My hand shot up to his chin, and I clutched it until my knuckles turned white. “I don’t love you, Derek.” I stared hard at his scrunched-up grin and the freckles that spotted his cheeks. “I wish you’d never come here. You’re not a member of this family. You’re just a kid that nobody wanted, and the only reason you’re here is that my parents felt sorry for you.” I could tell by the look on his face, none of this was sinking in, so I went for the kill strike. “Dad loved me more than you.” Even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true, but that didn’t matter. I just wanted to see the evil one hurt worse than he or my parents hurt me.
But he just laid there. His eyes looked a little less certain for a second, and then his mouth spread into a grin so wide I could see the gaps in his teeth where molars would have been in a healthier kid his age. More drool and a laugh. He seemed to think we were still playing the game.
Poke Casey. Make her mad.
His eyes widened with impish glee and gave no hint he understood that hurting me was wrong or that my anger with him was anything but entertaining.
Things are never so bad that they can’t get worse.
“I love you, Casey,” he gurgled.
Be thankful for what you have.
Ice-cold shame doused the anger burning in my throat. It settled deep in my gut and constricted my lungs. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
“What am I doing?”
I wasn’t a bully or a monster, and yet, here I was, blaming this kid for behavior he couldn’t control and that no one taught him not to do. I blamed him for his past and for my parents’ mistakes—for his parents’ mistakes. None of it was his fault. He hadn’t asked for it, and I was wrong.
I climbed off him and stood up, extending an arm to help him up. Derek grabbed my hand with his chubby fingers and pulled himself to his feet, his breath coming in great, heaving gasps.
“Come on, Derek,” I said. “We need to get you ready for dad’s funeral.”
“Dad?” The kid’s eyes widened. “Dad?” He smiled and started looking around us as if he thought Dad might walk into the room.
I wasn’t sure I had the strength for this. The boy hadn’t grasped the meaning of Dad’s death, and I had no words to make that right. I could only let it be what it was.
“If you go take a shower,” I offered, “I’ll fix your breakfast. Chocolate chip pancakes.”
His head bobbed up and down with excitement at the promise of his favorite morning treat, and he trotted down the hallway toward the bathroom, hopefully, to follow my instructions.
Before making breakfast, I went to his room and retrieved clean clothes for him to wear. He didn’t have a suit, but there were some dark pants that would work. I found one of the cheap sweaters Mom bought him. It had a fake collar, making it appear to be a layered set. It somehow seemed to make it look more appropriate. I pulled some briefs and a pair of dark socks from his dresser and laid the ensemble on his bed. His loafers were scuffed with mud, so I withdrew a dirty t-shirt from his clothes hamper and used it to wipe the vinyl uppers. I couldn’t get all the dirt off, but it would have to do for now. I dropped the shoes beside the bed and went to the kitchen to make the agreed-upon reward for his compliance.
I nibbled on peanut butter and crackers as I ransacked the pantry in search of pancake mix. I found it hidden in the back of the cabinet where foods requiring more than the most minimal preparation efforts languished, forgotten until I had time to make them. There wasn’t enough mix in the box. Spying the grocery list I’d left secured under a magnet on the fridge, I grabbed a pen to add the mix to it. The pen was dry and wouldn’t write, so I chucked it into the trash can that threatened to spill over. There hadn’t been time to take it out. I rummaged through our junk drawer but could not find a pen or pencil. My hand landed on an ancient broken crayon, hard and brittle from its years in solitary confinement along with other rarely used but vital things like twist ties, old keys, orphaned phone chargers, and spare change. Really? I peeled back the label, revealing enough crayon to scratch out ‘PC mix’ on the list. I returned the apparent sole means of household written communication back to the drawer.
Scavenging the kitchen, I found a small amount of flour left in a canister and an egg, which I added to the mix with some water to make enough batter for Derek’s pancakes. I retrieved the half-empty bag of chocolate chips I’d hidden behind the cookbooks that served more as props than actual inspiration for family meals. Adding the morsels, I stirred the batter and then poured it into circles in a skillet on the stove. Once the pancakes were done, I put them on a plate and slathered them with margarine and syrup. Not the healthiest meal, but hey, whatever worked. I placed the plate on the table and poured Derek a glass of milk before retreating to my room to get dressed.
