The End of All Things Beautiful (4 page)

During
my research, I was unable to find an obituary, but I did find the address to
his house and am now feeling an overwhelming need to see where he lived.

Before
going to bed, I decide to take the next two days off, despite knowing this will
send up a red flag at the office. In the six years I have worked for my
brother, I have only taken off five days. Not even one day a year.

I’m
not prepared to return to work right now and I know eventually I’ll have to
read the letter.

And
it’s going to be brutal.

The
letter is now on my nightstand, staring at me when I roll over the next morning.
 
I pick it up and slide my finger
along the sealed end but immediately toss it back to where it was.

I
can’t read it. I’m not ready.

Every
single fucking time I look at that letter my mind becomes overcrowded with what
ifs and all the horrible things that could be said. But I think what scares me
more is the fact that I know Tommy well enough to know that what’s in that
letter isn’t horrible. He could never hate me, just like I could never hate
him. What’s in that letter will bring me to my knees, will devastate me and
remind me of why I’ve held onto his memory for this long.

And
even though I won’t open it, I know it contains absolution, a conclusion to an
end, a way to finally move on.

I
drag myself out of bed, not bothering with a shower; I pull on a pair of
leggings and a sweatshirt. My hair still in a messy ponytail from the night
before, I grab my keys, the letter and my purse and head out to my car.

I
punch Tommy’s address into the GPS, prepared to do god knows what when I get
there. I guess just drive past his house. I’m sure it puts me in the category
of a stalker or some shit. At this point what do I have to lose? His wife
already hates me and thinks I was in a relationship with him where I broke his
heart so badly that he never recovered. If she only knew that the truth is so
much worse.

Forty
minutes later I’m driving by a two story in an upper middle class neighborhood;
a nice house on a quiet street. It’s the kind of house that doesn’t appear to
be out of the ordinary. It’s not the kind you look at and think,
The people who live there have issues.
There’s
a welcome flag hanging on a pole on the front porch, a few fall mums in pots, a
pumpkin sitting next to them, along with a well-manicured lawn and a BMW SUV in
the driveway.

I’m
not sure what I expected. I guess I hoped that he led a terrible life and his
passing wouldn’t be in vain. I wanted him to be a cruel and disgusting drug
addict or a wife-beater or something that would relieve me from the guilt I
feel over him dying. But I know deep down he was none of those things; he could
never be. And I hate myself for even thinking it.
 

I
drive by three more times before eventually telling myself if I don’t plan on
ringing the doorbell or at least getting out of my car, I need to move on. In a
neighborhood like this, my presence could possibly be misconstrued and I could
find myself on the receiving end of a visit from the local police. That’s the
last thing I need.

During
the ride to Tommy’s house and back, my phone has been ringing incessantly
making my anxiety shoot through the roof. I remember why I rarely take days
off. The fact that my office can’t seem to get by without me for one day is
proof of that.

I
take my phone from my purse and see that I’ve missed fifteen phone calls, under
the assumption that most are from work, I scroll through quickly only to find
that ten are from my brother and the other five are from Carson. I’m not sure
how to handle this, but I do know I need to give Claire a raise because I haven’t
received a single work-related call.

I
know they’re worried about me. I get it, but right now I need to be left alone.
And that’s exactly how I spend the rest of the day.

Alone.

The
next morning I wake up early, ahead of my alarm, knowing I need to be in the
suburbs for Tommy’s funeral. Dressed in all black with my hair down, I take my
sunglasses even though the sky is dark. It almost seems too fitting given where
I am heading. A darkness hanging in the air, the clouds low and gray as if they
know the mourning of someone is occurring today.

I
still haven’t called Jack or Carson and today I woke up to find a voicemail
from my mother. She isn’t one of those parents that worries about her kids,
while she loves us both dearly, once we left her home, she figured we were old
enough to take care of ourselves. She and my father now live in Florida,
visiting only when necessary and calling only when she has news to share, which
has never really bothered me.

