The singer finished and sat, marking my turn. The poem was in my purse, then between my fingers, then resting on a podium stand as I stood before the people who loved Rick, their eyes on me for words of comfort. But the eyes I felt the most were Wade's, like a stone tied around my ankle, dragging me down, down into the dark.
I looked down at the poem, took a breath, and willed myself not to cry.
* * *
Life is a walk,
A very long walk
That begins with a crawl,
A toddle and tumble.
But we walk on,
Sometimes to trip or fall,
Sometimes to run and laugh
Throwing our faces up to the sky
And our voices to the wind.
* * *
Friends come and go
Through the very long walk,
Our paths meeting,
Sometimes parting,
Sometimes meeting again,
Sometimes not.
But we weather the days we have
Finding comfort and joy
In togetherness.
* * *
When we meet the one,
The one to walk with us,
The one to hold our hand,
The one whose arms we fill
When the nights are cold,
The one to comfort
When their tears fall,
Trail of diamonds
On a porcelain cheek.
This is when we feel
The value of our lives.
* * *
We walk through the spring,
Our eyes on the long blades of grass
Reaching for the sun
The smell of life and beginnings
Filling up our souls;
* * *
We walk through the summer,
Lazy in the heat
Warmed by that sun
Which coaxed the blossoms from buds
Opening their petals to offer themselves
Freely, gladly;
* * *
We walk through the fall,
And the green leaves breathe their last
In a riot of color as they languish
The tree yawns and stretches bare branches
To sleep, just for a while;
* * *
We walk through the winter,
And the cold is bitter
The days of spring and life gone
The quiet deafening, a fog with no edges
But still we hold hands: it vanquishes our fear.
* * *
And when our walk is done,
The miles behind us,
A trail of footprints
Converging, parting;
When we look behind us
At all that has passed,
The ones we love,
What we leave behind,
What we cherish,
Is what makes our lives
Worth living.
Wade
Elliot didn't meet my eyes again, only folded up her paper and walked off the stage with her head down, though I willed her to look up, waiting for her to sit next to me so I could hold her, take her pain and press it against mine until they were the same. But as my fingertips tingled, imagining themselves against her skin, she kept walking, passing me by to sit in the pew behind me.
My body went rigid, every muscle tense from my jaw to my thighs, leaving my lungs empty. A professor from Columbia made his way to the podium to read an Emerson poem, my eyes on my father's coffin, more alone than I'd ever been in my life.
She didn't want me, didn't even want to be near me. I'd broken her, just as I feared, and now … now …
Nothing made sense. Not the things I wanted. Not the things I'd lost. Not the moment I found myself in or the moments to come. Not my uniform, scratching at my neck like a noose, and not the hard pew under me where hundreds of people had sat, saying goodbye to someone they loved for the last time.
I could feel the letter in the inside pocket of my jacket, resting against the backs of the medals I didn't feel like I'd earned pinned to my chest. That paper reminded me that I had one job left to do before I could find peace for a moment. And I needed peace before I succumbed to the war inside of me.
"Catch the Wind" was sung as my sisters sobbed silently beside me, but nothing could reach me through the veil. And when the song was through, it was my turn. I stood, walking up to the podium, keeping my eyes down as I teetered on the precipice of my anguish.
I cleared my throat, pressing my palms against the surface on either side of the letter I'd written to my father.
"This piece of paper sat on my desk, blank and mocking me for days before I was able to write a single word. It was empty, and I'd been tasked to fill it with an explanation of what he meant to me, what he meant to everyone he knew. A description of his accomplishments and platitudes about how he lived.
"To say he lived would have been untrue. He didn't just live — he breathed life.
"I could have talked about his years at Columbia and the influence he had there. I could have told you about the books of poetry he wrote, or about his love of words or gifts as an orator. I could have told you how he liked his eggs or took his coffee, or which of his sweaters was his favorite, or how he always slept on one side of the bed, as if my mother were still sleeping next to him. But that wasn't who he was.
"How could I answer that question? How could I put into words who he was and what he meant? Because that story is different for every one of us. Each of you sitting before me knows in your own way what he meant to you, and that's why you're all here.
"Maybe it was because he supported you — it was one of his favorite things to do. He believed in all of us, an unflinching hope that we would all see our potential realized. Maybe he taught you things that you'd have otherwise never known. I know that for me, that was true. He taught me how to tie my shoes and how to read. He taught me how to love unconditionally and how to forgive, though those lessons were lost on me later in life, when they mattered the most. But even in the end, he taught me grace and compassion, even tried to teach me how to grieve him. Of everyone, he knew how impossible that task was, but he believed in me even then.
"In grieving, he asked us to celebrate him. He asked us to remember him. He asked us to live because in living, we would honor him. I am not his only legacy. His legacy will live on forever in every heart and every mind in this room. So live, and live well. Take all of the things that he taught you and keep him alive too."
