Tin Men

        It was raining, but only barely.  It was an in-between kind of rain.  The type that can’t decide if it wants to be a soft mist or a full-on drizzle.  I held the umbrella above our heads as Brooke methodically marched in place to keep her heels from sinking into the soft earth.  My mother stood beside me, sharing her umbrella with Melody.  Hundreds of mourners surrounded us, including Brooke’s parents and my extended family, but as far as I was concerned, we were the only four people on earth.

The minister was still speaking.  I stopped listening to whatever he was saying about my father, his life, and the many outstanding contributions he left behind.  His words meant nothing to me.

Brooke reached for my hand which I eagerly took.  Her fingers were cold, as they always were, even in the middle of July.  Her presence strengthened me as I watched my mother and sister blotting their eyes with shredded tissues.  It was emotionally exhausting to see them in pain, and I was at a loss for how best to console them.  Brooke had lost her only brother just before we met and had somehow managed to carry on despite the strong bond they shared.  I squeezed her hand, and she peered up at me from behind her hair.  I knew she was wondering why I was the only one who hadn’t cried about my father’s death. 

The truth was, I had no tears to shed for the man who had been my father but never my dad.  I knew she wanted me to mourn his loss, but the reality was, not much in my day to day life would change now that he was gone.  A trust fund would sustain me financially, and since my father had never supported me emotionally, my life would continue on in much the same manner as it always had.

As the service ended, we were encouraged to approach the mahogany casket to say our final goodbyes.  I followed behind my weeping mother, who placed her hand upon the glossy surface.  As she stepped away, Brooke gave me a gentle nudge and I took a step closer.  I read the inscription on the side of the box – “Phillip Henry Johnson: Husband, Father, Public Servant.”  I closed my eyes and willed myself to feel something that resembled grief.  Instead, I felt only indifference.  I stepped aside to make way for the throng of constituents who dabbed bloodshot eyes and shook their heads in quiet disbelief.

As we made our way toward the waiting town car, Brooke broke the silence that had been looming over us for most of the day.  “I’m worried about you,” she said, her concern visible in the lines crinkling her forehead.

I smiled at her.  “Don’t worry.  I’m fine.  Life goes on, right?”

“It does,” she frowned, “but usually not right away.”

The rain stopped and I lowered the umbrella, shaking the water droplets onto the ground.  I followed Brooke into the car, sliding across the back seat beside her.

“It’s okay to be sad, you know?” she said, laying her head on my shoulder.

I didn’t respond.  I couldn’t.  Although Brooke and I had been inseparable since the day we met, there were still parts of my life she didn’t understand.  Her family was close.  Loving.  Supportive.  Hers was the type of family Norman Rockwell had painted.  Even her brother’s death hadn’t shaken their faith or love for one another.

My family was not that kind of family.

My father had been a politician and a politician above all else.  During campaigns and elections, my father paraded us around, his perfect nuclear family for the world to praise and admire.  What the voters weren't aware of was in 20 years, he had never seen me swim the final leg of a medley relay.  They didn't see the empty seat at the kitchen table during mealtimes.  And they certainly didn't realize he never showed affection unless cameras were rolling to capture the moment.  The Phil Johnson the world knew was not the Phil Johnson that Melody and I had for a father.  And so, instead of sadness, I felt only regret that my father had squandered his time with us.

“I can’t go to the reception.  I can’t pretend for all those people.  I know my mom wants me to be there, but I just don’t think I have it in me.” 

She nodded supportively.  “I know it’s been hard.  Is there something else you want to do?  Somewhere you want to go?”

I brushed a lock of hair from across her face.  I didn’t say it, but I was already where I wanted to be.  Anywhere with her, the most grounded, solid woman I knew, was right where I belonged.

“Let’s just go to my house,” I said.  “Watch a movie.  Order a pizza.  Forget that I’m supposed to be the heartbroken Senator’s son.”

She took my hand.  “You got it.”