There wasn’t time for me to take a shower, and I really didn’t care. Depression made you that way. You got comfortable in your frumpiness. It seemed reasonable to me that since my foster brother wasn’t wearing a suit, I could get away with wearing some slacks and a top as well. There wasn’t a lot to choose from, and I didn’t own anything black that didn’t look like grunge wear. Studs and alternative band tees probably wouldn’t go over well at Fallon’s Funeral Home either. I found what might be an appropriately dark pair of blue pants and a charcoal sweater. Dressing quickly, I brushed my hair into a smooth ponytail to disguise the fact I hadn’t washed it. A simple pair of silver toned earrings and a matching necklace completed my ensemble. I wasn’t a jewelry wearer, and again, my selection was limited. It worked though. It would have to at this point.
I heard the water shut off in the bathroom, and shortly afterward, the door opened.
“Derek,” I called across the hall. “Your clothes are on your bed. Get dressed. When you’re done, I’ll give you your breakfast.” The sound of his shuffling feet wandered into his room. Of course, if he thought about it, he could have ignored my directions and gone straight to the kitchen for his breakfast, but that was one good thing I had to my advantage in taking care of him. The kid didn’t think through those kinds of things for himself. When he wasn’t harassing me, he could be counted on to follow instructions to a fault. I say to a fault because it meant you had to be completely clear with him and give him almost every step needed to complete a task. Otherwise, he didn’t always make those mental leaps to fill in the gaps in instruction that other kids did naturally.
He dressed hurriedly and plodded to the kitchen where he plopped down at the table, devouring his pancakes in about a quarter of the time it took me to make them. As he ate, I moved about the house gathering anything I thought we might need and stuffing it into my backpack. Tissues, energy bars, Derek’s inhaler, a battery pack for my phone, and some Xanax. Okay, just kidding on the Xanax, but I had to admit that mentally checking out of this thing was an appealing thought. He was just finishing his breakfast when I heard a car pull into the driveway beside our house.
If I had to guess, I’d say either my mom or her sister, Janine was adopted. Unlike mom, my aunt was a precision machine. Perpetually dependable and on time. At 9:00 am sharp, her keys rattled in the deadbolt. Her flaming red mane pushed through the door jamb before the rest of her. She was, as always, dressed to the nines in a black dress and trench coat, sheer black hose, and tasteful but stylish heels. There wasn’t the slightest hint of lint or pet fur to be found. She wore an emerald green pendant and earrings that probably cost more than mom’s Civic.
“Hi ‘Uhneen,” Derek said. He tilted his face upward and smiled. A smudge of chocolate dotted his cheek.
Janine’s eyelid gave a slight twitch, and the right side of her mouth shifted into an uneasy half smile at the boy’s mispronunciation of her name. “Derek,” she spoke in a cordial tone a supervisor might use with an employee. “I see you’re having breakfast.”
I suppose that was as close to a greeting as she could manage. Janeen habitually made meaningless observations in lieu of expressing her distaste. She moved to my side in one swift movement
, and her model-perfect hands floated up and cupped my face. “Honey,” she said with a sigh, “are you doing okay?” Janine didn’t visit often, but her show of concern was convincing enough.
“I’m okay…I um—.”
“Is that what you’re wearing?” Her expression changed to one of appraisal. Her glance melded into disapproval as it shifted to the backpack I’d slung over my shoulder.
“It’s all I have,” I answered. I felt my cheeks getting warm. “Unless you’re buying.” Just kidding. It’s what I wanted to say, but I just stood there. She slipped her manicured hand into a coat pocket and withdrew her phone. “Siri, call Paula.”
I stewed in silence Siri reached across cyberspace to call my mom. A muffled ringtone sounded from the direction of Mom’s room. “I think she forgot her phone,” I advised Janine.
“Well, then I guess it’s what you’re wearing then,” Janine concluded, clicking the hangup button on her cell and then slipping it back into her pocket. “We need to get to the funeral home. And Casey?”
