First 72: A Short Story

****ONE****

Helplessness, true helplessness, is one of the worst feelings I’ve ever known. Looking at someone you love and knowing that there is absolutely nothing you can do to make them feel better, to take their hurt, their pain, away; that is true helplessness. Being forced to sit back and watch, while that person suffers; that is true helplessness. When all you can do is stand by and watch as something happens, that is true helplessness. In those moments, there is no hope, there is no future. There is just the overwhelming burden of knowing - in that moment - there was nothing you could do for the ones you love more than anything.

That’s what I’m feeling.

She’s a rock up there, but inside I know she’s teetering on the edge of a complete breakdown. She’s being strong for her mom, her sisters, her nieces, and nephews. She’s the one they all lean on in times like this, as I’ve learned over the years. She’s the rock, the North Star, the lighthouse on the shore of an impossibly foggy body of water. It’s one of the things I love about her. That strength, that resilience, that unwavering, uncompromising grit. Those qualities are what make me feel so safe, so comfortable whenever I’m around her.

She shakes the hand of every single person who comes through the line. Some are teary eyed, some are stoic. All are upset. Her sisters are worse off, her mom is in shock. The kids, still too young and innocent to understand anything more than ‘Grandpa is gone’. Her brothers-in-law know to keep their distance. Like me, they’re unsure where to fit in. I can tell they are sad. We all are.

I excuse myself every half hour to go outside. I can’t stand being in the room for longer than that. It’s nothing personal, obviously. It’s just hard. She understands. She knows. She’s gotten used to my habits by now. Amongst everything she must be feeling, I see her smile at me as I head for the door. She gives me a nod, a silent sign of permission that lets me know that she truly understands me. She doesn’t judge. I smile back at her.

It’s raining. Drizzling, actually, but I barely notice. The Zippo feels heavier each time I reach into the back pocket of my black dress pants. On the other hand, the pack feels lighter and lighter. I’m not proud, God knows I’m not proud of it. Tried to quit more times than I could remember. Just couldn’t, just can’t. I need the crutch, though I’ll never admit it outloud to anyone.

I push one up from the pack. My lips pinch the smoke and I pull back, drawing it from the pack. Back in my pocket it goes as I simultaneously bring the Zippo up, and cover the flame with my now free hand. I inhale, feeling the smoky nicotine flood my mouth, my throat, my lungs, my nostrils. I puff once and snap the Zippo shut, the end of the cigarette burning a bright orange. Rather than standing at the entrance of the funeral home, I walk around to the side, and crouch down in front of my truck. I don’t want to be the first thing people see as they arrive to pay their respects. Most of her family already didn’t really like me, no reason to give them more. They’re never rude to me, that feels like an important clarification. But, we’re from different worlds.

She’d been the one to find him, almost a full day after he’d left his house. They’d been in a fight the day before she’d found him, she’d told me about it that night after I returned from work. It wasn’t uncommon for her and her father to fight; they didn’t agree on a lot. Working together will do that to a parent and a child, as I also came to learn.

“He just doesn’t understand anything!” she groaned, slamming the cabinet shut. She set a rocks glass down on the island of our kitchen, poured herself five fingers of vodka; ice and a lime. “Ugh, he’s just so arrogant. It drives me nuts. He acts like I haven’t spent the last four years of my life trying to get his company back on its feet!”

When she says ‘the company’ she’s referring to her father’s business, a logistics and freight firm based in the city. She went to college, got a Bachelor’s Degree, then a Master’s Degree. All to help her dad. She loved him, idolized him, and looked up to him. Always had.

But, they could drive each other into madness.

“What happened this time?” I asked, grabbing myself a beer from the fridge. I don’t normally drink during the week, but this seemed like a conversation I’d want to have a beer for.

She went on to tell me and I listened as best I could. She was fired up, her eyes narrowed with anger. Her dad had made some decision without consulting her first and she - being the Vice President - had been pissed. Rightfully so. But, it happened so often, I wondered how she could still be surprised.

Her father was a good guy, but he was traditional in his beliefs. As much as he must’ve liked working with his daughter, she was a woman, and still held some patriarchal belief that she didn’t need to be consulted for certain things. Was it right? No, not at all. Was it going to change? Even if she kept fighting him about it? No, not at all.

I could see it, but she never could. The more she fought him on his ways, the more it validated his beliefs. I tried a few times, early on in our relationship, to point this out. She never wanted to hear it. To be honest, I never really felt like she tried to hear what I was trying to say. She was quick to anger when it came to talking about her father. I got good at just not saying anything, understanding that when she needed to vent, she wasn’t looking for me to solve her problems. Or voice an opinion, for that matter.

She’s educated. Very highly educated. Me - on the other hand - am not. I have a high school diploma and a four year apprenticeship degree with a trade union. I work for a living. I use my hands and my body. I know she’ll never say it out loud, but she knows she’s smarter than me. She’s more educated than me. That doesn’t mean I’m an idiot, she wouldn’t be with me if I was an idiot. But I have a simpler way of viewing things, whereas she likes to analyze and ponder.

I try my best to avoid analyzing or pondering.

She doesn’t care, though. My being or not being educated is not why she’s with me. I know why she’s with me. I make her laugh, more than anyone else in her life; she tells me that constantly. I’m the reason she has never once had to call a repairman for anything with the house. I’m the reason she’s never had to take her car into the shop. But more importantly than any of that, I’m the reason that she feels safe at night. I’m the person she calls when she has good news or bad news, when she needs to vent or when she needs advice. I am the person who has protected her. I’m the person she trusts and the person she loves.

And she is everything to me.

Finishing off the smoke, I toss it into the parking lot, and walk back toward the funeral home. As I do, the rain stops, and I look up into the sky. And a chill runs down my spine, the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.

It’s massive. It’s completely still, like a gigantic statue in the clouds, completely frozen in time.

For a second, I stand and stare. And when I blink, it’s gone.

Another second, I’m frozen. Did I see something? Did I not see something? I look into the cloudy, grey sky and there’s nothing there. Nothing.

“I gotta quit smoking,” I mutter to myself, walking back inside.

The people are leaving in groups now. Some still stand around awkwardly, silently wondering if they’ve been there for long enough. I know what they will all do when they get back into the sanctity of their cars. They’ll talk, they’ll speculate, they’ll gossip, they’ll theorize. Hell, it’s what I would do if I knew half of the story. Judgment will be thrown towards her mother, my mother-in-law. They’ll wonder how she didn’t know, what signs she missed, or if she drove him to do it.

I feel my blood boil at the thought.

She’s been like a mother to me, in more ways than one. She’s a good woman, a decent woman. She doesn’t deserve this. None of them do.

I look towards the front of the room, where the casket, the flower arrangements, and the poster boards of pictures are all positioned. I see my wife, her sisters, and my mother-in-law. I see their pain. I see their heartache. I see their confusion.

And for one, fleeting moment, I am enraged at the man who caused them so much pain.