Falling Into Us (34 page)

I had a moment of peace, just the cold and Jason’s arms and the truck and the tree and the sun. And then I remembered, a waking nightmare flashing through my mind. I shuddered, choking back tears. Jason’s arms clutched me, and I knew he was awake.
 

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much, and I’ll be here with you every single moment.”

I nodded against his chest. “I l-love you, t-too.” I cringed at the stutter. “I’m s-sorry.”

“Sorry? For what?”

“I k-keep…keep stutter…r-r-ring.” Mid-word stutters were the worst. I hadn’t stuttered in the middle of a word since junior high.
 

He made a sound almost like a sob. “Never apologize. You know that. I love you. Always, forever, no matter what.”

“P-p-prom—promise?” I clutched him desperately.

“On my soul. On my life.”

I needed him. I wasn’t afraid of admitting that, not ever. Especially then. I knew he was the only thing that would get me through this crushing sorrow, this haunting vision of Ben swinging and twisting in the air above me.

He held me, and he didn’t let go.

 
FOURTEEN: Elegy

Jason

Two days later

I had to literally hold Becca upright as we entered the viewing room at the funeral parlor.
 

Why is it a “parlor”? It seems like such a flighty, frivolous word. Parlors are for sipping tea and laughing at flat jokes, not mourning the loss of a loved one.

I’d tried to call Nell to tell her, but she never answered, never returned my call. I didn’t leave a message, because how can you pass news like this via voicemail?
 

Becca was…just broken. It crushed me to see her like this. She was always such a bright person, lively and lovely. Quiet in public, but still vibrant. Now? The sunlight had been leached from her smile, the sap sucked from her eyes. I held her against my side, pinning her there with my arm. She clutched my ribs tight enough to restrict my breathing. I half-carried her across the same carpeting with the fleur-de-lis pattern, past the same out-of-place paintings of old English foxhunt scenes as when Kyle died. Not the same room, thank god. I don’t think I could have taken that. This one was subdued, with wood-paneled walls and pale charcoal carpeting and brass lamps, some ubiquitous hunt scene artwork and three rows of folding chairs.

And the casket. Mahogany or some other nut-brown wood, brass handles around the edges. The top half of the lid was open, and as I escorted Becca closer to it, I saw first Ben’s hair, black and shiny. Becca hiccuped as we approached and clung to me. I steeled myself as we took the last step. Then we were standing in front of the casket, and Becca had her face buried in my suit coat.

“I d-d-don’t want to l-look,” she mumbled.
 

“Then don’t,” I said. “You know who he was.”

She shuddered in my arms, and then slowly turned her face away from me, straightened, stood on her own. Her hands smoothed her shin-length black dress over her hips, and I watched her visibly steel herself. Her back went ramrod straight, her head tilted back, her hands clutched into fists, and her breathing went long and deep and fast. I stood beside her and forced my fingers into hers, and she grabbed at me as if for a lifeline, gripping hard enough to cause pain.
 

I watched her. She opened her eyes and stared into the middle distance over the casket, and then, nearly hyperventilating, she forced her gaze down to the body of her brother. He was dressed in a plain black suit, white shirt, black tie. His hair was slicked back, and makeup had been so artfully applied that you could barely see the dark black bruise ringing his neck.
 

“God, he w-w-would have hay-hated that s-s-suit,” she murmured, then covered her mouth with her hand. “Why do w-we d-d-do th-this? Why do we t-t-t-torture oursel—selves like-like this? That’s n-nnn-not Ben.”

I had no answer for that question. I just held her, my arm high around her waist.
 

Mr. de Rosa came up beside Becca and rested his hand on her shoulder. She’d told me she didn’t blame him, late last night, but now she shook his hand off, moaning low in her throat.
 

“D-d-don’t, Father.” She pushed away from me, stumbling and almost knocking over the framed collage of photographs of Ben standing on an easel near the casket.
 

He watched her go, sadness in his eyes. His gaze flickered to me and held a hint of accusation, as if I’d done something to alienate them. She said she didn’t blame Enzio de Rosa for her brother’s death, but her actions said otherwise. It was none of my business, so I did the only thing I could: I followed her, wrapped my arm around her waist, and pulled her to a chair near the back, by the door. She’d bolt again, I knew.