I finally looked up, and my eyes found her as they always did.
Emotion bent her brows, her lips hidden behind her handkerchief, her eyes pinched closed, the line of her long lashes against her cheek visible from even afar. But that wasn't what clamped my throat closed. It wasn't what set my pulse galloping or the heat climbing up my neck as tears from my words burned my eyes.
It was Jack's arm around her, her body curled into his side, his face, which didn't hold sorrow but something else, something sinister as he watched me watch them with defiance flickering behind his eyes.
She'd given herself to me, but it hadn't changed anything. We were here again, in purgatory for eternity.
I scooped up my letter after a split second of shock. But I couldn't sit down, couldn't stop moving. Jeannie held Sadie, nodding at me once as I passed — she'd take care of them, because I couldn't.
I rushed down the stairs and out the side door, not knowing what I was doing, not knowing where I would go. I only knew I couldn't stay there. It was too much. My father in a box made of oak and satin. My sisters crying, dressed in black. Elliot lost, lost to me as she ever was. Me, lost to myself.
The snow crunched under my feet, hand in my pocket around my hat, and I was halfway across the courtyard when I heard my name from her lips.
I turned, my chest rising and falling with shallow breaths — I couldn't get more than a sip at a time, like I was suffocating — the air puffing from my lips
in foggy bursts.
"Wait," she called, her face touched with pink, nose and cheeks and chin. Her eyes were big and dark, shining and shimmering. "Where are you going?" The words were broken, lilting with emotion.
"I can't do this," I answered and turned to walk away, but she grabbed my arm.
"Wade, please. You can't leave, not right now."
I turned to face her, my words cold and hard, like my hands, like my heart. "There's no reason for me to stay."
I tried not to watch the snowflakes that fell on her cheeks and melted, the specks of white in her hair and on the shoulders of her black dress, on her rosy lips that parted, trembling with the words she was afraid to say. They were words I couldn't wait for, words I'd never hear. So I walked away, leaving her standing in the snow, the darkness of her marring the blanket of snow like the gash of my heart.
19
Ground Zero
The quiet point
Of impact,
The sooty blankness,
Tells tale of all
That was lost.
* * *
-M. White
* * *
Elliot
I stood in Rick's library, surrounded by the chatter of dozens of people in black and the sound of Bach filling the spaces between, my eyes across the room on nothing, my ears straining to hear the front door in the hopes that it would mark his presence. But he never came.
Hours had passed since I'd seen him, hours that gave me no relief. And rather than speak to the guests who had come to pay their respects, I followed Sophie like a shadow, offering myself as support when she needed, even if it was just in the form of a warm hand or a word of encouragement as she handled the party by herself, without her brother by her side.
She kept a cellophane lid on herself, thin and transparent to me who knew her so well, but to everyone else, she seemed the picture of strength, accepting condolences and offering those of her own. She shepherded her sister, who was morose, attention turned inward, keeping her away from those who would pry, who would speak clumsily. Sadie's best friend had shown up just after the wake started, and the girls disappeared. I was grateful for that, because Sophie needed me. So there I was.
My family lurked around the bar, eating and drinking and gossiping until the kids finally had had enough. And with their exit, my burden was lighter. Jack hung back, asking me again if I was all right with his hand on my arm like I was his, and I let him because I didn't have the strength to fight.
Jeannie and Lou managed the gathering itself, their presence another blessing, Ben at Lou's elbow all day or answering the door, the honorary usher, everyone keeping things running while Sophie did her duty, even though I knew it took everything out of her, even though she wanted to be alone.
That's what no one ever tells you. Funerals are a selfless act, a long day of grief to share with others whether you want to or not. They're not about the ones closest to the impact of the loss — those closest must endure the arduous day with their grief put on display, a tamped down, quiet version of the screaming truth. The others feel the loss but don't have to hide it, don't have to pretend, don't have to give in a time where they have nothing to give.
But Sophie gave. She gave alone when Wade should have been there, shouldering it with her. But he was gone, not participating, grieving on his own. As much as I understood, I hated him for it. I hated him for running, for hiding, for grieving somewhere no prying eyes could see. I hated him for leaving Sophie here. I hated him for hurting her. For hurting me. For hurting.
And somehow, I loved him too, even though our love had been ground down to dust, blown away by the lightest breeze.
It was dark by the time the last guests had gone. I helped clean up the house and pack the food away, stopping only a few times to pour Sophie a very strong whiskey Coke. She sat drinking it silently in the library, her eyes on the fire, alone for the first time all day.
Sadie had gone to her friend's to spend the night, and Jeannie left a bit after as Lou and Ben waved goodbye in the hallway. His arm was around her, her body leaning against his, the two of them the picture of the exhaustion I felt. So I thanked them for all they'd done, which was more than they could ever be repaid for, and I sent them to bed, clicking off the lights behind them as I made my way back to Sophie.
