All the Lonely People

by Jen Marie Hawkins

  As terrible as I feel, I can’t imagine how awful that burden would be on top of everything else. I shake my head at him. “Don’t say that. You didn’t ruin anything. Everyone loves you.”

  “That’s debatable.” He leans against the side of the building. “Henry and I stopped getting along. He took up for Mum, because she was dying. I took up for Dad, but Dad couldn’t even look at me. I threw myself headlong into football for a distraction. Helped my game a bit, at least.” He half smiles.

  I half smile back at him. We stand in silence for a few moments until someone turns the corner of the alley. Henry stops for a moment when he sees us there, then speeds past us toward the back door.

  I want to tell him not to go, but I don’t say a word.

  Patrick whispers, “Jesus, did you hit him?”

  “What?” I turn to Patrick’s shocked expression. “No. Mons hit him.”

  “Again?”

  I nod.

  When he gets to the back door and puts his key in, he glances over at me. His expression is loaded with longing. My heart squeezes and I take a mental snapshot.

  Caption: why does it have to be this way

  He disappears inside the building.

  “What was that look? Is there… bloody hell. This is awkward. You aren’t related to him, but it’s weird, okay?” Patrick props his hands on his hips. I tear my eyes away from the closed back door. “I mean, if you two got married someday…”

  Behind all the pain on Patrick’s face, there’s a hint of humor. Of teasing.

  “We aren’t getting married.” I giggle. “We aren’t even speaking.”

  “You said a lot with your eyes just now.”

  “Yeah, we do that. It’s kind of our thing.”

  I glance at the back door again, willing it to open. But it doesn’t.

  “He fought us, you know.”

  I look over at Patrick.

  “On this whole thing. He said John was gone and we should do what’s best for you, and that the truth is always best served cold and up front.”

  I swallow. “That sounds suspiciously like something he would say.”

  “He stomped around yelling, threatening to tell you everything the moment you got here. Dad had to beg him. He finally agreed but said he wouldn’t lie to you if you came right out and asked.”

  I think back on all the opportunities he had to come clean but didn’t.

  “I was furious with him. This was a man’s final wish, and our mother’s final request, and he couldn’t honor it because it wasn’t convenient for him?” Patrick glances at the back door like he’s expecting him to come back, too. “We were going to tell you when I got back to London, just before you left to go home. He said that was manipulative, to wait until the last minute like that. I suppose I see his point now. Even though I worried he’d blow the whole thing before I got a chance to get to know you myself.”

  When he looks back at me, his eyes are glassed over. My breath catches. They’re undeniably Pop’s eyes.

  “Is that why you told me to avoid conversation with him?” I ask.

  “Kinda, yeah. But also because he’s a bloody wanker.”

  We both smile.

  I lost my father. But maybe I gained a brother.

  Chapter 53

  : Misery :

  I THOUGHT IT’D be a relief to get away from the Fox Den.

  But after spending time with Patrick, I feel lost. Listening to him talk about my hometown, my best friends—it made me want to hear more. I’m somehow homesick for both North Carolina and London, even though I haven’t left yet.

  I pull my phone out of my suitcase and power it on for the first time in almost two days.

  When neither of them replies, I refold the contents of my suitcase and spread it all out over the floral hotel bedspread. For the third time. It’s a nervous habit. Something I’m doing to keep my hands busy as the truth of what I’m feeling settles in.

  Mama looks up from her phone. “Are you okay?”

  I miss my best friends, but I’m not ready to go home yet. I can’t leave. Not yet.

  “I registered for a photography workshop at Saint Catherine’s University.” I sink to the mattress and face her on the other bed. “And I still want to go.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Oh?”

  “I’d planned to ask you if I could stay longer, but I hadn’t gotten around to it when everything happened. It starts in ten days.”

  “Josephine.” She sets her phone down on the night table and sits up. “I think it’s best if you come home.”

  I tense my jaw and shake my head. “I think we have some pretty definitive proof that you don’t always know what’s best for me, Mama. You don’t even know what’s best for you.”

  She draws back like I’ve slapped her. The truth hurts sometimes. I’m feeling bold, so I ask her something I’ve always wanted to know. I clench my hands together in my lap and conjure all my strength.

  “Why did you erase all those emails he sent me?”

  She opens her mouth to respond, then closes it again. Regroups. “I was worried about how much you were reading them. You were so stuck in denial.”

  “You had no right—”

  “I printed them all out for you, honey. I have them. Every last one. They’re in a folder in my desk and I’ll give them to you when we get home.”

  I swallow the shock. I can’t find the right words to express my relief, because thank you doesn’t feel appropriate. I wait a beat.

  “I really want to stay here and do the workshop.”

  She takes a deep breath and her eyes grow wide with the beginnings of defeat.

  “And where will you stay?”

  It isn’t a no. I sit up straighter.

  “I made a friend here who goes to Saint Catherine’s. I’ll ask her. Or I’ll stay in a hotel—maybe even this one. I’ve been thrifty all summer. I can probably swing it.”

