Page 17 of Words I Couldn't Say
It wouldn’t be long before they all fell and none of us were left standing. Not me. Especially not Tucker. And nothing I would do would ever be enough to make it okay. Nothing would ever change what happened that day. We’d never be the same.
“Capsized.”
“Lost at sea.”
“No bodies recovered.”
“A tragedy no one could have expected.”
“Those poor boys.”
“What will Tucker do now?”
“What will happen to Tanner?”
It was all I could do to get through the funeral by Tucker’s side. The hushed whispers at the wake, however, were nearly more than I could handle. As much as I wanted to run away to the solace of our tree house, I remained by his side the entire time. I knew he wanted to retreat, too.
If not for his thirteen-year-old brother, Tanner, I was almost positive he would have. Instead of running away, he put on a brave face, thanking those who offered sympathies. Accepting more meals than his freezer could hold. And dodging questions of his future.
A future I was agonizingly unsure of.
For years, we’d had a plan. Even as best friends, we had already known we’d end up in California together. I was planning on studying theater at UCLA while trying to get into acting. He’d been accepted to USC’s School of Journalism. Sure, we wouldn’t be at the same school, but we’d be close enough—hopefully with roommates who didn’t mind a littleustime.
All of that had been in the cards, on track to happen, until the night he’d gotten the call.
What should’ve been a celebration of twenty-five years together had turned into a nightmare. His parents had been enjoying a romantic anniversary trip on the Atlantic Ocean when a freak storm came out of nowhere, capsizing their boat. The search-and-rescue Coast Guard team searched for days, finding nothing. Not even a shoe or the smallest article of clothing.
The days ahead passed in a whirlwind. Or perhaps it was more of a fog. With only one living adult relative, some distant great-uncle he barely knew, Tucker was left to deal with the aftermath. Of course, my parents were there with him every step of the way, but it wasn’t the same.
Tucker was barely eighteen years old, and unexpectedly, he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Instead of deciding which parts of his wardrobe he’d be taking to college and if he wanted to upgrade from his Cincinnati Reds baseball bedding to something a bit more mature, he was forced to choose between different types of caskets and tombstones. His once thought-out future now hung in the balance, and all he could do was take it day by day.
And, as each day passed, it became more apparent: Nothing between us would ever be the same. Tucker had been rocked to his core, and nothing I could do would bring him the comfort he needed. I told myself that he just needed time. He just needed space. I told myself that, once he got to California, he’d look ahead to the future. Naturally, he’d continue to grieve, but maybe in another place, a sunny setting, his outlook would change.
Even at the time, I knew it was wishful thinking. But it was all I could do.