Her eyes were glassy after the series of drinks I'd supplied, and she didn't look up as I sat down next to her in the dark room.
"He didn't come home," she said, her voice rough from disuse.
I drew a long breath, training my eyes on the fire. "No, he didn't."
"I can't believe I just did that alone."
"Me neither, but you did, and you did it well."
She chuffed.
"I mean it. You survived today, which was the sum of what you needed to do. Now it's behind you."
Her face fell, slipping into apathy. "Now I just have the whole rest of my life to live without Dad."
I swallowed hard, tears stinging my eyes again, just when I thought they'd run dry.
"Why would he leave like that, Elliot? Why would he just … just abandon us like that, right then? Today, of all days."
I didn't answer for a second, pausing to find my footing. "I … I think it's my fault."
Her face swung to mine, apathy gone, anger in its place. "If he left because of you, then he's more of a coward than I realized."
It was my turn to look away, wanting to tell her everything in my heart, but there would be time for that. Just not tonight. "I don't think it's only because of me, but … Sophie, I make everything harder for him, harder than it has to be, that's all I'm saying. It's another layer of pain atop something already impossible for him to deal with." I blinked slowly and took another breath. "I shouldn't have been here so much. I shouldn't have done this to him."
She grabbed my hand and squeezed, leaning toward me, begging me with her body to look at her, so I did.
"Elliot, you didn't run out of a funeral. You were there for me all day. You have been the strength we've needed to help us through it, even Wade. In fact, you were the only person who thought to chase him out and make sure he was all right, even though he's been cruel to you. I don't care what he said to you or why you feel like this is your fault, but it isn't. It was his choice to behave the way he has. He acts like this isn't hard for all of us."
"No, please don't say that. He knows, he just … I don't think he knows what to do with himself."
"So he runs away? It's so self-serving that I don't even know what to say. If only we could all run away when things get hard." She shook her head, leaning back on the couch, eyes on the fire and drink to her lips.
Flames licked the logs, flicking and jumping in yellows and oranges, whites and blues. "I think it's best if I don't come to the internment tomorrow."
Her brow bent, the hurt on her face in every plane and angle. "What?"
"Sophie, Wade needs to be there, and he needs to be there without me."
"But … Elliot, Dad loved you. He would want you there."
"I know, but Wade needs to be there. Don't you see? It's easier if I'm not there. He can have that final moment … it's his father. I've said goodbye, Sophie. I don't need to be there for this, not like the three of you do."
Her chin quivered, nostrils flaring as her breath hitched. "I hate this. I hate this so much."
"Me too," I said to the fire, wishing they could burn the words up, burn them down, make them disappear.
Wade
My frozen feet hit the pavement, one in front of the other, over and over, left, right, left until miles passed beneath them. The sun went down, dropping the temperature even more.
I'd found my way home for a moment, and I stood across the street in the falling snow, willing myself to walk up those stairs, through that door.
But I couldn't.
Nothing was right, nothing in the world. The air was too sharp. The city too loud. The sidewalk too hard, sending shocks up my legs with every step.
&nb
sp; Thoughts had appeared and disappeared like ghosts, saying everything before dissolving into vapor. He was gone. I left my sisters, left his funeral. I failed him, and I hated myself for it. I left Elliot. She gave herself to me because that's who she is, because she gives everything, and then I pushed her away. I could have had her back, but instead I ruined her. I'd ruined everything.
I had all the excuses. I had no excuse.
I had all the feelings, all the thoughts. I could make no sense of them.
It was late, and I was so cold and so far away that I decided to hail a cab. I hadn't realized just how cold I was until I tried to give Dad's address — my address, the house was mine now — and my lips and tongue were sluggish, forming the words like Dad's after the stroke. And as the heat hit me, hit my hands, my legs, my feet, they started to tingle and burn, the frozen nerves firing painfully, coming back to life.
But I didn't want to feel, not anything. Not my icy hands, not my icy heart. I didn't want to face my sisters after leaving them, because I couldn't explain. I had no words for what I felt, no way to tell her that I couldn't pretend. I couldn't be calm for the sake of others. I couldn't listen to people like Elliot's father, who didn't know Dad at all, tell me how much he'd be missed. That they were sorry for my loss. I couldn't stand next to Elliot and pretend I was fine.
She was my curse, the wound that never healed, the truth-bringer. I couldn't hide my feelings around her, couldn't mask my pain for my father. And the truth was, I didn't know who I was anymore, didn't know what I wanted, didn't know how to live.
That was what Dad wanted. He wanted me to live, and I didn't know how.
I'd failed him there, too.
My hands and feet were on fire by the time we reached the house, and I took comfort in its darkness, hoping everyone was asleep as I climbed the steps and unlocked the door.
Everything was quiet, the house all shadows, but as I hung up my coat, I saw the fire flickering in the library and made my way down the hall.