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If I had, he would never have gotten me drunk so he could be the one to go with Cain to that operation last week and I wouldn’t be here today in my suit and leather shoes, standing in a cemetery with a freshly dug grave just a few feet away from me.
I don’t even understand why there’s a grave. There’s no body. Antonio was burned to ashes with the van he was in. We don’t even have those. All we have is an empty coffin containing his favorite things – his favorite clothes, his copy of The Little Prince, his favorite goggles and the medals he got from the various tournaments he entered, all of which my mother carefully arranged.
She’s wailing now, and every sob I hear escape from her lips is a dagger to my chest. If only putting myself in that coffin would bring Antonio back to life, I would do it without a second thought. I’m the one who should have died. I bet everyone here would be less sad if I had.
But there’s nothing I can do now. Antonio is dead. I no longer have a twin. There’s nothing of him left. I don’t even know if there’s any of me left.
I’ve lost my brother and my best friend, the person I looked up to, the person who always had my back, who knew me better than anyone, even better than I know myself, who pushed me to be better, who pulled me out of shit. He was my hero, my guide, my rock. Now that he’s gone, what else is there for me?
Chapter One
Jodie
Thirteen years later…
If only there was something I could do to bring my dad back.
The wish weighs heavily on my mind and on my sore, aching chest which feels like a pincushion stabbed to the core with a thousand needles as I gulp down another glass of wine.
How many glasses have I had now? Five? Eight? I’ve lost track. Judging by the way I can no longer seem to lift myself out of this chair and how blurry the ceiling seems to be getting, I’d say I’m at my limit. It’s still not enough. Not enough to ease the pain eating away at me or to shut out the memories that keep flooding back – the bad ones from the past few days, including today, and the good ones which right now only manage to add salt to the open wounds.
Not enough.
I set down my empty glass and reach for the wine bottle. As I wrap my fingers around it, my gaze falls on the card on the table – the invitation to my dad’s memorial service. Someone must have left it. Not that they still need it.
The service is over, the guests all gone. Guests? I can’t even remember how many there were or who came. I remember sad smiles and looks of pity. I remember handshakes and pats on my shoulder, a squeeze on my arm. I don’t remember the faces, nor the words.
No. It’s not that I don’t remember. I didn’t even hear them. The past few days, my ears have been malfunctioning. Sometimes I could hear people talking to me in worried voices, asking me if I was alright, telling me to eat, to get some rest. Other times, I couldn’t hear anything. Not a breath. Not a sound. I’d stand over the closed casket, or stare into space and just be in this black hole where time and sound and the rest of the universe didn’t exist.
Today, it was mostly like that. Ever since I got out of bed, my whole world has been on mute. I didn’t hear what the priest said at the chapel. I didn’t hear the eulogies, not even my own. I remember standing on the podium, gripping a piece of paper, a sheet torn out of a notebook, with trembling hands. I don’t remember the words. I didn’t hear myself saying them, but I must have, because everyone in the first three rows either started to cry or looked like they were about to.
I haven’t cried. I wish I could, but I’m no crier. When I was a kid, my mom used to praise me because I never cried from getting pricked or getting my teeth pulled. Not even when I fell through a window at summer camp and ended up with a shard of glass the size of a pizza slice in my arm. Not even when I fractured my ankle playing volleyball in high school. My mom used to say I had a high threshold for pain. I don’t agree. I get hurt like everyone. I just know crying won’t make it hurt any less. That’s true for both physical pain and emotional pain. When I’m suffering the latter, I get mad, not sad. I throw something against a wall. Or across a pond. I sing a Nirvana song at the top of my lungs. I cook, especially a meal that involves a lot of chopping or mincing meat and vegetables, enough for about ten people. I jog until my knees hurt. Or I hit the gym or clean the house or play darts or paintball, anything that lets me hit something. I just don’t cry.