A priest came and stood in front of the crowd. “Dearly beloved,” he began, his voice throaty and phlegmy, “we are gathered here to mourn the passage of Benjamin Aziz de Rosa. His life ended far too soon, we would all agree. We’ll probably never know why Benjamin chose to take his own life, but nonetheless, we mourn his death and choose to celebrate his life—”

Becca choked on a sob, coughed, and stumbled to her feet. I chased after her as she righted herself and stepped in front of the priest, who cut short and stared at Becca in shock and confusion. She met my eyes and shook her head, and I knew she was fully aware of what she was doing, so I stood with my back to the wall and my arms crossed over my chest, daring anyone to try to stop her.

“Th-this isn’t what my brother would have wanted.” She spoke slowly, an artificial, scripted quality to her words. “H-he would have hated that s-stupid suit. He would have hated those stupid pictures of him, and these stupid flowers. He would have hated the fake words this preacher is saying—no offense, sir. He-he-he—would have wanted us to get sss-stoned for him. We w-won’t do that, ah-ah-obviously. We know
exactly
why he hu-hung himsel—self. He was troubled. He was depressed. He was angry. He did-didn’t th-think he ha-had any-anything t-t-to off-off-offer.” She paused, closed her eyes, and gathered herself.

I noticed Kate then for the first time, wearing, instead of black, a deep emerald dress that hung at her knees and clung to her svelte frame. Her hair was twisted up into a complicated braid, and she had thick makeup on. She’d dressed for Ben, I realized, not everyone else. Her eyes were red-rimmed, tear-stained, and angry.

Becca saw her, too, and she spoke to Kate.

“I knew him best, except for Kate. I loved him, and I hated to see him…s-struggle…with himself.” Becca was pausing frequently, forcing words out, forcing fluency on herself. No one was breathing. “His n-n-note said he was sorry. That he’d failed…Kate, and everyone. He didn’t fail. He did-did…
didn’t.
Not once. W-
we
failed
him
. We all did.” Her eyes flicked her father then, and he visibly flinched, eyes screwing tight and a single tear slipping down his cheek. “We all…judged…hi—him. We tried to fi-fix…him. Only Kate just
loved
him. Let him feel what he felt and…accepted…him-him-him.” Her eyes ticked with the last three stuttered syllables.

At that, Kate broke, standing up suddenly in a crash of metal folding chairs, and ran. Becca watched her, and then moved her gaze back to the podium, staring at the wood. She glanced at me, then gestured to her purse on the chair where she’d been sitting. I snagged it and handed it to her. She pulled out a piece of lined paper folded into eighths, unfolded it, smoothed it against the wood surface.

She breathed deeply, her mouth moving as she read the words in preparation to speak them aloud.

“I wrote this. For Ben.” I knew how hard it was for Becca to share her poetry. This was the only thing, the best thing she could give him.

“
I don’t mourn you,

Brother.

I don’t grieve for you.

If there is thought

Or grief

Or love
 

After this life,

Then you’re watching,

And you’re mad at us.

You’re angry,
 

But you’re at peace.

I don’t mourn you,

Brother.

But I miss you.

I wish you hadn’t left,

Hadn’t removed yourself

So violently

From us all.

From me.

I miss you.

I love you,

Brother.

And I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I didn’t love you

More.

I can’t say if you’re in a better place.

Maybe that’s a myth we tell

To comfort ourselves.

There’s too much to say,

And not enough words

For me to say it all.

If you’re here,

If you’re listening,

Then I hope you find,

In whatever place you’re in,

What you were looking for.
”

She crushed the paper in her fist, slumping forward onto the podium as if the effort to say all that so fluently had used up all her strength. I moved to her, pulled her against my chest, and moved backward, away. She hung from my embrace, and I lifted her into my arms, careful to keep her dress smoothed modestly over her legs. I carried her out of the viewing room, out of the parlor, and to the tree, the same tree where I’d seen Nell run from Kyle’s funeral. I think that’s where she’d first met Colton, or, well, met him again, really, since we’d all sort of known him before he’d left.

Kate was there, beneath the tree, the branches casting a broad shadow in the bright, hot June sunlight. Becca set her feet down and moved to sit beside Kate, and I plopped down in front of them.

