Beside You

He's Gone

My heart pounds in my chest as I make the painful ride up to my porch, his eyes following my every move as I tuck my bike away in the shed. His arms are folded tightly across his chest, his jaw clenches. Gulp. Quick, motherfucker, think of a cover story, "I just came from Ella's--"

"After you've gone to the concert?" His voice escalates. He wouldn't let me pass him to get inside.

"No! We didn't go! She was feeling poorly. I stayed with her for a while--"

Dad wasn't falling for it, "Kathleen you're a really bad liar. You went to comfort your friend looking like this! And if I remember correctly, I said grounded, meaning in your room, seeing no friends at all! Plus, the grocery list--remember?!"

I'm tired and everything didn't seem fair. "What's the big deal, dad! I have a life, you know! And I think I'm old enough to make my own decisions!" I retort.

Dad realizes our disputes are disturbing the neighbors and orders me inside before giving me another round, "Kathleen!" Something overcomes him and his voice drops, "I'm doing this for you. I'm worried about you. I'm trying to guide you to make better decisions. We are by ourselves now and we have to do our best to make it through. We can't afford to--"

"Dad! What's wrong?!" I grasp his shoulders as he folds forward, releasing a fitful of coughs. My eyes swell as I take in his condition for the first time. How could I be so blind? So selfish. This whole time I was only thinking about myself and I didn't care about the consequences. My recklessness has brought a toll on my dad; the stress I must've caused him. Plus, he's been working multiple jobs, hours on end, to keep us alive. I finally realized, but it was already too late. My dad's so frail, pale, and weak; his state broke me, "I'm sorry dad, I'm sorry! I'll do better, please don't worry anymore!"

"It's okay. All I need is rest. I had to pull an all-nighter at--" But, he breaks down again and the coughs only seem to get worse.

"Dad!" I have him lay on the sofa and run to get water from the tap, pressing the cup to his lips. I touch his hot forehead, "You need help! Your fever is really bad! I called the hospital and they're dispatching an ambulance right away. Just sit tight okay?" A chill runs down my spine and I crumple into my dad's arms, watching, through tears, his tired eyes close. What have I done? What haven't I done? Dad. I'm sorry.

...

My arms clutched around the guitar, motionlessly curled at the foot of his bed, vacant eyes fixed on the black, empty sky outside my window. My eyeliner had dried again and again in salty streaks of varying black shades down my face. No more: The well in my eyes had dried up, after a week of outflow. Noises no longer escaped my lips, but the previous shrieks and sobs still seem to echo continuously throughout my empty house. My vacant eyes shut, to help relief the sting of dry-eye, and my breath hitches, as the touch of the guitar brings a flood of memories from a week before, when everything changed.

"Dad. You're going to get better right?" I clutched his hand in mine, the tubes in his veins  imprinting into my skin, bringing me back to the harsh reality. I didn't bother to hold back  the tears, spilling onto my dad's hospital robe. The doctor had diagnosed him but my dad  refused to release the medical information to me, saying it's nothing to worry about. But, it's tearing me up inside

He peeks at me through the anesthesia mask and smiles painfully, attempting to lift his                 hand to wipe my cheek, but fails. I grab his hand and place it on my cheek for him. "My girl.                 Don't worry. Everything's going to be okay. No matter what happens, I'll always be with                 you." I nod and rest my head on his chest, proceeding to reminisce of happy childhood                 memories through sobs. He ponders for a moment, "You were always fond of music. I'm                 sorry I made a big deal about the concert. If it's what you really love to do--"

  I hush him, "Don't, dad. You should never have to apologize after all that you do for me."               His eyes glitter, crinkling when he smiles, "When we get home, I have a surprise for you.                 It's on my bed. I think you'll really like it--" His eyes suddenly widen in pain as raspy                 coughs expel from his lungs. "It's nothing, don't worry. I'm strong," he grinned through a                 wheeze, "I've lasted this long, haven't I?

I forced a laugh, "You're the strongest man I know, Dad." My lips tremble and I close my                 eyes, whispering 'I love you,' and listening to the rise and fall of his chest, until there were                 no more. The scream that escapes my lungs seem to come from another world. Nurses'                 hands, suddenly, find their way around me, trying to pry me from his body, as I fight them off                 and hysterically beg Dad to wake up so he can take me home. The sound of the heart                 monitor's unbroken beep, the red flashing light, the blank eyes, the blood bag, the                                 needles, the doctor shouting orders...blurs together into a collage of chaos, then fades to                 black.

Darkness engulfs me, up until the day formalities came to wrench me to the surface and                 accept fate. The day of the funeral.I lift my eyes to the reflection in the mirror. A small figure droops under the weight of black fabric. Face bare, but battered from mourning, I cast my eyes to the picture frame clutched in my hands. I can barely recognize myself.

                ...

I'm not ready. I can't be ready. I never will be. My stomach twists and I feel my eyes well up, again. I'm not going to hold my tears back and pretend I'm okay; I'm not.

I let my tears fall, as an older woman makes slow movements to the front of the casket and her velvety voice begins to sing, 'Fix You,' from Coldplay. The melody makes a straight course through my heart and I feel it resonate through its gaping holes. The pain resurfaces memories of my dad.

                "Lights will guide you home."

  Ambulance's sirens and emergency lights swirl in my head. My dad's eyes widen in terror.

               "And ignite your bones."

Dad's screams sends a chill rushing through my veins, my words echoing, "You're the                 strongest man I know, Dad." Dad. Dad.

                "And I will try,"

I didn't try. Not hard enough. It's my fault.

                "To fix you."

My grandparents stand beside me, a hand on my back, as guests offer their condolences,                 departing one by one. But, unable to confine my anxiety, I escape their hold and part the                 parting crowd, vanishing into the parkway.

"He's gone." The words barely made it out. I didn't want it to be real.  But my loneliness made it all too clear and I let my heart go numb so I couldn't feel it anymore.

"Kathleen! Kath!" The door slams open and footsteps run throughout my house, my name searching for its owner. My dad's bedroom door flies open and the people scoop my limp body into their arms, rocking me back and forth, a girl crying into my shoulder and petting my hair. I recognize the voice to be Ella's. But the arms that wrapped around me and pulled me into their lap were larger. Luke.

Another pair of hands removed the guitar from my grasp and replaced it with their own soft and stubby hands, the thumb rubbing my knuckles delicately. It was Michael that breathed, "I'm so sorry, Kath." The mourning went on in silence, throughout the night, as each curled up to each other, holding and comforting me with a touch to the arm or caress of the face, until the last of the boys and Ella were fast asleep. What was this feeling surfacing from my grief? In this darkness, it seemed like I had so much light.

"Everything's going to be okay."