Brooklyn

The End

He hasn't answered my calls or messages for days. I don't know what's left to do. His dad died 18 days ago. The man who made him into the kind and good soul that he is has been wiped from the very surface of the earth. How do I make that better? No one can.

They knew it was inevitable. The doctor had given him much less time than this, but he was a fighter; always had been apparently. He had fought in a war. That's where he had met their mother. Despite the hatred and violence surrounding them, they fell in love. They had a beautiful baby girl and two boys not long after. Their dad used to take them to the swimming pool every Saturday as soon as the summer started. They learned how to play water polo and swim lengths before any body their age. Their dad taught them how to ride their bikes. He bought them ice lollies when the sun became too scorching hot. He took them to their first day of school and fetched them that same afternoon. He taught them how to drive and bought them their first beer when they turned eighteen. He cried at Brooklyn's hospital bed when a drunk driver t-boned the Polo. He cried when Paige got on the plane to Ireland to go to university. He cried when Theo graduated top of his class in almost every subject. He was the dad that every kid on the block wanted because their dads sucked.

A lifetime of presence groggily smeared with six months of pain and hospital visits and pills and sickness and tears. Now, he was just gone. How am I supposed to fix this?

"You didn't know him." Brooklyn wasn't shouting. I think I would have preferred if he had, "You can't make this better."

"I'm not trying to." I say.

"Then what are you doing here?" he looks up at me for the first time since I crept into his room. I'm still standing by the door for an easy escape and I hate myself for it, "You're not my girlfriend." he looks down at his torn and bloody cuticles.

I stare at the wooden floor until my eyes burn. I know I'm not. I made that very clear from the very beginning. But now, all I want to do is sit next to him and wrap my arms around his body. I want him to melt into me and help him make this better. Because I know if I could just touch him; just stroke his forehead and kiss his temple, I know I could somehow absorb some of his pain. I would feel this all for him if I could. 

I should have done all of that but of course, I didn't. I was hopelessly terrified of how he would react, and as much as I needed to be there for him, this wasn't about me. This was so not about me. There were crowds of people gathered downstairs, clad in black and fresh tears. Today had been one of the worst days of Brooklyn's life, and it was only going to get worse before it got better.

"I know I didn't know your," my voice cracked, "dad," I took a deep breath, "very well, but he had to be one of the best men out there. He raised you after all," the image of my black ballet flats blurred with tears, "and you're one of the most generous and loving people I know," I looked up at him, but he was still looking down at his hands, pale white from clutching at one another so hard, "You're good, Brook. You're so, so good." I sniffed, "and nothing I say can make any of this better. Nothing could make this better, but you have Paige and Theo and your mom, who are all going through this with you. Don't push them away. Please."

A silence settled in the room. Downstairs I could hear the faint and incoherent mumbling of people. A chair scraped across the floor. Forks clanked against plates. Brooklyn hadn't moved.

I cleared my throat, "I'm going to go." I opened the door slightly to let myself out. My lips parted to say something, but I couldn't think of anything left to say, so instead I slipped out and softly shut the door behind me. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. The weight on my chest refused to dissipate and it hung over me for weeks to come.

I didn't know how to make this better. Because sometimes, the worst things happen to the best people and there's nothing we can do about it. There are no magic words; no secret potions. All we can do is be there for them.

Of course, I know now why he didn't call. Chelsea then reappeared. I pretended to understand. A part of me actually did. After all, she had been there when his dad was alive, despite the fact that Theo was insistent that their dad never really thought she was good for Brooklyn. She knew him better. I think he finds solace in that. Maybe he's just avoiding confronting his feelings. Because with Chelsea, he doesn't have to tell her what he's going through because she already knows. It's easier, I assume. That assumption helps heal my heart at no faster rate, or at any rate at all at this point. She holds his hand and runs her fingers through his hair. I'm just his friend. What do I know?