunday, before we walked with arms around each other back down the beach.
“There are my girls.” Dads voice moved across the porch as we came up the steps.
“Hey, Daddy.” I smiled, but he saw my puffy eyes and took it like a hit to the gut. Like he did every time I cried.
Mom wrapped herself around his middle and he pulled her closer with one arm, extending the other to me. “Come here, Charlie. Give your old man a hug.”
I folded easily into his side and inhaled deeply. Dad smelt like cedar and the Brute cologne he’d worn my entire life; he too smelled like home.
Dad was approaching the end of his sixties and he wore it well. The hair he had left was almost entirely grey now, and like my mom, he was healthy. Fit from afternoons spent playing pickle ball at the club and weekends losing to my mom at golf.
“Let’s get you girls inside.” He rubbed our shoulders and made the burr sound.
“I’ll make some lunch and you can tell us both about the gala now that your father is home,” Mom agreed.
Following them inside, I collapsed into an armchair, while Dad proceeded to build a fire.
I told them about Kevin and his boring date, and Leighton and her new one, while mom made soup for lunch. I told them of Beau Callaway and his donation, but not that he’d asked me out. And I brought them a copy of my speech as I did each year, knowing they’d read it when I’d gone home.
Lastly, I showed them a few of the pictures I’d taken on my phone of the event set-up, one of me and the team, but also a few Emma had taken of me at the podium at the beginning of my speech.
Mom said I looked beautiful, but I thought I looked sad.
“Henry would be proud of you, Charlie.” Dad kissed the top of my head, taking my soup bowl to the sink.
I felt guilty.
This was what was left of my family, just the three of us, and the tragedy that had brought us closer. I hadn’t been visiting as often as I used to; once a week had turned into once every two weeks, and now, once a month.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been out as often.” My eyes fell to the surface of their kitchen table.
Mom put her hand over mine and tapped it lightly. “Life gets busy, sweetheart.”
“Now, which one of you girls wants to lose a game of three-handed whist?” Dad clapped his hands together and rubbed them eagerly.
I laughed, and Mom did too.
Dad, as well as fishing, was also terrible at cards, unless it was crib. It drove him crazy the way Mom could tell how he sorted the cards in his hand from across the table.
Their marriage had been through hell and back again, but they were still in love and were still a team, even if mom did beat him most of the time.
And she did beat him at almost everything.
“Bye, sweetheart.” Mom waved from under the porch light, tucked against my dad’s side. “Drive safely.”
“I will!” I hollered through the open window and over the sound of my engine.
Dad waved too. “Call us when you get home.”
My parents were the kind of people that cared if you got home safe, and those were the best kind of people.
“I will!” I shouted again, before pulling out of their driveway.
The clock on my microwave told me it was a little after eight in the evening when I got home. I was quick about going through my evening routine. I showered and slathered myself in lotion before collapsing in a heap on the sofa with my laptop in hand.
Powering it on, I noticed an email from Kevin’s work account with two attachments.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Photos
Event photographer forwarded some of the promotional images from the gala. I put these in your personal folder.