  “But what about your appointments with Dr. Robert?”

  “I’m not going to see Dr. Robert anymore. I’ll try someone new, but I don’t want to go back to him.”

  Her mouth hangs slack, but she doesn’t say a word. I keep the confessions coming.

  “I quit taking my medications. Things were better, at first. Now I’m not so sure. I think I may need different ones.”

  She takes a deep breath and twists the ring on her left hand—the one Pop gave her, the one she never stopped wearing.

  “You are old enough to make informed choices about your health. I can’t force pills down your throat every day. I tried that, and you told me what I wanted to hear so you could spit them back out.”

  I move over to sit next to her on the bed. “They didn’t fix me.”

  She nods. “You’re right. There’s no magic pill for grief or sadness or depression. But sometimes they do help.”

  I think about what Henry said to me a few days ago.

  “Pop depended on substances to mute his pain. I don’t want to be like that. I’m already genetically predisposed to using it as a crutch.” I take a deep breath and look up at her. “But I also don’t want to refuse help when I know I need it. I’ll see another doctor. One here, even, if George has recommendations.”

  She wrings her hands, blinking more than necessary. “How long does the workshop last?”

  My heart stutters. I stand up and dig in my bag for the green flyer, then hand it to her. She unfolds it and stares at the dates and information for a long time.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” I suppress the urge to smile. Smiling doesn’t feel right. Not yet.

  She nods. “We’ll figure out all the details tomorrow.”

  * * *

  : : : : :

  * * *

  Once I’m settled in bed, I text Zara.

  I can’t let myself think about what he might’ve told her right now. When I don’t reply, she sends me a string of additional texts.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, but my phone dings again.

 
; I type about twelve different variations of a response but settle on this.

  * * *

  When I’m sure Mama is asleep, I get dressed in the dark, slide my shoes on, and slip out of our hotel room. The only thing that has made me feel better since Pop died was being able to talk about it with Henry. The thought of losing that is gutting, even if I am mad at him.

  Everything feels messy and broken, but not ruined. I rehearse my speech as I make my way to the tenth-floor elevator.

  I’m really mad at you for keeping this secret, but I forgive you.

  On the descent to the lobby, I hover near the back of the elevator.

  You were just doing what you were asked, what you thought was right.

  The elevator dings at each floor.

  But I’m still mad.

  People crowd in and file out. I lean against the back wall and wait.

  But I can forgive you. Because all summer, you listened to me. You were there for me. Above all, you respected me. You didn’t take advantage of me when it would’ve been really easy for you to. I would’ve let you.

  The elevator doors open to the lobby.

  And I’d still like to stay in London and take the workshop and learn more about photography. Because you helped me discover that I like it. That maybe I’m a little bit good at it. And I’ll always be grateful to you for that.

  The crowd disperses as I step off and continue my epic silent speech. But when I look up, he’s there.

  Henry. Is. There.

  He paces beside the elevator bank. Mumbling to himself. The bruise on his eye has morphed into shades of purple.

  I stop walking and somebody bumps into me from behind. The muttered apology is barely audible because at that moment, Henry’s eyes meet mine.

  I’m not sure who’s more surprised. He walks toward me.

  “What are you doing here?” I breathe.

  “I was going to text you.” His voice is cautious. “But I figured you wouldn’t answer.” He stops in front of me, a safe distance away.

  My throat aches to cry again, but I swallow it. “I might have answered.”

  He risks a grin. “Yeah?”

  I shrug. “I said might.”

  He smooths away his smile.

  “I came here to tell you that Nigel and I put something together. If you okay it, of course. At the Crow.” When I don’t say anything, he keeps talking, crossing and uncrossing his arms. Then fiddling with the ring on his thumb. “We invited some of your pop’s old friends. I thought—” He hesitates. “I thought maybe you’d like to meet them. Since you didn’t have the opportunity to give him a proper sendoff.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot and waits. “None of us gave him a proper sendoff.”

  Tears well up in my eyes.

  “Yes, I’d like that.” I nod.

  He looks like he wants to hug me, but he doesn’t. He takes a few steps backwards.

  “Monday. Seven o’clock.”

  I nod again.

  He points at me. “You’ll be there?”

  “I’ll be there.” I watch him leave, feeling my carefully planned speech evaporate.

  Chapter 54

  : All Together Now :

  THE SIGN ON the door reads Closed for a private party.

  A huge crowd is gathered inside.

  “You ready?” Mama asks as we stare into the plate glass windows of the Crow.

  I nod, even though I can’t stop trembling. This is what I wanted all along, but now that it’s right in front of me, I’m petrified.

  Nigel opens the door for us with a toothy smile. Laughter and conversation roar as we step inside. Nearly every table and booth is filled.

  I spot Patrick in a big round corner booth next to George. They both wave to us. I scan the crowd. No Henry. Mama hooks her arm into mine and leads me over to join them. A waitress brings us a pitcher of water and glasses. Patrick studies me as I scoot in next to him.

  “You good?” he asks me with a nudge.

