Malaise

by Max Henry

  “Sure, we can stop off.”

  Carver drives us around the back streets to a shared parking lot behind the row of stores. He could have had any one of the shopfront parks, but I know why he took us the long way around: to avoid the yellow Serious Crash Unit paint that’s still clear as day on the road at Conway Lane. I haven’t accepted what happened to Den yet—I’m still living in a peaceful state of numb ignorance. If I don’t see any clear reminders of him, I’m all good.

  And somehow Carver just gets it. He knew what to do to save me from the stark reminder of how this spiral down into a living hell started, without being asked.

  I could kiss him.

  In fact, I think I will.

  He widens his eyes in surprise as I lunge across the parked car to grasp his face in both hands and show him my appreciation. A small hum sounds in his chest as I tug his bottom lip between mine.

  “What was that for?” His hands settle on my hips, their favourite place.

  “To say thank you for avoiding… you know.”

  He runs his palms up and down my sides and shrugs a shoulder. “I thought seeing the marking and all the flowers there might have been hard.”

  “It would have been.” I let go and settle back in my seat, yet Carver takes hold of my hand—not as keen apparently to break our connection. “I know I’ll have to face it eventually, just not today.”

  “You know,” he says, flexing his free hand on the bottom of the steering wheel. “I’ve been thinking that perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea to call your parents today. Just to make sure they understand that despite everything, you’re going to the funeral. They might want to arrive together, or something.” He shrugs. “It can’t hurt.”

  He’s not wrong; it can’t. “Is it silly that the thought of calling them makes me feel sick?”

  He shakes his head, giving my hand a squeeze. “Not at all. Just means you’re nervous, and that you must still care.”

  “Caring and wanting to fix our problems are two different things, though.” I stare out the windscreen at a sheet of newspaper that blows along the alleyway.

  “I didn’t say you had to try and make things right between you all straight away. Those kinds of things take time. I more meant to come to a truce for the sake of the day.”

  I nod, still looking away.

  “Just be the bigger person, Meg. Be the adult if they can’t, and call about the funeral.” He opens his door and lets go of my hand, slipping out from beside me. “You can do it now while we walk through to the shop.”

  I turn and watch him as he steps out into the sunshine, intimidating as always in his dark jeans and T-shirt. Intimidating, that is, to everyone but me. I used to look at him the same when I didn’t know him, as some huge mystery of a guy you wouldn’t want to cross in a dark alley. But knowing what I do now, having an insider’s view of how considerate and selfless he is, I can’t look at him without feeling anything but pride. Pride in him for being who he is despite the shit hand he’s been dealt in life, and pride at the fact he’s mine. I get to keep him. At least, if he doesn’t go to jail.

  Apprehension stabs at my chest as I get out of the car to join him. I use my right hand to scroll through to Mum and Dad’s number while Carver links his fingers through my left. We walk side by side as I bring the phone to my ear and anxiously wait out the rings. If my heart were to beat any faster, I think Carver would be carrying me limp and unconscious back to the car.

  “Hello, Meg.” Damn caller ID.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Unless you’re ringing to tell me you’ve told that criminal to get lost, and you’re ready to join a convent, I don’t think I want to hear it.”

  I glance up at Carver, and he meets my gaze with clear concern. “I wanted to ring and say I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “Why the hell wouldn’t you?”

  “We-well,” I stutter. “I… it’s just with everything, you know, that’s been happening—”

  “Regardless, Meg, I would expect you to be at your brother’s funeral.” There’s no softness to his tone, no understanding. It’s almost as though he’s telling me off for being so naïve as to bring it up.

  “I just wanted you to know in case you wanted us to show up together, is all,” I whisper.

  Carver tugs on my hand to get me to stop, and I curl into his chest, his arm around my shoulders as Dad wraps up our short and terse conversation.