I
know Jack called her; otherwise she wouldn’t be calling me. And as the message
plays, my thoughts are confirmed.

“Hi,
Campbell, it’s your mother.” Her voice makes me smile along with her
introduction. It’s an inside joke. When I first left for college she’d call to
check up on me once a week; leaving a message identifying herself like I didn’t
know who she was. She still does it and it makes me laugh every time. “Jack
called. He’s worried about you. So if you could do me a favor and call him so
he stops bothering me, I’d love it. Hope you’re well. Love you.”

She’s
casual, not at all concerned about me or about Jack’s need to get ahold of me.
If anything she probably finds it odd that he’s searching for me knowing we
spend little time together outside of work.

I
won’t call her back either, the difference is, she won’t care. And I’m sure
that should bother me, but it doesn’t. At least not right now.

I
stuff the letter into my purse as I’m leaving my house. The edges of the
envelope are starting to show signs of wear and the spot where I began to open
it, is starting to curl. I’ve pretty much carried it with me everywhere I’ve gone
since Tommy’s wife handed it to me.

At
this point it’s the only connection to him I have left and by leaving it
behind, by not having it with me, I feel like I’ve lost him completely.

The
ride to the church is incredibly long, the traffic unyielding and when the rain
begins to fall, relentless and pounding, it makes it almost impossible to see.
The clouds are an ominous deep gray color and when the first bolt of lightning
streaks across the sky, I’m suddenly hit with the memory of something I once
read.
Rain on a funeral means the dead are
on their way to heaven.
If I believed in that shit I might have felt
better, but it’s all bullshit. A fucking joke. Do religious people really find
comfort in these thoughts?

My
mind wanders to the accident. I want to chastise myself for even thinking it, but
there is no way Tommy is on his way to heaven, whether I believe in it or not,
not after what we did.

I
pull into the overcrowded parking lot of the church, and I can already feel my
chest closing in on me.
This was a
mistake
, my mind is screaming at me as my heart beats painfully and rapidly
against my ribs.

I
shouldn’t be here. This isn’t a part of my life, he wasn’t a part of my life
anymore and I know if I’m seen by his parents or his wife that I’m fucked. Yet
I’m compelled by something greater than me, something that is forcing me to
enter this church. Salvation, redemption, guilt or a morbid need to know that
he’s really dead; I don’t know what it is, but I know I can’t leave.

I
look at the clock and then watch the last few people exit their cars and enter
the church. I’m holding back, waiting for a moment when I feel like I won’t be
noticed. The service has already begun and I’m hoping to slip in and take a
spot in the back.

The
rain has let up, but everything is shrouded in a deep gray, a light mist
falling, ceaseless and depressing. But despite the rain, I don’t hurry, my legs
heavy and my body aching as I finally trudge up the steps of the church. With
my hand on the door, I pull, the large wooden door creaking and I close my eyes
and swallow hard. I can picture the entire congregation of people turning
around to stare at me, interrupted by the noise of the door in what I expect to
be an utterly silent room.

Eternally
grateful, I find the door opens to a vestibule and I let out a long exhale in
relief, but it’s not over yet.

I
turn and come face to face with a small child who looks to be about four years
old. He looks up and me and I know in an instant who he is. Practically
identical; it’s Tommy’s son. I’m crying before I even have the chance to turn
around and run. He smiles up at me and then I feel his tiny hand slip into
mine.

He’s
standing next to me, his eyes never leaving mine, his hand warm and soft
against my skin. And when he whispers, “This is for my daddy,” I nearly fall to
the floor. Not only does he look exactly like Tommy, his voice is the same melodic
voice I remember from when we were kids.

I
nod my head, wanting to take this small child in my arms, to hug him and hold
onto him as if it were Tommy standing here. I want to tell him that his father
was an amazing man. The most kind and selfless person I have ever known, and
that if he remembers one thing about his father, it was that he loved with all
his heart.

