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My childhood best friend, Oliver Johnson, stands with his shoulders slumped beside his weeping mother and two older brothers as the sweltering summer sun beats down on his father’s casket. He pulls on his tie as if it were a noose around his neck. Watching him, I absentmindedly tug on the hem of my cap-sleeved black dress before catching myself and moving to smooth back my long auburn hair.
The teary-eyed crowd that’s gathered at the cemetery continues to grow. I recognise Oliver’s aunts and uncles, cousins, and some family friends. There are people from the Lakewood Football Club where Oliver plays, but there are also so many other people I don’t recognise, all milling around in their dark mourning clothes. My friend Ashley Sinclair stands with some of Oliver’s teammates and friends from school. She offers me a small smile and I nod in return before turning to face my parents.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper, clutching Mum’s arm. I can’t stop my body from trembling as I blink back the tears blurring my vision.
“Yes, you can, Hannah.” Mum squeezes my hand, and Dad wraps his arm around my waist, steadying me. “It means a lot to Oli and his family that you’re here.”
I nod as I suck in a deep breath. I can do it for him. Ihaveto.
Oliver and I met in kindergarten when we were five years old. We bonded over our mutual disgust of bananas, which our teacher insisted on feeding us for fruit snack every single day. We’ve been best friends ever since.
Dad gives me a gentle squeeze as we make our way from the parking lot to the grave site. “You got this, kiddo.”
Exhaling, I step away from the comforting embrace of my parents. I slip my hand into Oliver’s, resting my head against his arm. I avert my gaze away from the large photograph of his dad’s smiling face on the frame at the head of the grave site opposite the shiny mahogany coffin. Sniffing, I wipe my eyes with the back of my other hand.
As I stare at the dry dirt covering the ground, Father Geoffrey begins to read a passage from the book of Wisdom. “The virtuous man, though he die before his time, will find rest…” Oliver chokes back a sob and I rub his back. He turns to me, ducking his six-foot frame so he can bury his face in my hair as the emotions overwhelm him. His body wracks with sobs and I cling to him, tears running down my cheeks.
His brother Jake places a hand on Oliver’s back, and he reluctantly turns to watch as the coffin is lowered into the ground. There’s a heaviness in my chest and my gaze wanders up to the sinister black zip of stitches above Oliver’s left eye – a painful reminder of how lucky he was to survive the car accident.
The mourners follow the rest of the family back towards the car park, but Oliver doesn’t move from his dad’s grave site. My parents motion that they will wait for me at the car, and I nod.
“Oli?” My voice is hoarse, and I clear my throat.
He squeezes my hand, not taking his eyes off his dad’s coffin. “Thank you for coming, Han.”
“Of course.”
“I can’t believe he’s gone.” He sniffs and wipes his nose with the cuff of his shirt. I don’t know what to say. Memories flood me of our family camping trips. His dad helping us learn how to ride our bikes and stand up on the paddleboards. My mum fixing up our bloodied knees and banged up elbows. Our dads standing over the barbecue, beers in hand. Our families have done so much together as we were growing up, how can I comfort him when I’m grieving as well?
I rest my head on his shoulder and he sighs. “How am I gonna… how do I…God, Hannah, he was mydad.”
“I know.”
Oliver clenches his fist and lets out a guttural sound. “Why did this have to happen to him? He was a good guy, you know? I’m so friggin’ angry!”
I step in front of him, his hazel eyes dropping down to mine, and say quietly, “It’s okay to be angry. It’s a messed-up situation.”
Oliver shakes his head. “He was drunk. The other driver. He was blind drunk, and he ran the red light.”
My stomach clenches. “Oh Oli, I–”
“He had a couple of broken ribs.” He snorts. “A couple of bloody broken ribs, but my dad lost his bloody life. How is that fair?”
“It’s not.”
“No. It’s not.” He swallows. I wrap my arms around his muscular frame.
After Oliver composes himself, we make our way over to our families. I hug his mum, who whispers, “Thank you for being there for him.” His brothers pull me in for a group hug before I climb into my parents’ car and we follow the Johnsons back to their house for the wake.
Oliver is nowhere to be found when I walk into his backyard, so I take a seat next to his brothers on the back deck.
“He’s not doing too well,” Oliver’s eldest brother Sam shares, passing me a bottle of water.
I take it gratefully, chugging it down for some reprieve from the stifling heat. The sun still beams down, a stark contrast to the sombre mood at Mr Johnson’s wake.
“No.” I agree. “He’s not.”