  “Last thing I need is people asking questions, so for once you’re finally right about something, Meg—I do want us to show up together. The ceremony starts at three. I expect you at home by two-thirty at the latest so we can arrive as a family.” He sighs. “And Meg… you bring that jailbird with you and mark my words, you will not be allowed in to say farewell to Den. That thug so much as drops you off outside the house, and you can kiss any future relationship with your mother and me goodbye. It’s your choice.”

  I barely choke out a, “Fine,” before I lose control of my damned tears for what feels like the hundredth time this week. Fuck the ability to cry.

  I disconnect and keep the phone grasped tight in my hand, the bite of the metal shell as it digs into my palm a welcome respite from the ache in my heart. I thought I was over this: the rejection, the failed expectations, and the injustice of it all. Why? Why the fuck did my family have to be the one who fell apart so spectacularly?

  Worst summer of my life, for sure.

  “Take it he was the same as usual?” Carver murmurs, his hand knitted in my hair as he holds me tight.

  “Yeah,” I sob. “Told me you have to stay away or he’d ban me from the funeral, which is fine, I mean, I know it’s not fine, but it’s expected, you know? It’s just… why does he have to be such an arsehole about it all?”

  “Because he can’t control you anymore. You’re growing up and making your own choices, and I bet that scares the shit out of him.”

  “Why? Did he expect me to do as he said my whole life?”

  “No.” He releases his hold on me and wipes the tears from under my eyes. “But I bet he didn’t expect this transition to all happen so fast, especially after losing your brother.”

  I sigh as he brings his thumb back to wipe under my eyes again. “I guess you could be right. We’ve all got our reasons for how we react to these kinds of things. I just wish we didn’t have to become strangers to each other while we work through it, that’s all.”

  “You know what else?”

  I shrug. “What?”

  “We need to get you waterproof mascara as well.”

  I chuckle and let him wipe away the smears of black with his thumbs as best he can before we stroll the last metres to the shops. Carver walks with a smile on his face, his hand in mine, and as I look up to him I realise that even in the darkest hour, I seem to have found my star to guide me.

  TWENTY

  My feet ache in my new shoes even after the short walk from where Carver dropped me off two blocks back. He insisted he drive me most of the way to Mum and Dad’s, saying that the seven or so kilometres from the motel would be too far. Turns out he’s right. Guy must know a thing or two about new shoes, huh? Probably should have broken them in first. But it’s fair to say that I’ve been a bit too preoccupied to be worrying about my damn choice of footwear.

  Problem number one, aside from the obvious: walking into the funeral as a united front with my damn parents when I literally can’t stand to be anywhere near them.

  Housing my heart in my throat seems to be a new thing of late, so I can’t say I’m that surprised at how I feel while I wait for them to answer the door. I’m considering knocking again, my palm sweaty in my balled fist, when Mum opens the entrance wide.

  “You’re late.” She steps away to let me in.

  “By one minute, which I pretty much spent waiting out on the front step for you to answer, so….”

  Dad appears from fuck knows where, inches from where I stand. “Not today, Meg,” he warns. The spider veins around his nose
are bright red—a sure indicator he’s already angry before we’ve even really started. “You zip up that damn attitude, or so help me—”

  “You’ll what?” I ask, unable to help myself. “Kick me out?”

  His nostrils flare.

  Match point, arsehole.

  I sidestep him and head through to the living room. On the up side the house no longer looks like an illegal florist operation. But it also looks as though they don’t have kids… at all. No pictures of us. No sign anywhere that these people have two—albeit only one alive—kids who make them proud. Nothing.

  “What did you do with our family pictures?” I ask Mum, pointing to where they used to sit spread around the TV.

  “They’re in the hall cupboard.” She stands before the oval mirror in the hall, fussing with her hair.

  “Why?”

  “Why not?” Dad counters.

  “I wasn’t asking you.”

  Mum sucks in a deep breath, her hands stilled either side of her head. Her eyes close, showing the deep brown eyeshadow she hardly wears, and her mouth thins into a firm line.

