All There Is

9.Matt

Shout // Tears For Fears

Standing in the back of the chapel in a suit is not how I want to spend a Wednesday morning. I pull on the collar of the starched shirt, feeling choked by the tie. I've had to put on a suit for football events before, but it's never felt as suffocating as it does right now. Tight, like its squeezing the breath right out of me.

"It's hot," Mark mumbles. He's just as miserable as I am. My mom is destroying a tissue, twisting it in her hands while her eyes dart across the room. The remnants falling like demented snowflakes on her black dress. We're in hiding back here, not speaking to any of the people that have come to pay their respects, yet. So many fucking people. My parents don't have friends, not really. My mom wasn't the type to go to lunch with a group of wives from the north side of Fallbrook like so many of the other women in our neighborhood. She hung out at home, waiting for my dad's eventual return and slowly losing herself in the process.

That's not exactly accurate. She lost herself a long time ago. I just didn't realize it until right this fucking second, watching people I don't recognize mingle with the few that I do. My family is more fucked up than I thought.

I clear my throat. "I think it's time." I grab my mom by the elbow and guide her toward the door leading to the sanctuary. Everyone's seated, a quiet hum of voices as people whisper to each other. There's a dread building in my stomach, anticipating a total shit show to occur. My mom follows my lead, Mark trailing behind, as we enter the room and make our way down the center aisle. On display.

I feel the eyes on us, but I keep my gaze directed forward. I don't smile or reassure any of the guests--if that's what you call all these gawkers at a funeral--that we're okay. We're not fucking okay. We haven't been okay for years. Maybe ever.

I don't even dare to hope that we can start to be okay now. Not after this week. Not after the way it was so easy for me to slip back into that role I've played for too long. The asshole. I learned my place so early in life that I don't think I'll ever truly be free of it. It's too deep. Too many years not seeing the truth and getting caught up in the lie we told the world.

I push the thoughts away as we settle into the front pew. Right next to the casket. I fought to keep the damn thing closed. My mom wanted it open, but I don't think I'd be able to handle seeing the fucker's face, dead or not. I feel a burning in my gut, down deep where I can't reach it yet, that would for sure come to the surface if that casket was open. It's crawling under my skin. Familiar in some ways. Hannah gets under my skin in the same way, except it's as different as night and day with her.

With Hannah, this feeling is one I ache to capture, to hold on to. With Dad, I want it gone. As far from me as it can get. But sitting here, glaring at the oak coffin, knowing who's inside and what he's put me through, I feel it growing. Getting stronger. Chasing me.

I look down at my black leather loafers, shined to perfection, and shove the feeling away. Stuffing it as deep as I can. I close my eyes and run a hand down my face. I'm hanging on by a thread. I can't do this. Mark is on my left, my mom on my right, and I'm about to lose my shit.

Then I feel a hand on my shoulder, gripping gently in support. I don't have to turn and look to know who it is. I'd know her touch anywhere. She's the only person on the planet who has this hold on me. I lean back against the hard pew, getting closer to her, desperate for relief.

"It's so nice that so many people came to pay their respects."

My mom's whisper cuts through any peace I was feeling, reminding me exactly who we're here to respect. Bringing back the darkness I'm trying like an addict in rehab to turn away from. If only this were a drug I could purge from my system, detox. But it's not and I can't let it get anywhere near Hannah. I lean forward, pulling from her touch, feeling her absence immediately but not willing to take comfort from her right now.