Page 33 of The Beginning and End of Everything
He swiped a hand over his face before patting the couch. “Come here.”
Panic crept around my throat, strangling me like a boa constrictor when I perched on the edge of the sofa. Every muscle in my body tensed, but for once, it wasn’t because I was scared of my dad, just what he was going to say.
“Your ma is gone.” He paused. He ducked his head, and his fists balled on his thighs. “She’s gone, Brandon.” The slight vulnerability in his words crashed over me with startling reality.
Gone? My jaw tensed. She wouldn’t leave me.
“A brain aneurysm.”
She’d been getting headaches and having to nap a lot, but she was okay. She had to be.
“I called the medics,” Dad breathed. “They took her, but there was nothing they could do.”
A numbness settled over me.
He just let them take her, without even coming to find me. And I hated him for it. A world without my ma in it—my world imploded until I was left standing alone in the dark, sucked into a dark void where nothing good existed. Without her, ebbing loneliness would consume me. She was all I had.
I couldn’t bear to look at the empty caravan, at my worthless father, pretending to mourn a woman that he did nothing but hurt. So I left.
I needed something. Something I’d never turned to before, so I went to Connor’s.
As soon as he opened the door and looked at me, his face fell. He pulled me into a bear hug, and I let him, but I was numb.
“I need to go to the church,” I whispered.
Without question, he pulled away from me and grabbed his coat. I don’t know why I wanted Connor to go with me. Partly, I thought God wouldn’t listen to me, but Connor was good. If I went with him, maybe I stood more of a chance. The entire way there, silent tears continued to track down my cheeks, but I didn’t feel the despair that went with them, not really. I just felt lost, like I was watching someone else navigate the ever-harder path that was my life.
When we stepped inside, I headed straight for the statue of the Virgin Mary. The closer I got, the more intimidating she seemed, though her face was kind, forgiving. It just made me think of Ma. I fell to my knees in front of her and closed my eyes. I thought about my ma, and I begged Jesus to let her into heaven. As I knelt there, I realized it was too late. Too late for prayers, or help. She was gone. It felt so utterly final. She just…no longer existed.
I didn’t know why I went there. Perhaps I was looking for some kind of redemption or peace. Part of me felt like I deserved this because I wasn’t good. I stole and sinned. But God was supposed to forgive all sins, and Ma…she never sinned. Where was her forgiveness? In a cold, dark hole in the ground. That’s where.
It was there in front of the statue of the virgin that I finally felt it all, every sharp, jagged edge of my pain sliced through me until I simply sobbed. I broke down crying until I could cry no more, and then I went back to Connor’s house too fractured and scared to go home. My ma was dead, and I’d never really had a father.
I was an orphan.
17
Poppy
Cathedrals in Ireland are a stark contrast to the churches in America. They’re cold and solemn. The slightest of whispers sound loud, echoing from the vaulted ceilings, but what doesn’t differ is the thick fog of dread that clings to the air during a funeral.
The wooden pew creaked when I shifted my weight, crossing and uncrossing my legs. My gaze drifted from Connor to the stained-glass window to the wrought iron chandelier. I looked everywhere but to the front where Mrs. O’Kieffe’s casket sat.
The slight rustle of people moving, the intermittent cough—all silenced when soft footsteps fell over the stone floor. Brandon pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket as he made his way to the pulpit. Clearing his throat, he exhaled and smoothed the note over the podium. “My ma was the best person I knew …” Brandon’s words were lost on a choked sob.
Each beat of my heart felt like a thunderclap. I just wanted to hold his hand, to make sure he knew he wasn’t alone, but when I flattened my feet on the floor and gripped the edge of the pew to rise, my father placed a gentle hand on my knee, subtly shaking his head.
“She was kind,” Brandon continued, his voice wavering. “And nice to everyone. It didn’t matter how bad I was or what I did. She always loved me. Always stood up for me.” His chin dropped to his chest on a ragged breath. “And now she’s gone.” Moments passed before he lifted his tear-streaked face to look out over the crowd. He looked so lost, like someone left without anyone to fight for them. “My ma would have said that this isn’t goodbye, just see you later. And I really hope there’s a heaven because I can’t wait to see her again.”
Glancing at the coffin, he wiped his face and stepped down, stopping beside his mother’s body. His fingers clutched the side of the casket when the clergyman came to close it, and I had to look away. I couldn’t bear to watch him break.
Connor grabbed my hand, threading his fingers through mine.
Footsteps echoed into the ceiling as several men from the camp—Old Man and Uncle Darren included—walked to the front of the cathedral. They each grabbed one of the coffin’s handles and hoisted it onto their shoulders, carting it through the open doors at the side of the church.
Connor and I didn’t say a word as we followed the masses outside, weaving through the moss-covered crosses and tombstones. My father squeezed my arm before stepping to the side to stand with Mr. and Mrs. Blaine.
Brandon stood right at the edge of her grave, a lily in his hand. He held it over the grave and hesitated, and I knew this was the hardest part—knowing that any minute, the person who means the most will be covered with dirt and left. Leaving the dead feels wrong and leaves us empty. After a hard breath, Brandon dropped the lily into the grave.
