Augustus Waters died eight days after his prefuneral, at Memorial, in the ICU, when the
cancer, which was made of him, finally stopped his heart, which was also made of him.
He was with his mom and dad and sisters. His mom called me at three thirty in the
morning. I'd known, of course, that he was going. I'd talked to his dad before going to
bed, and he told me, "It could be tonight," but still, when I grabbed the phone from the
bedside table and saw Gus's Mom on the caller ID, everything inside of me collapsed. She
was just crying on the other end of the line, and she told me she was sorry, and I said I
was sorry, too, and she told me that he was unconscious for a couple hours before he
died.
My parents came in then, looking expectant, and I just nodded and they fell into
each other, feeling, I'm sure, the harmonic terror that would in time come for them
directly.
I called Isaac, who cursed life and the universe and God Himself and who said where
are the goddamned trophies to break when you need them, and then I realized there was
no one else to call, which was the saddest thing. The only person I really wanted to talk
to about Augustus Waters's death was Augustus Waters.
My parents stayed in my room forever until it was morning and finally Dad said, "Do
you want to be alone?" and I nodded and Mom said, "We'll be right outside the door," me
thinking, I don't doubt it.
It was unbearable. The whole thing. Every second worse than the last.