  Oh, shit.

  “How dare you?” she asks in a cold, even tone as she opens her eyes and finds me in the reflection. “How dare you come back into this house, after everything you’ve done to ruin this family, and walk around asking questions that you know will get a rise out of everyone, just to cause more trouble?”

  “I was asking a simple question, Mum. Not trying to cause trouble.”

  “Bullshit,” she says scathingly. “All you have to do today is pretend that for once you can put this family’s interests before your own.”

  “Well, hey,” I sass. “If you think you can too, then I guess I’ll try real hard.”

  “Meg,” Dad warns.

  “No.” I stand on the opposite side of the room to both of them, Mum now in the doorway. It’s a perfect metaphor for how we’re divided. “You keep making me shoulder all the blame for this… this breakdown. I won’t. I’ll take some of the blame, because yeah, I didn’t handle things the best. But you two need to own up to your part, too.”

  “We’re all a little tense right now,” Mum says tersely.

  “Yes, we are,” I agree. “But the thing is, I’m the only one getting flak for not knowing what to do without Den here. It sucks,” I shout, welcoming the anger that staves off more fucking tears. “But you know what? It sucks even more that I wish I was dead too.”

  “You don’t mean that,” Dad scorns.

  “But I do. Because surely it’s better than how it feels to be rejected by your own parents, cast aside by the people who are supposed to be there no matter what.”

  “We don’t know how to handle you anymore,” Mum yells, fists at her sides. “You act out, threaten us with these kinds of things—”

  “The truth?” I ask.

  She growls at my interruption and lashes her arm out to the closest thing to her—a vase that sits on a lamp table beside the door between the hall and living room. It crashes to the carpet, bounces, and shatters on the tiles in the entryway. Mum bursts into tears and rushes up the hallway to their room, slamming the door behind her.

  “All of this,” Dad thunders. “It’s deliberate. Why else would you be hanging around those no-hoper criminals? Why else, if not to get attention from your mother and me?” He steps forward, finger in my face. “Well, guess what, Meg? All you’ve done is seal our resolve to leave you to go it alone.”

  “Good! Because those ‘no-hopers’ are the only people who give a fuck about me at the moment. They’re the ones who were there to listen when I needed to talk it out, and Brett,” I say, feeling strange at using his actual name, “is the one who makes me feel like I could actually be something. He does what you two should, and encourages me to do well at school, points out my strengths and makes me feel confident enough to give this shitty thing called life a fucking try.”

  “Well good for him,” Dad snaps, “because he’ll be the only one you’re seeing after today.”

  “Fine!”

  ***

  Thanks to our argument, and the fact Mum needed to redo her make-up afterward, we arrived twenty-five minutes late for Den’s service. The murmur coasts along the attendees in a wave as we walk the gauntlet up the aisle to our reserved seats at the front.

  The pastor quiets the congregation and starts his sermon. I stare at my new shoes while he rushes through the standard prayers and spot a fragment of the cream vase that was still scattered across the entryway when we left.

  To look at her now, you wouldn’t know my mother had lost the plot. Her perfectly pulled chignon sits at the nape of her neck, just touching on the crisp grey blouse she wears underneath her best black pantsuit. Her make-up is flawless once more, and the right amount of concealer and eyeliner has been applied to hide the dark bags under her eyes and draw attention to her bright blue irises, yet not so much as to cause a racoon effect when the inevitable tears start.

  I turn my head to the right as the pastor starts in on the personal pieces my parents picked out for him, and note the extra lines around Dad’s eyes. What frightens me, though, is the nothingness in his gaze. He stares up at the coffin, no ounce of emotion to be found on his lifeless features. He never was one to openly profess how he felt to us kids—an “I love you” was a rare occasion—but still, this new level of numbness is one I don’t think he’ll ever step back from.

