Don't Let Go.

chapter four.

Four.

We buried her two days after I had gotten out of the hospital, and it is a day that has been forever burned into my mind. My mother sobbed the entire car ride, her fragile frame shaking as each wave welled up and ran through her, a torrent. My father drove, sober as a stone in our new rental car.

I remember how hazy everything seemed that day: the thick fog that rolled in off the bay covered the trees and blanketed the ground, roiling and oppressive as clouds pushed in. My body ached, the stitches in my side sending pain flaring through my ribs each time I inhaled too deeply. It was the only bright, visible thing that day, that pain, and it was something I held onto like a vice as we pulled up to the funeral home.

It looked so small, nestled in among a thicket of trees. The green branches wilted over its mossy structure, like outstretched fingers, trying to hold something that they were never meant to. 

My mother's hand became a smothering pressure on my shoulder as we walked up the crumbling path. She had held on so tightly her fingers left bruises, but I was beyond feeling that pain. I remembered trying to level my breathing with each step I took. How hard I was trying to stay calm.

Mostly, that was for my parents. It felt like something I owed to them. They had seemed so much more fragile that day, as if each minute aged them. I guess in a way, it had.

My mother cried as we climbed the steps, and couldn't go in, at first. But my father pulled her closer and held her until she calmed down. I could only stand there, worried and somehow separated from them.

When we finally entered, the priest explained to us the order of events, and offered his condolences. Every word that came out of his mouth hit my parents like a physical weight, causing my father's shoulders to sag as my mother pressed her hand to her mouth, holding back more sobs.

I focused on them instead of myself, and let the fog in my head blot out the words the priest was saying. He led us into another small room, one lined with chairs, all facing the single open casket in the back. I was too far away to see inside, and I froze, only able to stand there while my parents were led forward, innocent and fragile. I watched my father’s fists clench as they got closer. My mother started to shake again as they knelt down before my sister.

They didn't stay long. My mother's harsh sobs escalated, too loud. My father quietly apologized to the priest as he led her out of the room. But they didn't look at me.

I guess that was the day that things changed the most for us, as a family. She left us a few weeks after the funeral, the only explanation she provided being empty drawers, an empty room. And I hadn't heard from my mother since.

When she left, my father started working more. So much so that he eventually stopped coming home, too. He was money and a note on the table, at the end of every week. At the very least, he was consistent.  

They're gone. 

I still hadn't moved from the doorway, and all I remember being capable of was gazing blankly in the direction they had gone. I hadn't noticed the priest, who stared thoughtfully at me when I finally looked back.

“Your sister?” he asked, gently. His eyes were old, lined with stress and concern. But there was something that seemed wise about him, this balding man who stood in front of me. I grasped at the understanding I saw in him.

I think he noticed that I still couldn't look at the casket. I did not want to see, could not let myself see. I managed a nod though, my lower lip starting to tremble.