The Burning Side(70)

I lay my hand on his. “You were a child.”

He stares at his bacon crumbles.

“Look at me.” I say it slow and clear: “None of this was your fault.”

He tucks his chin into his shoulder, breathing hard, and my own words boomerang back to me. I can see my gaunt father and my desperate attempts to heal him. None of this was your fault. How obvious the truth becomes when it’s applied to someone else.

I butter a piece of toast and add, “From where I sit, it doesn’t look like your dad’s fault either.” I think about Leo’s parents and mine, and I say, “You can respond to death with death, or with life. We know how our parents responded, bless them.” I pass the butter dish and square my jaw firmly. “But not us,” I instruct. “We have to welcome grief without letting it pull us under.” I pause. “And you have to remember that you are not alone.”

Pained, he says, “It’s just so unfair that she was.”

His broad chest rises and falls, and I imagine him as a boy wanting to take care of her. I will not diminish his loss by searching a black cloud for a silver lining. So I only say, “You’re right. It’s so unfair.”

We sit at this table, two blips on the timeline. Together, we lay our losses bare and call grief what it is. Together, we finish our meal.

As we are loading the dishwasher, Billy comes back in and slips his shoes off. “How are you two?”

I pass Leo a pan to dry, smiling small at him. “We’re here.” A triumph.

When Leo eventually goes to the front door to leave, Billy looks around, patting his pockets. “Wait, where are those thingamajigs?” He walks away, leaving Leo and me to shrug at each other. Leo thanks me for talking, and I thank him back. There is something sacred on both sides of shared pain.

Billy returns with sticky notes, pulls one from the pad, and hands it to Leo. You’re always welcome here. The word always is underlined. Billy winks. “So you don’t forget.”

Strangely, Billy has seemed more perceptive lately, as though so much else is falling away that he’s left with the real-time, observable feelings of the person in front of him, even if he isn’t always certain who that person is.

He knows Leo though, and the sticky note is perfect. When April told the family about the divorce, she told us mutual decision; she told us amicable; she told us co-parents; and she told us friends. But the look on Leo’s face broke my heart that night, because I knew he thought the same thing would happen with us that happened with his parents and aunt and uncle: a trickle of a departure that is never dignified with an actual goodbye.

We can’t replace his parents, but we are here for him and will continue to be. And we watch him tuck Billy’s note into the pocket of his corduroys, giving it a tender little pat.





LEO


August 21, 2022

I DRIVE EAST FOR CAMERON’S wedding with the kids in the back seat. The rest of the family drove out a day early to help set up. I park near Rachel’s family home, a sunny, barn-shaped structure. Across the way, rows of chairs sit in a clearing, with white bows on the backs. A bright archway of flowers stands in the middle. Over to the side, Josie is talking to the band and adjusting the microphone. To the other side, Sadie sprints off excitedly, yelling, “Mommy, Mommy!”

I turn to see April, her hair pinned up. She is wearing a lace, rose-colored dress, and I can’t look away. The sun haloes her as she reaches out to Sadie. It has only been three days since April stayed with me, and I brace myself for confusion. Grief has a way of making people feel far and close at once—April in the car, whom I hated for setting Waco in motion; but then April in the night, whom I loved for staying with me even after I misdirected my anger. And now we’re at a wedding where I am both groomsman and divorce petitioner.

April looks my way. “You curled her hair!”

I nod, and Sadie beams.

Then Rachel’s mom and Deb descend upon me, showing me where to line up, where to stand during the ceremony, and how the florist screwed up the bridal bouquet but luckily the two of them were keen enough to fix it. I smile and tell them they look beautiful. Deb scoops up Otto, who is pointing everywhere at everything. He points with confusion at Billy, who is still refraining from picking up his grandchildren, per doctor’s orders.

As guests arrive and last-minute preparations happen, I sneak off to find Cameron, who is standing near the flower arch in his crisp gray suit. He smiles when he sees me.

“You ready for this?” I ask.

He looks toward the house, where Rachel waits. “Couldn’t be more ready.”

“Congratulations, man. I’m happy for you.” And I am. I remind myself that tonight is about his marriage, not my divorce. When the music picks up in volume, I hug him and hustle to my spot.

Our cue comes, and I extend my elbow to April. She loops her arm through mine.

I whisper, “You look beautiful.”

She tentatively touches her hair with her free hand.

We proceed down the aisle, splitting off as the drumbeat changes.

Josie transitions to the chorus of “Transatlanticism” as the crowd rises, turning expectantly. Rachel finally emerges on the arm of her father. Her hair cascades down her shoulders, and the train of her dress flows behind her as she walks toward Cameron, whose eyes turn pink.

They decided not to test for Alzheimer’s. It wouldn’t change anything, Rachel said, her confidence untested yet real. The music builds as she joins Cameron at the end of the aisle, her father stepping aside. The sky is golden, and a soft wind moves through us like a breath of promise. The moment is as beautiful as sorrow, and I do not look at April.