“I’m not—I didn’t love him, like you said,” Kate blurted. “I didn’t. I was always trying to fix him. Make him better.”

“But you accepted him any-anyway. You l-l-lo-loved him, even though he was so messed up.”

“He wasn’t messed up. He was just Ben.”

“See?” Becca smiled, a tiny, sad smile. “That’s w-w-what I mean.”

A long silence ensued. Kate sat Indian-style and stared at the grass between her legs, plucking blades of grass and shredding them. I moved to sit next to Becca, since the way Kate was sitting left her open so I could that she wasn’t wearing anything under the dress, and I didn’t need to see that.
 

“I’m pregnant.” Kate whispered the words.

Becca’s head snapped up. “What?”

“That’s why Ben killed himself. He couldn’t take it. He thought he’d ruined my life, our lives. The kid would be like him, he said. He said…he wasn’t capable of being a father. He…I found out the day before he…the day before. I told him, and he just…he flipped out. He got so mad, worse than I’ve ever seen him. At himself, though. Not at me. He smashed the apartment, and almost hit me. It was so scary. He wasn’t himself, he was just…crazy.” She was still whispering so low I could barely hear her. “When he realized he was so close to hurting me, he stopped. That was the next morning. Then he left, and I didn’t know where he’d gone. I was so sick, I was puking so hard I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t get off the bathroom floor for hours. So I sent you that text asking you to look for him. God, Becca, I never thought…I didn’t think he’d—he’d do this…” She sobbed and fell sideways, burying her face in her hands, slipping down so her head rested on Becca’s lap.
 

Becca stroked her hair away from her forehead and wept with her, sniffling quietly, letting her tears fall. I felt my chest clench, my stomach twist. Watching Becca cry so hopelessly was the hardest thing I’d ever done. Knowing I couldn’t help her, couldn’t comfort her was even worse.
 

Kate stopped after a while and wiped her eyes with her hands, and her nose on her forearm, leaving a clear trail across her pale skin. “What do I do? How do I…how do I do this?” Kate asked.

Becca stared at me, pleading with me silently to have some kind of answer.

“I—you just…live. One day at a time. That’s all any of us can ever do, isn’t it?” I hated how trite my words sounded. “You’re family, now, Kate. You won’t be alone. We’ll…we’ll help you any way we can.”

“I…I thought about having an abortion. That’s all I can think about. Do I have this baby? Do I not?” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat, continued in a broken murmur. “But…I
have
to have the baby. He…or she…is all I’ll ever have of Ben. God…he’s gone, and I have to do this alone.” She curled her fists in the grass, ripped hunks of grass loose, speaking through clenched teeth. “I’m so
mad
at him. So angry. He
left
me. He didn’t die on accident, he wasn’t taken from me…he
left
me…on purpose. And I…I
fucking
hate
him for that. Does that make me an awful person? I’m so angry at him for leaving me that I could just…I can’t take it.”
 

“I-I’m mad at him, too,” Becca whispered. “I n-n-know what I s-sss-said in there, but…I’m angry, t-too, Kate. He took the coward’s way out. I h-hate mys-ss—self for ee-eev-even thinking that about him, b-but it’s t-tr-true.”

“You’re allowed to feel whatever you want,” I said to both of them, again feeling like I was spouting cliches.
 

Another long silence, and then Kate stood up shakily, brushing her hands off and smoothing her dress, slipping her feet back into her black heels and re-tying her auburn hair into a sleek ponytail. And just like that, she was back together again, eyes dry but full of sadness. “I have to go. Thanks, both of you.”

I stood up and leaned in to give her a quick, chaste hug. “Call us, okay? Anytime, for anything.”
 

She nodded. “I will.” And then she was gone, long legs striding across the grass.

Becca held her hands out to me, and I lifted her to her feet. She clung to me, drawing in a lungful of air with her face against my chest. “Take me home.”

An hour later, we were back in our apartment. I had my shoes kicked off, the stupid, slippery dress socks making my feet slide on the cracked white laminate stick-on of the kitchen floor. I shucked my coat and pulled on my tie to loosen it, and then I felt a hand on my arm, turning me.