“Yes?”
“Clean the chocolate from the boy’s face.”
◆◆◆
Janine nudged me and Derek through the rear entrance of the massive mansion-like building that was Fallon’s Funeral Home. Just inside the back door was a private sitting area for families to take a break from interacting with visitors. In the adjoining room, was an office where we’d met just a few days ago to pick out dad’s casket and make other decisions. Most of that day, like the others since my dad became sick, was a blur in my mind, but I recognized the man Mom talked with as the director. Mr. Fallon, the current patriarch of the multi-generational business, had met with us previously. I couldn’t hear what they were saying now, but my mom looked angry as she spoke. She clutched a tissue in her fist and punctuated her points by shaking it at Mr. Fallon, who maintained a waxy looking façade of understanding. Or was it just tolerance?
Janine pulled the door closed behind us. A tarnished bell hanging from the knob clanged, and my mom’s head snapped toward us.
Mom snatched her planner from the desk and stood. “We’ll talk about this later,” she tossed over her shoulder toward Mr. Fallon as she left the office. She clutched her portfolio tight against her body, shielding her chest with its vegan leather armor. Her steps, measured and determined, pounded like mallets into the carpet with a sharpness that seemed impossible given its thickness. She met Janine with a kiss to her cheek, and I could tell from the bobbing of her jaw that she whispered something into my aunt’s ear that she didn’t want me to hear.
Janine’s eyelid twitched, triggering for the second time this morning, that signature half-smile she had when hearing or seeing something she found less than satisfactory. Derek stood rocking on his heels, and his breath was coming in raspy huffs. I reached out and clamped my hands firmly onto his shoulders and pressed down the way his therapist suggested, an attempt to calm him. He didn’t like being out of his routine, and if he became more upset, it would sometimes trigger his asthma. At length, his breathing slowed, and the phlegmy gurgle subsided.
The visitation and funeral proceeded around me with a kind of surreal, cinematic detachment. I went through the motions of standing in the coffin room listening to the litany of condolences. One by one, people filtered in and out mumbling about thoughts and prayers. I alternated between standing and sitting. I became a rock brushed by the stream of humanity drifting through the receiving line, such as it was. There was only mom, me, and Derek. Janine had left to “manage the guestbook,” she’d said. It “wouldn’t be appropriate” for her to stand in the family line, she’d insisted. Propriety was everything.
My limbs had taken on the characteristic symptom of depression, dead weight hanging from my lanky teenaged frame. Conversations were muffled in the forest of dark suits, and hushed whispers drifted in and around the crowd. Wafts of strange perfume clashed with the scent of flowers, tissues, and furniture polish. Someone in another room had a nagging cough. It sounded far away.
I was vaguely surprised by the crowd that gathered to pay respects to the father I barely knew. So many were strangers to me, and yet they seemed to have had a greater place in my dad’s life than I had. Most would speak to me and offer a few words. Many were focused on Derek. He was so young to lose his father, they said. Look out for your little brother, they told me. One man I didn’t recognize patted my hand and whispered that my dad had taught him everything he knew about hunting and fishing. I nodded and wondered if fishing might be fun.
A diminutive older woman with hair the color of lightning pushed up her glasses and dabbed the corners of her eyes with the kind of frilly handkerchief I didn’t think they made anymore. She patted my arm and said she was sorry for my loss and that she knew how I felt. She leaned in close and whispered into my ear. “It’s so much harder on a boy to lose his father,” she said. “Take good care of him.”
A small voice in my chest wanted to shout that I was my father’s child and that Derek was only a guest in our home. I’d lost years of life with my father to the war, and even when he returned home, it was as if I didn’t exist. He had this new plaything in the boy, and for some unspoken reason, he and my mother both carried on as if it was the most normal thing in the world to ignore me into oblivion. I wanted to scream, but somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to speak out. In my mind, it seemed safer to believe that maybe they didn’t understand what they were doing or how it affected me. If I kept quiet, it would be easier to believe it was just lack of awareness. Voicing my pain would risk confirming the horrible possibility that they really didn’t care how any of this impacted my life. I would know with certainty where I stood. Ignorance is bliss.
