Page 2 of Without You

The hinges creak as I slowly push the door open, almost serving as a warning. Reminding me that it’s been a few weeks since there was any life in this room.

The air is thick and musty, my mother’s obsession with potpourri doing nothing to ward off the stale smell of sickness and death.

The sheer gray curtains are pulled closed, dimming the low glow of the sunset, but still providing just enough light to see all the untouched surfaces throughout the room. My eyes linger over my brother’s childhood. Posters. Books. Drawings.

My chest aches at the bittersweet reminder of the teenager he was and the man that’s not living. It’s like being stuck in a time warp. Access to what his life was. What it could’ve been and what it will never be.

I walk around the room, skating my fingers through the thick layer of dust that coats everything. Nothing but a ghost remains in here, yet the unmade bed, with its rumpled sheets and slight body imprint has me wishing that was anything but the truth. It’s almost a taunt, a false hope that life could be returning to the room at any moment.

My gaze lands on a wooden box sitting in the middle of his desk. It’s shiny and polished, like a beacon of light; completely out of place in this room.

“Deacon.” I turn to find my mother standing in the doorway. Her voice is dull as she stands there lifeless. She’s nothing like the woman I grew up with, and I don’t think she ever will be again.

Since coming back home, I don’t know what’s worse, that I had to watch Rhett die, or knowing that he took everything good with him. That he isn’t the only thing in this house that’s dead, that can never be the same.

“What’s this?” I ask, walking toward it. My palm rests on the top, indecipherably drawn to it.

“It’s for Julian.”

My body recoils at the mention of my brother’s boyfriend. I snatch my hand away in a hurry, not wanting anything to do with him or the box.

“Can you take it to him?” She leans on the doorjamb in exhaustion, like it’s too hard for her to even hold herself up. “Rhett told me to give it to him after the funeral, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.”

A lump forms in my throat, a horrible feeling of jealousy begins to uncoil in my stomach, it’s irrational, yet very familiar. It makes sense that Rhett would leave something behind for him as well. They’ve been inseparable since the day we moved here. Julian lived next door with his foster parents, and he and my brother hit it off straight away; their relationship growing and changing as the years passed.

Even though I was two years older than them, and had my own friends, and a close relationship with my older sister Victoria; I was always envious of what they had. The trust, the closeness, the complete confidence that this person understood you and would stand by you no matter what.

Even with my own family—I’ve never had that.

“Do you think you can drop it off at his place before you head back to Seattle?” she reiterates.

I want nothing more than to say no, but now isn’t the time for arguments. Especially when there’s no logical reason or plausible excuse as to why I can’t. Instead, I give her a soft nod, pick the box up, and put it under my arm.

“You’ll need this.” She sticks her hand into the pocket of her cardigan and plucks out a single key.

“What’s that?”

“He’s probably not going to let you in.”

“Mom.” I shake my head and walk toward her, regret already washing over me. “I can’t just let myself in there.”

“Just check on him, okay?” She presses the key to my chest, not giving me any other choice but to take it. “For Rhett.”

Knowing I can’t say no to that, I tug the metal out of her grasp and slip it into my own pocket. “Do you know where Dad is? I want to say bye before I go.”

“He’s sitting out on the patio. You won’t miss him.”

“Meet me there?” I ask. “I’m just going to drop this stuff in the truck first.”

She raises a hand to my face, looking at me wistfully. “Do you have something warmer to wear? It’s freezing out there.”

Leaning into her touch, I bask in her affection, wishing we could stay in this moment. Mother and son. A split second where the rest of the world doesn’t exist and we’re not a grieving family. “My coat is by the door,” I respond. “And the heater in my truck works just fine.”

Stepping out of her space, I jog down the stairs. With the box under my arm, I use my free hand to snatch my keys off the kitchen countertop and beeline for outside.

Once my bag, the box, and a week’s worth of food my mother’s trying to palm off on me, is safely stored in my back seat, I walk back up to where both Mom and Dad are standing.

My father looks like he’s aged a million years. He’s a hulk of a man, Rhett and I have always been miniature versions of him. But as big as his frame is, it still doesn’t detract from the desolation and exhaustion on his face.

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