I’m
clutching his hand, my fingers tightening because letting go feels like I’m
letting go of everything Tommy and I once had. I find a strange feeling of
solace take over as the boy squeezes my hand in return.

The
door leading into the church opens slowly, but just barely and an older woman
pokes her head out. Her eyes flick from the boy to me and back to the boy again
before she speaks.

“Thomas,”
she quips sternly, “What are you doing?” She reaches out and snatches his other
hand and yanks him out of my hold. My hand grows cold instantly and I
immediately miss the feeling of comfort I found with him.

Thomas
pulls back against her hand and he looks back at me with that same reassuring
smile on his face.

“Bye,”
he whispers like he knows he’s supposed to be quiet and I give him a small
smile back.

The
woman’s face is harsh and she glares at me with a look that says,
you should know better than to stand so
close to a child you don’t know.

I
watch Thomas being pulled back into the church, his child-like innocence lost
forever and as the thought hits me so do the emotions that come along with it.

The
vestibule suddenly feels hot and stuffy. I pull at the collar of my coat,
unbuttoning it as I begin to sweat and grow nauseous. I’m crying again, but
this time it seems loud and booming in the echoing silence of this small room.

I
suck in a hard breath and before I know it I realize I’m going to be sick, all
of this is too much to handle. Knowing Tommy’s dead, seeing his son, the church
and the thought of this child growing up fatherless, it’s all too much to bear.

I
step outside, the cold, damp air crashing into me but doing nothing to subside
this feeling. Finding a small garbage can, I vomit into it as the tears
continue to fall. I’m not sure I can go inside; I’m not sure I’m capable of
handling any of this.

I
reach into my purse searching for something to wipe my mouth on when a woman
hands me a tissue and a piece of gum.

I
give her a weak but grateful smile and she returns it as she asks, “Are you
okay?” I almost laugh out loud at her question and I want to respond with, “I
haven’t been okay in nine fucking years.” But I think twice and just nod my
head.

“Are
you sure?” she asks, an almost over exaggerated sympathy dripping from her
voice and it annoys me. I hate people who pry, especially strangers. I
responded to her, so why is she still here?

She
waits for me to answer and I say the first thing that comes to my mind, what I
know will get her to back off and what is also a complete lie.

“I’m
pregnant,” I retort with irritation.

I
immediately walk away and go back through the doors of the church, this time
not attempting to silence my arrival. With my eyes on my feet, I trail along
the back pew before taking a seat on the outside edge of the last row.

The
service has already started and I can hear the muffled cries of the people
coming from within the pews, the vaulted emptiness above us unforgiving to the
sounds.

As
the priest speaks I try to focus on his words, I try to listen, but my focus is
shit and everything I’ve taken in from this point sounds garbled as if I’m
underwater. But what comes through loud and clear is the conversation that is
being had next to me by two women.

Each
one more perfect than the next, with their expensive blowouts and manicured
nails, a stepford version of a wife and mother that I imagine live in the
neighborhood where Tommy lived. I only met Samantha for a brief moment when she
showed up at my office to deliver my letter, but even in her state of grief, I
could tell she led the life of perfection on the outside. But what people
couldn’t see, what she hid from everyone was that her life was falling apart.

“It’s
so tragic,” the woman with brown hair whispers, the compassion in her voice
laced with falseness.

“Tragic?”
the woman sitting next to her scoffs, a blonde with a bad fake tan. “It’s
anything but tragic. Tommy was a drug addict and a horrible person. All of this
is so contrived and fake.” Her hand flits from her lap, gesturing around the
church.

“Seriously?”
the brunette questions as she slides closer to the woman next to her, curiosity
written all over her face.

“Oh
my god,” she says, her eyes rolling. “You really think he traveled for work
that
much? Please, he spent more time in
rehab than he did at home.” She pauses momentarily and looks reproachfully at
the front of the church like she’s trying to find someone. “And poor Samantha.
She never would’ve married him if she hadn’t gotten pregnant with Thomas.”