Dozens of people attending the visitation praised my dad’s work and shared how he’d helped them move on after war injuries of their own. My mom graciously accepted their comments, and occasionally, I’d noticed her eyes brighten with tears. I wondered if it was the same for her as it was for me? Did she cry because of what she’d lost or because of something that never was?
After the funeral, the Fallon staff, all men in black suits wearing that same waxy face of perpetual resignation, ushered us outside. They guided us into the family car, an unnecessarily large limousine that swallowed the three of us in its cavernous passenger compartment. Fall was in the air as we reached the cemetery and were escorted to the gravesite. The waxy faces directed us to the front row of metal chairs. The seats were cold and hard and rested atop a square of fake grass carpeting. The mat resembled a slight upgrade from the kind I’ve seen on putt-putt golf courses. Derek squirmed and began twisting in his seat, watching as other mourners walked from their cars and began to surround us. As people muddled around, taking place on the putting green, an honor guard from the local VF.W. post approached us. Three carried flags, and seven carried rifles for the traditional twenty-one-gun salute. A bugler took a position a few yards away, and a woman wearing military chaplain regalia stood behind the casket and began to speak.
Derek began rocking back and forth in his seat. It wasn’t so bad at first, but the longer the chaplain spoke, the harder he rocked. Metallic squeaks sounded out as the chair groaned under the force. Janine appeared at my mom’s side and whispered into her ear. Mom turned to my foster brother and spoke quietly to him. She took his hand and pulled it toward Janine, but Derek yanked it back, accidentally striking it on the corner of the chair. He yowled in pain. The chaplain kept speaking and gave a sympathetic nod toward my mom.
“Your brother needs to go for a walk,” Mom informed me in a stage whisper that seemed designed to assure everyone else she was in charge of the situation. “Why don’t you both just walk down the road toward the front gate. Wait for us there, and we’ll pick you up when this is over.”
I’m sure I did a double-take side eye that would be hard to miss and impossible to retract. “What?” Was my mother really asking me to leave my dad’s funeral? I mean, I knew we weren’t close, but it wasn’t like we were watch
ing a movie and Derek needed a bathroom break. “Why can’t someone else take him?” My voice was louder than I had intended it to be.
My mom gave a smile that to everyone else would appear loving and patient. Since I never saw smiles like that, I knew better.
She leaned toward me. “Casey!” she whisper-hissed. “He can’t stay here. He won’t like it when they fire the rifles.”
And there it was. Of course, she was right, but like always, this was just one more time Mom dropped the ball and left it laying there for me to pick it up. If she hadn’t been so focused on work, maybe she would have thought about…oh, I don’t know…a sitter?
“He won’t go with anyone else!” she insisted, again with the stealth hiss. Her expression remained soft, but her eyes were icy granite.
If I didn’t do this, there’d be hell to pay. “Come on, Derek,” I said, as I coaxed him from his seat. “Let’s go look around.”
If anyone else was stunned by this, I couldn’t tell. My defensive shroud of indifference tightened around me, blotting out my awareness of anyone or anything but me and the demon spawn. My feet found the asphalt drive, and we walked. The chaplain’s words began to fade, and I noticed, for the first time, the sad, haunting beauty in the faces of angels on monuments across the grounds. They all had stories like mine to tell. I wondered about them for a moment as I listened to Derek’s mouth-breathing. He sniffled a little. Maybe mold from the decomposing leaves was getting to him. As we reached the gates, the silence was broken by the sound of rifle fire. Three rounds echoed across the grounds followed by Taps reassuring me that all was well. Maybe for my dad, it was now.
◆◆◆
Our house became a gathering place in the days following the funeral. Although I didn’t know many of the people who came by bearing casseroles and baked goods, my mom insisted that Derek and I make appearances. We would greet the visitors, and I would retreat to my room at the first acceptable opportunity. Some would insist they couldn’t stay. Others would come in for coffee and sit with Mom in the kitchen and lament how shocking it had been that Dad’s cancer took him so quickly.
Viral Series (Book 1): Viral Dawn [Extended Edition] Page 2