Page 48 of Aftershock

3:38 p.m.

If anyone was going to show up, they would be inside already, and seeing as how my mom sat outside alone, the answer was clear.

Flinging open the door, I stepped outside. The reflection of the sun blurred my vision, causing streaks of light to appear in front of me. After taking a few steps forward, I could make out my mom’s face staring back at me. Her lip was trembling. She rose to her feet and gazed at me with wide eyes. There, at that moment, it was as though my feet had become glued to the sidewalk. I stopped moving. Questions filled my head. Would I be able to be there for her like she was for me? Was I strong enough for her to lean on me for support? Could I handle this? Did I really want to go to my father's funeral?

Yes.

The Truth

The weight holding my feet in place was lifted. Then I was running. I threw myself into my mom’s arms.

“I’m so sorry I couldn't be here sooner,” I apologized as I wrapped my arms around her.

Without hesitation, she enveloped me in a tight hug. The tears began to swell in my eyes when I heard her voice.

“You're here now. That's all that matters,” she consoled.

We pulled apart after a few seconds, and I noticed she was crying too.

Glancing towards the church, I asked, “Is there anyone…” I didn't need to finish. She already knew the question.

“No,” she shook her head somberly.

I put my hand on her back as we walked closer to the stairs she had been sitting on before I arrived. My mom flattened her skirt and then took a seat on the top step.

“Is that a new dress?”

“Yeah, kinda,” I answered noncommittally. My mom wore a knee-length black skirt and a black long-sleeve blouse with a pair of strappy black sandals that had a half-inch heel. “Did you try calling anyone? Maybe they thought the funeral was on a different day?”

“They knew,” she sighed. “They all knew and just decided not to come.”

Why? “Why would they not show up?”

“Autumn, there's something you didn't know about your dad.” Oh great, more family secrets. “Your father didn't die from a heart attack. He had heart failure,” my mom explained.

I couldn't fully process her words. “You knew he was dying and didn't tell me?” I accused, trying to mask the look of hurt on my face.

“No! No, of course not! I just found out. He left letters, or more like short notes, for each of us,” she confessed in a whisper. Her eyes drifted downward as she continued. “There was a history of heart disease on your father’s side. Your father hated going to the doctor. He claimed they were full of shit and only existed to steal money. Eventually, he fainted while out at a bar, and they called an ambulance. That’s when the doctors told him he had heart failure. It didn’t matter, though, because he refused surgery. He said it was because he didn’t trust their judgment, but I think it was really because of money. No one even knew about his condition until he sent the letters. He refused to open up or ask anyone for help.”

He had to have noticed symptoms before he fainted and instead of asking his family for help, he bottled it all up and kept living as though nothing was wrong. Are you kidding me? How narcissistic did you have to be to refuse to swallow your pride and ask for help paying medical bills? Or how dumb did you have to be to look death in the face and not even try to fight? But wait…did he want to die?

“Did he do this on purpose? Was his whole goal just to die?”

“No,” she shook her head. “He sought help from one person—a pastor. He thought God could cure him of any ailments. So, in a way, he did try to fight death, but it just didn’t work. You know, since we’re at his funeral,” my mom mumbled.

My father was a very old-school, traditional Christian. Church every Sunday, no “ifs,” “ands,” or “buts.” I just think he skipped over the chapter of the Bible that said you should treat people with kindness. Growing up in a house full of such strong beliefs pushed me away from the church because it taught me to fear God and others more powerful than myself. I didn’t want to sit still, be quiet, and look pretty when I had so much more to offer than that.

“So, he wasn’t depressed?”

“Not that anyone knew of. Tyler, your father's boss at the casino, said that he would rant about how the other employees should divorce their wives and become real men. He even prepaid for trips and made reservations.” My mom laughed dryly. “He actually booked an escort once a week for the next three months.” That was the kind of man my father was. He only cared about himself. Apparently, it was better to die alone than surrounded by family. “When it was closer to the end, he mailed letters to everyone—his whole family—basically saying he was dying, but he had no regrets and that leaving was the best decision he ever made because, in the end, it made him feel more alive than any of us ever did.”

He wasn't sorry for leaving us. He never missed us. He only ever loved himself. Or maybe he hated himself, and that’s why he never took the steps to even try and stay alive. Still, I wondered if, deep down, he hated that he ended up dying alone. No known history of depression, but depression wasn’t something that you could see. As much as I wanted to believe that it was an imbalance of chemicals in his brain that forced him to leave, I knew the harsh reality that it probably wasn’t likely.

“Wait, where's my letter?” I asked as the feeling of heaviness grew in my stomach. Reaching into the pocket of her skirt, my mom pulled out a small, folded piece of paper crinkled around the edges. She held the letter in her lap as I looked down at it helplessly. I couldn't bring myself to reach for it because I didn't know if I wanted to see what he had written. “How come I never got it sooner? You said he sent them in the mail.” I put my head in my hands.

“He never knew your address after you moved out, so he sent both letters to me. I only saw them the day before flying out here, and I couldn't bear to tell you about this over the phone,” she admitted, looking ashamed. “His letters…they aren't heartfelt or loving; they are callous and cold.” That didn't surprise me. He was never the type of person to take responsibility for his actions. Nothing was ever his fault. “I called everyone—his parents, your sister, his brother, his ex—once they all received the notes, they decided that he wasn't worth showing up for.”

“I don't blame them,” I mumbled.

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