Catharsis

THIRTY NINE

The last time I faced this chapel I was in my charcoal grey suit jacket with my black tie. I was in front of that closed casket underneath the stained glass windows on a sunny day in July. Mom and Sammy and I were the first in the funeral procession to the cemetery. There I laid a piece of myself in the ground.

It's a stark contrast to where I am now: dirty and worn clothes. Black shoes, black hoodie, black hat, black jeans. It's appropriate. Glasses conceal my reddened eyes, gloves cover my blackened hands. I waver for a moment, trying to gather the courage to step through the doors. Running through all the possible scenarios overwhelms me all the more. My heart is about to give out.

"Just do it!" Emma says. "If you wait around, you'll just psyche yourself out." And she's right. It's not as if anything more can go wrong, right? Just say goodbye and die in peace. It's not that hard.

I open the wooden door as quietly as I can. A sterile smell seeps out along with the soft voice of the pastor. Candles are lit everywhere, kleenex boxes on every surface. I shuffle across the mottled red carpet of the foyer into the chapel. Nearly every pew is full; there are people huddled together, all eyes trained on the man in his sleek black suit. He's speaking from a podium to the right of a closed casket. My picture is in a frame propped up on top within a spray of some kind of greenery. All I see of the crowd are backs of heads. I'm tempted to crane my neck to get a glimpse of who is who. But I quell the impulse and duck my head instead, slinking into an empty back pew where I take a seat between Emma and a Bible.

"Now, I'm going to invite a very important person to come forward," the Pastor says. "An important person in Aaron's life. If you knew Aaron, you probably also knew this brilliant young man. It would have taken surgery to separate the two of them."

There's a soft roll of depressed laughter through the crowd. I know exactly who he's talking about.

"Come here, Jonah." The pastor takes his papers off the podium, shoves them under his arm, and steps back.

Jonah's tall form stands out from the crowd as he rises from his seat on the very front pew. His black hair is slicked back and shines in the pale sun coming through the skylight. He's in a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing his tattooed arms.

"Um," he says in a hushed voice as he centers himself at the podium, drawing the microphone up until it's level with his mouth. His weary eyes dart over the crowd and he clears his throat. "It's true. We were inseparable. But he wasn't just my best friend. He. . ." He clears his throat again, obviously fighting back tears. "He was. . .my brother." The words choke him and give way to tears.

I blink and feel the hot tears wash away down my cheeks, too. Emma puts a consoling hand on mine. "I loved him." Jonah braces himself against the podium white-knuckled. There is gauze wrapped around his left hand, filling the space where his middle finger used to be. For several seconds he simply stands there with a pained expression as if he is in the midst of being beaten. He sniffs abruptly and wipes his bandaged hand across his wet cheeks. Once more, he looks over the crowd then nods and walks off the stage.

The pastor takes his place at the podium again and readjusts the microphone to his height. "Please, If anyone has anything to say, feel free to come forward. This is a celebration of Aaron's life, let's share our happiest memories before we say our final goodbyes," he says, tapping his papers on the surface in front of him. As Jonah returns to his seat, Mom leans over slightly. Jonah wraps his arm around her shoulders, comforting her as she rocks gently back and forth, clutching a crumpled tissue under her nose.

The pastor is right. It's time to say goodbye to the guy in that picture up there on the casket: the one who is dead, replaced by whatever I am now. And it's time to give them the apology and finality that they're owed.

Hoping desperately for some forgiveness, I stand up.

THE END