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HUNTER
I clench my jaw while watching them lower her coffin into the ground. Dad stands at my side, dabbing at his eyes with an old handkerchief. I hear him sniffing beside me, but don’t move to offer him any kind of solace. I’m barely hanging on myself. I can’t remember the service. I only remember that I was there, listening to the pastor go on and on about a woman he hardly knew. Dad insisted on having a whole ceremony for her.
I just wanted it done and over with.
Now, watching her being lowered, I don’t know what to think. I should have been there more for her. That’s for sure. I should have taken this semester off as soon as I found out about her cancer’s return. It was selfish of me to continue with classes and football; selfish of me to drown out my pain with drugs and alcohol.
Tears stream down my cheeks and I wipe them away roughly, hoping no one notices. My eyes lift and I see Seth and Lucas watching me from the other side. I feel someone tugging on my hand and look down, finding Rachel standing at my side, holding my hand. She looks lovely in her black dress. Her curly blonde hair cascades down her shoulders. She smiles up at me and I force my lips up, hoping it resembles some sort of smile. Looking around, I notice everyone is heading back to the cars for the reception.
So, I guess that’s it. Mom is dead. She’s been buried. What now? I wonder while allowing Rachel to tug me back to Lucas’s SUV. We’re all just supposed to eat and be merry? Talk about her life fondly? I don’t know if I can do that. I feel so numb; as if time is slipping by and I’m only there physically, but not mentally.
The car door shuts and I lean my head against the window, watching the men in the distance shovel dirt into my mother’s grave. I hear the car start, feel it move, but my gaze doesn’t waver. I can’t stop staring at the graves, wondering what I could have done differently in order to fix this. Could I have been a better son? Maybe I shouldn’t have yelled at her when I was thirteen, and I was embarrassed about her bringing my forgotten lunch to school. She did yell at me pretty good then for being spoiled rotten and the next time I forgot my lunchbox she hadn’t brought it. I smile, remembering how hungry I was.
Maybe I shouldn’t have gone to college at all. I could have been home more often, taking care of her, making sure she was following all of the doctor’s rules. At least, then she wouldn’t have been so lonely while Dad spent all his days at work.
I grimace at the thought of my father. Maybe I shouldn’t have fought with him so much. That probably stressed Mom out more than she needed to be. If I had been the perfect son for him, maybe Mom would’ve been around for a year or two more. Maybe we would’ve been a better family.
Maybe, I should have answered Dad’s call rather than throwing my phone in the snow.
I whimper and turn away from the window, clamping my eyes close while trying to push those memories away. Every time I think about that night it only drives me to want to drink and drown out everything more. I should have answered. I should have been with her. I shouldn’t have been out partying.
“Hunter?”
My eyes open and I see Rachel staring back at me with her worried green eyes. The car has stopped. Seth and Lucas are already out, heading towards the house.
“We’re here?” I ask, my voice barely audible. I unbuckle myself and push the door open. My body moves sluggishly, as if I haven’t slept in days, when in truth, I’ve probably slept most of my days away since Mom’s death.
Rachel waits for me and we enter the house together, walking into the foyer I’ve known since I was a kid. The place is small, but it is home. Or at least it was. It doesn’t quite feel like home without Mom here calling all the shots. A stack of shoes are piled up high to the side, and I slide mine off out of habit before traipsing through the brown, narrow hall, towards the kitchen. I hear several voices I recognize and find Grandma with several of my aunts, leaning against the counter filled with an assortment of food still wrapped in foil.
My mother’s sisters dab at their eyes. My Aunt Loraine is shaking her head while my Aunt Margaret is sobbing while Grandma holds her.
“I can’t believe she’s gone,” Aunt Margaret wails. “She was too young. Way too young.”
Grandma’s head lifts, her gaze locking with mine. Her hand reaches for me and I feel my body instinctively move away, as if she is raising her hand to strike me rather than console.
“Hunter, sweetie,” she says in her old, gravelly voice. “Come here.”
Aunt Margaret and Aunt Loraine immediately turn toward me and I feel their brown eyes dig into me, like they are a pack of wolves about to attack their weak prey. My hands clench, recognizing their eyes. They remind me of my mother’s. Both aunts are older than Mom. It’s like I’m looking at what her future would have been; greying hair, wrinkled hands and eyes.
I shake my head while turning on my heel, nearly ramming into Rachel. “Hunter?” I hear her call while I briskly stride pass her, shaking her hands from mine. I don’t want to be touched right now. I only want to be alone.
“Hunter, sweetie, come back!” I hear Grandma call after me, but I can’t.
I continue through the narrow hall and into the foyer before making a sharp turn up the staircase. I don’t stop until I am in my old bedroom. I quickly close the door and lean against it, praying no one has followed me. My body slides down to the floor and my legs move in front of me while I tilt my head back, gazing up at the old posters littering my bedroom walls, reminding me of simpler days.
There’s a red Ferrari poster hanging over my bed. Next to it is Brett Favre, holding a football. I always wanted to put up bikini women, but Mom never allowed me, hence all the football and car paraphernalia. There’s a small window across from me. A wooden desk sits beneath it, littered with an old computer I doubt still works and several picture frames. I crawl towards my desk, slowly pulling myself up while I stare at the old pictures.
I grab one, holding it up close. It’s a picture of me when I was ten with Mom wrapping her arms around me. I remember that day. It was winter, and we decided to go on a ski trip a few days before Christmas. It’s weird seeing Mom with her long brown hair after years of her dealing with chemo. She looks so happy while holding me.
I grab several others, recalling Thanksgiving, when I was twelve and Dad allowed me to carve the turkey, and my seventh birthday when I had face slammed my birthday cake. These photos have sat on my desk for God knows how long. I never cared to look at them then. Now I can’t stop myself. They're the only things I have left of her; the only proof that we were a happy family. Proof that Mom was happy before she passed.
I lower myself into the old chair, hearing it squeak with my weight. I rest the pictures back on the desk and lean forward, laying my head down on the table while staring back at the pictures. It’s not fair. I don’t understand why someone so good had to die. She didn’t do anything wrong. She was always happy, always taking care of others.
She doesn’t deserve a son like me.
I feel my phone vibrate and slowly close my eyes, knowing I shouldn’t answer it. Everyone I need is here. Seth, Rachel, and Lucas are downstairs, probably wondering why I’m being such a drama king. Dad is probably already on the phone, speaking with my therapist about how we need to up my visits. I can picture Grandma talking to my aunts about my behavior; most likely more guests are arriving and wondering where the “football star” is.
I’m no football star. I’m nothing.
