She walked along the pavement, the seemingly out of place chill of May nipping at her nose. But it was England. What more could you expect from the nation with some of the shittiest weather on the planet? She dawdled along the side of the street, stopping to sniff the occasional flower, Might as well enjoy May while it’s here, right? Still, something felt odd about the day. She wasn’t one for superstition, but something just felt inherently bad about today. Like something was on the tip of her tongue but she just couldn’t manage to figure out what it was. Presqe vu, as the French say. She tried her best to shake off such an odd feeling, but as she rounded the street corner, an incoming text message disturbed her thoughts. “Ton, it’s Dad,” the message read. Oh God. Dad. Not her dad, but the dad of the boy she grew up with who, truthfully, might as well have been her own dad. The dad who had brain cancer. That dad.
She slung her purse over her shoulder and ran the street block down to where her car was parked and dialed the boy, all while trying to drive her car as quickly as she could to his house. He didn’t pick up. “God damned voicemail,” she muttered.
“Hey it’s Tom,” she heard his innocent voice through the phone. “Sorry I couldn’t pick up, please leave a message.”
“Tom, I’m on my way over to your house right now, alright? Try to stay put you little bastard,” she nearly choked, trying to disguise the dread in her voice.
She pulled up in front of his house and ran in, not bothering to lock her car or take her purse.
“Tom!” she called out.
No answer.
“Tom, I know you’re in here.”
No answer. God, this must be bad. She heard a thud upstairs and rushed up the steps. All of the bedroom doors were open except for one. The door with the Union Jack with “TOM” written straight across it.
“Tom!” she yelled one last time as she threw the door open. He had tears in his eyes and a diving trophy in his hands, completely prepared to destroy it in his fit of anger.
He lowered the trophy and collapsed onto his bed. “He’s dead, Ton. He’s dead.” was all he could manage to utter.
“Oh, sweetie,” Tonia said softly. “I’m sorry. I just- I’m sorry.”
“He’s dead. Dad’s dead.”
“I know, I just- I never expected it to happen so soon.”
“So soon? So soon!” he stood up and yelled suddenly. “You knew he was going to die and you didn’t have a problem with any of it. You just expected him to die?”
“Tom, you knew this would-“she tried to reason.
“What I know is that you expected my father, my own father, to die. Ever heard of miracles? He’d beaten three tumors already. You didn’t think he’d beat another one?”
“Tom,” her voice lowered and she stood up, head to head, with Tom, “I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Your father was ill. Badly ill. Worse than he had ever been before. A miracle would’ve been great, Tom, but you knew it and I knew it. There wasn’t a very good chance of him making it. But I will not have you stand here and yell at me just because you refuse to come to terms with reality. And I know you’re angry and sad and grieving and you miss him and I do too, believe me, I do. But please, Tom, I know you’re better than this.”
Tom buried his face in his hands and sobbed, inadvertently falling into Tonia. “But Ton, he’s gone. I can’t believe it, he’s gone.”
“I know,” she said, failing miserably at holding back her tears. “I know.”