  I pick the shard of ceramic out of my shoe, much to Mum’s disgust, and turn it over between my fingers, relishing the little spikes of pain it gives me when the ends pierce my skin. A distraction: something to focus on other than the pristinely polished cedar coffin displayed front and centre before me. We’re seated so damn close that Den’s carriage to the other side is all I can see when I lift my head.

  So I stare at the floor—for the blessings, for the eulogies, and for the tear-filled memoirs from my parents. I declined when they asked through gritted teeth if I’d like to speak at the service. What can I say that shouldn’t just be spoken to Den? I had my time with him this morning when I visited the funeral director’s before I headed to Mum and Dad’s. I made my peace when I slipped the letter I penned during my insomnia last night into his breast pocket.

  They put him in a suit. Den never wore a fucking suit in his life. Why the hell would he want to rest eternally in one? I press my tongue against the still tender flesh on my cheek from where I bit it hard enough to bleed in an effort to keep my opinions to myself. Den in a suit. Dad glances down at me as I shake my head at my private musings. His brow finally shifts, deepening the creases between his eyes in a silent warning to pay attention.

  Some friends of Den’s step up and say a few awkward words before the pastor thanks them and starts the final prayers. The fact we’re doing a religious service is a joke in itself. When was the last time my family actually attended church on a Sunday? Mum and Dad were happy enough to snub God when he wasn’t of any use to them, but now they’re terrified if they don’t sing his praises at Den’s farewell that my brother will be damned to eternal hell.

  Fucking joke.

  My anger grows when I twist in my seat to look at who has taken the time to come today. People who barely had the time of day for him when he was alive sit in the pews as though they would have been the first person he called in a crisis: people like motherfucking Jasper and Amelia. What the hell?

  I hold it together throughout the anecdotes of Den’s life, throughout the memories shared that I remember myself, since I was there too, growing up next to a man who didn’t deserve to be taken this soon. I keep my shit in check when the pastor blesses his coffin, and I don’t even flinch when my mother lets out a body-shaking sob to my left.

  But the minute those steel rollers start up, sending him off toward the incinerator, I break. There’s no denying he’s dead when they’re about to fry him into a pile of grey ash. There’s no “Surprise. We got it wrong!” as Den emerges from behind a curtain to raucous cheers from the crowd
.

  He’s gone. He won’t come into my room to check up on me after I’ve snuck home after curfew. No more bickering over who’s having the last cornflakes, and no more borrowing his sweaters on lazy Sundays.

  No more Den.

  Ever.

  Dad’s hand drops to my leg to try and hold me in the seat, but my mind is made up. I push him off and stride down the aisle to the tune of “Free Bird” by Lynyrd Skynyrd. The haunting guitar wraps around me as I escape into the foyer and fall to my knees in the nearest corner. Morose chords echo the wailing of my heart as I finally let it all out, sobbing into my knees as the song wraps up with the guitar solo Den used to love so much.

  People leave and silence reigns supreme. Some of the attendees hesitate when they see me curled in the corner of the wide foyer, yet others walk on by as though nothing is amiss—Jasper and Amelia included. I couldn’t give a fuck what they think, any of them. Maybe some of the people here know this pain? Maybe they don’t? Either way, I need this moment to let go, and no amount of social etiquette is going to persuade me to stand the fuck up and get it together.

  If I can’t break down this one time in my life, then when the hell would it be okay to?

  I keep my face buried in my knees until the footsteps that vibrate through the floor slow, and the voices that have risen around me dull to occasional snippets of conversation. Somebody asks for our address, most people pass their condolences on to my parents, and a few say nothing as they pass by me to reach the hors d’oeuvres set out by the funeral home.

  My tears dry, and my breathing slowly returns as close to normal as I can expect. I twist my head to the side and open my eyes, expecting to find Mum and Dad standing at the exit together, united, but find Mum alone with the same sour expression I’ve come to accept as completely normal this past week.

  “You want to grab a water and go for a walk?”