Page 135 of Before We Say Goodbye
With a fresh glass poured, he returned to his desk and picked up the pen. Without much hesitation, he began to write.
This journal. I should have known it would come into my life. I remember the day you handed it to me, assuring me it’s the process, not the finished product. When I rolled my eyes at the idea, you said, “Don’t call it a journal then. Call it a memoir. Or a grocery list. I don’t care. Quit taking yourself so seriously and just write.” You told me that you’d be okay, that we both had to find our own way back.
Well, here I am, Bec, focused on the process, ripping my heart out as I lose my oldest son for the second time. The gun is back in the closet, and I’m here, writing, because it’s all that I know to do, the only way that I can keep you all alive, to write you back to life.
Chapter 29
Specks of Hope
Otis almost let the fruit hang on the vines in the harvest following Camden’s passing. He’d thought long and hard about it, torn between not wanting to ever remember this year but also wanting to commemorate it, a way to never forget.
It was late October when Otis left Red Mountain for the first time since the funeral. He was in no shape to do so, but he’d given his word that he’d participate in a James Beard wine dinner in New York with a chef friend.
It had been four years since 9/11, butNever ForgetT-shirts were still being sold on the street. He passed by a stand of them the morning after the dinner, while he killed time before his noon flight back home. Had he had room in his heart, he might have given more attention to the color of the leaves, the crispness in the air, the way in which fall brought Manhattan to life more than any other season.
Otis was trying, though. Trying to clear his head and find an ounce of joy amid the wreckage of loss.
He wound into Central Park, wandering to nowhere, stretching his legs, perhaps walking away from something more than anything.
His grief was such that he couldn’t stop reliving the memories, couldn’t stop falling into the regret of the countless ways he could have done better.
Something about the man who smoked a cigarette on the bench in front of him caught his eye. He looked a lot like Cam in a way, despite having brown hair and being unhealthily skinny and stamped with tattoos. He was no doubt homeless, considering his appearance, including the torn pants and sweater, the raggedy beard and hair.
Out of curiosity, Otis drew closer. A heady smell assaulted his nostrils. He hadn’t known a smell like that since rubbing up against the ripe hippies at the Woodstock festival.
No judgment, though. That was not what he was doing. Actually, he wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he felt compelled to say something. His heart broke for the man; maybe that was it, especially considering his likeness to Cam.
This wasn’t something Otis did, but he did it—he sat down next to the man, the pungent smell growing even stronger.
“Good morning,” Otis said.
“Mornin’.” The young man didn’t even turn his head. In fact, he seemed paranoid about the intrusion. Or perhaps shocked that someone was engaging with him.
“How’s your day going?”
The young man smiled to himself, his shoulders shifting. “You’re looking at it.”
“I don’t mean to intrude. I’m not looking for anything.” Otis also didn’t normally open up to people, but he did then. “You look a lot like my son, that’s all.”
“I see.” The guy turned away and rubbed his four- or five-day-old beard.
“I lost him a few months back.”
It took a while, but the man finally said, “I’m sorry.”
“Never have I known pain like that. Here I was wandering the park, going nowhere in particular, then happen upon his likeness. I felt compelled to take a seat, say hello to you.”
The man tugged on the last nib of the cigarette; smoke swirled around his head.
“What’s your name?” Otis asked, still shaken by how much he looked like Cam.
“Brooks.”
Otis offered a shake. “I’m Otis, it’s nice to meet you. My son’s name was Camden. He died right in front of me. Looked a lot like you. I guess I already said that.”
“How’d he die?” Brooks asked, taking his time but eventually shaking Otis’s hand.
“Lost his balance on a rock. We were fishing in Colorado. Fly-fishing. Where are you from? You look hungry, can I buy you something to eat?” Otis nodded to the food cart about thirty feet in front of him.
