Much Like Falling

Chapter Eight

For the next few days, Mum tried making us go to school but once I said I’d look after Siobhan and Hayden, she let us stay home. Until the funeral, Mum stayed locked inside her room and Hayden didn’t speak to me at all. There was no doubt we were all being immature about this, but we didn’t know what to do. It was weird not having Dad around, but I did have to admit it was nice not getting beaten for a change. Though for Mum’s happiness, I would rather take the beatings.

I still felt empty and ignored all the text messages I got from my three friends. Towards the end of the week I think they gave up, because no one continued to ask where or how I was. Rod was still living with Aunty Sophia but as far as I knew, after the funeral he’d be moving back in with us and we’d all be going back to school whether we were ready to or not, and Bradley and his wife would be staying with us to help look after Mum.

The dark clouds made a threatening crash, bringing me back to reality. The Southern Hemisphere was in the middle of a storm, and we just had to plan the funeral to be during it. I watched as the small crowd gathered at the graveside, shuffling in the rain. Though Dad despised the colour, black flooded the cemetery. I guess it described our mood. I helped Mum to stand upright, the rain pouring over our interlocked fingers, dripping into pools at our feet. She looked broken, as if a part of her was dying. And maybe that was true. Her lips were pressed together in a tight line, eyes rimmed with red. Standing in shocked disbelief beside me was Bradley’s wife, Adrienne, her arms protectively wrapped around my little sister, looking lost and dissatisfied.

We formed a distant semicircle around the pit, numbly following orders. Mum’s grip tightened so I angled my face to see hers, her brown eyes fixated on the stilled oak coffin. The pastor swiftly waved his hand to silence the crowd. Only the pitter-patter of water droplets bouncing off the surface of umbrellas could be heard. Some umbrellas were colourful, others not. But not everyone was held by the security. Mum wanted the water to drench her, to wash away the pain, but I wasn’t so sure it would.

While I glanced around the clichéd tragedy, there were a few small smiles of acknowledgement, but I dared not reply. They were empty, hardly reassuring. Rod was standing with Aunt Sophia on the opposite side of the crowd, and he waved happily at me. I tried to smile at him, but I couldn’t find the will to pretend that I was OK.

 The pastor introduced himself before delivering his sermon. He knew the word too well, as if this was just a light-hearted routine, as if he had no care about who my Dad is, was. Earlier in the week, he had asked my Mother if she wanted to say something, but she handed the responsibility to Bradley.

My brother struggled to stay sober. There’s no doubt in my mind that he used Dad's death as an excuse to get wasted. He and Dad weren't even close, they never got along. I watched, half amused, as Bradley staggered to the lectern, hung-over. He cleared his throat, wiping the summer's heat and rain from his brow with one arm as he used the other to sprawl his notes out. I could see the way his hands were trembling, the way his legs could not stay still. My family was never known as great public speakers, even if there was only a small crowd. "Dad," he started. "Dad was a good man."

A part of me wanted my brother to breakdown but I knew he wouldn't. We were the sons of Stephen Clyde, a man of respect and forgiveness, apparently. "He was someone I personally could always rely on. I respected him so much," I narrowed my eyes at my brother, what a load of bull. "He was a hero in my eyes, in all of our eyes. I loved him so much." I could hear distant sobs from our family members, not being able to contain the pain.

A pang of betrayal rippled through my veins. Bradley despised Dad, he always found a way to anger him, always found a way to ruin Dad's day on purpose, too. How dare he stand there and act as if he loved our Father as much as the younger kids did. I peered down at Hayden and wondered if I should say something, but the way his eyes were fixated on the coffin, and the fact he had ignored me all week told me to keep quiet. I went weak, shaking my head as my eyes began to water, but I didn't want to cry. Dad wouldn't want me to. He wouldn't want any of us to dwell over his departure. Mum buried her head in my chest as Bradley finished off his fantasy, removing himself from the lectern.

The small crowd of black began to weep with the rain, dabbing their distorted faces with tissues. Whoever picked this music; the melodies of family cries, only made it harder for me to remain calm. I felt sick, and I wanted to punch my brother because of the lies he told. Mum stood still, her eyes distant, but lingering over the stone. How we afforded such thing was a mystery.

“Bugger deserved it," Bradley whispered, but I heard it as clear as day. That's it! I let go of Mum and turned to face him, swallowing the lump in my throat as my fist met his cheek bone. Bradley staggered back, his hands covering the surface of his face. Mum started to scream at me, pushing me away from her so I just ran, not knowing what to do. I felt confused, dazed. I couldn't decide if I wanted to listen to prayers and watch Dad's coffin lower, or curl in a ball and cry. Tears fell from my eyes like a depressed lunatic, so I just kept running until I started gasping for air.

Punching my brother did not help the anger that was bottling up inside of me.