  I nod and take inventory of the room. “I can’t believe how many people are here.”

  Patrick says, “Here comes another.”

  I meet Henry’s eyes as he approaches our table, carrying Patrick’s guitar.

  “Room for one more?” He looks directly at me. I nod. I barely slept the other night after our conversation in the lobby. Beating myself up for all the things I didn’t say. He pulls up a chair at the end of the table and passes the guitar to his brother.

  I glance over at Patrick as he props it on the floor between him and George. “Are you planning to play?”

  He shrugs, impish grin spreading over his face. “Never know. I’m full of surprises.”

  We all turn to the stage as Nigel does a mic check.

  “Thank you all for being here tonight on such short notice,” he says. “Nate meant a lot to all of us, and of course it only made sense to have a bit of an informal memorial for him while his family is in town.” He motions toward where Mama and I sit.

  “I know some of you have prepared some words about Nate, but you don’t have to have a perfect speech planned. If you’d like to say a few words—”

  Several hands go up at once.

  And that’s how it starts.

  They line up to share memories. The first is Walter Kingsley. He was the former drummer of Walrus Gumboot, who quit—long before I was born—to start a family. He talks about the camaraderie of the guys in the band, the way Pop was the leader and the glue that kept them all together.

  It doesn’t go unnoticed that none of those other members are here, which kind of reinforces his point. Without him, they all drifted away.

  Friends of Julia’s from university get up then, one by one. The last of them tells the story about how the resident advisor found Pop in the girl’s dorm. As it turns out, he was naked and playing his guitar in the showers on their floor. The story draws hearty laughs from the crowd.

  Then there’s the man who grew up in the boys’ home with Pop at Strawberry Field. Then a bar owner who took him to rehab. Friends who let him sleep on their couches when he was homeless. A former manager for the band, who quit to chase his own sobriety—at Pop’s suggestion.

  One after the next they go to the microphone to talk about what Pop meant to them. With each story it becomes clearer. Pop brought joy to these people’s lives.

  I glance over at Mama through my tears. I could pick her apart. I could stay mad at her. But I think about how she forgave Pop, forgave him before she even knew all the details. How she’s forgiven a dead woman, enough to welcome her son—the very proof of a heartbreaking betrayal—into our home with open arms and treat him like family.

  She lost more than I did. She lost her husband, her partner in parenting. But she forgave everyone who played a part in her loss. No questions asked.

  Mama and I are different in a lot of ways, but this is one way I could stand to be more like her. More forgiving.

  When everyone has shared, Nigel takes the microphone again.

  “Anyone else?”

  The room goes quiet. I only have to think about it for a second, before an invisible nudge makes me raise my hand.

  Mama’s eyes widen.

  “Are you sure?” she mouths. Everyone at the table stares at me. Even Nigel’s eyebrows rise as he calls on me. As I approach the stage this time, it isn’t like the night I got up to sing. It’s better and worse. Better because it doesn’t matter now if my delivery is imperfect or choked with tears; people will expect that. It’s worse, though, because the hope of him magically appearing is gone now.

  I step up to the microphone and face the crowd. Every face is a blur, but it doesn’t matter. There’s a kaleidoscope of auras and I feel the warmth emanating from each of them.

  “Thank you all for being here,” I tell them. “It means a lot to my family and me.” I glance up at Patrick when I say it. He smiles. “Though I’ve learned a lot about my father’s life during the time I’ve been in London, I’m still filling in a lot of bla
nks from the years he spent here before I was born. And maybe even after I was born. Hearing you all share your stories about him tonight is the most comforted I’ve felt since we lost him.”

  They all clap. Tears burn my eyes and I ask Pop for one last favor. Please, help me keep it together for this. I reach into my back pocket.

  “I’m going to read you a letter he sent me just before he died. Until this moment, only one other person knew about it. I kept it to myself for a long time because I didn’t want to share. I wanted it to be all mine. I realize now how selfish that was. So I want to share it all with you.”

  I read the letter. The room is dead silent, save for a few sniffles.

  When I glance up, I catch Mama’s expression. She’s crying.

  “Just so you all know, I’ve done everything he suggested we’d do here, except dance on the glass floor at the bridge.” Everyone laughs. “Heights kind of terrify me.”

  Henry’s eyes meet mine through the crowd. He’s smiling that smile.

  I tried for a long time to handle my grief on my own. That’s my biggest regret.

  Everyone here lost him, just like I did.

  “We all loved him,” I say. “Thank you for being here.”

  The room becomes a hug fest when I leave the microphone. As I descend the steps and return to my table, I’m stopped over and over by people who want to tell me something about Pop. How he helped them in some way, how he gave them his last dollar for cigarettes or pushed their car out of a ditch. He was a flawed man, but he left a mark on every life he touched.

  When I make it back to our corner booth, everyone is standing. Mama grabs me and hugs me for the longest time. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispers.

  “I need to give you something,” Patrick says. He reaches into the booth and picks up the guitar by the neck and outstretches it toward me.