For the Living, Not the Dead
A short story by Cheyenne Berandi, as published in The Last Word: an anthology of memories
Eulogies are bullshit. No one says what they want to say. They say what they’re expected to say. They say what will help everyone else feel like it’s okay to move on. That’s what I’m doing now, and not a word of what I’m saying comes from the heart. I want to say how I would trade places with him in a heartbeat. How I don’t want to live another day without him. How the four years I got to spend with him were the best of my life. How I don’t know how to survive another day without him. But instead, I hold most of my tears at bay and stand in front of my family and friends, speaking about how I’ll live every day for him, because he doesn’t get to, and that isn’t fair. I want the things I’m saying to be true, but they aren’t.
I say, ‘I’ll never forget your smile.’ But I know I will. I know that years from now when I picture his face I won’t really remember it. I’ll know what he looked like, from photos and descriptions I’ve repeated to myself, but all the real memories with him will fade until I can’t see them clearly anymore, and even though I'll |
think I remember them, I won’t; not really. I’ll only remember that I love him, but I don’t want that. I don’t want to forget.
Tears I’m helpless to stop run down my face, but my expression is cold. My voice cracks and strains as I fight hard to say the words I prepared to say goodbye, but what I’m saying isn’t for him. If my words were for him they would be different; softer, and more meaningful. They would be whispered in his ear instead of projected to a crowd. I want to beg for this to have never happened. Or maybe I want to beg to be taken the way he had been. But there’s no one to beg. I know now without a doubt that there is no God. What kind of God could take the life of a child?
‘Seven months ago, my son, Riley, was diagnosed with Neuroblastoma.’ My voice trembles with tears. ‘It was terminal, and despite the doctor’s best efforts, nothing could be done.’
It was less than a week ago when I looked into his bright blue eyes, the only feature left unaffected by the cancer, and said goodbye to him.
At his bedside I had held his hand and told him how much I loved him. ‘Don’t be afraid to let go,’ I said.
Don’t go, I prayed.
‘You’ve fought so hard, like a superhero.’ The only response I got came from the machines around him, assaulting my ears. As I was ushered aside by men and women whose faces had become a blur in my mind, I threw myself head first into agony and I didn’t stop crying for days.
‘Riley was only four years old. This isn’t what I meant when I told you not to grow up…’ I can’t speak anymore through the pain. My face is wet with tears, and cold from the light breeze.
My mum, her cheeks stained with tears of her own, stands up and comes towards me. She grips my hand and squeezes until I look up at her. Her blue eyes, so similar to Riley’s, shine with her sorrow. Slowly, she pulls me towards the small mahogany box; half the size of a regular coffin and still not full.
Sinking to my knees, I lean over to where my boy lies, hidden in his enclosure, his last ever hiding place, and pull a small superhero figurine from my coat pocket. I tucked it in among the flowers that sit neatly on top of dark wood.
‘I love you,’ I whisper, quietly enough for only myself and the dead to hear.
I stand and brush the dirt from my dress, facing the others with as much composure as I can manage; holding myself together, if only until I was alone, where breaking down would be a less public affair.
No one says as much, but I know they expect me to be a mess. I should be unable to speak through tears, or yelling at a cruel God for daring to take my child from me. They think I am not dealing with my grief, but I simply refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing it. I won’t let them console me and feel like they’ve played their part well and done all they could do. I will not let them make today about them, and I refuse to make today about me.
Today is about him.
Tears I’m helpless to stop run down my face, but my expression is cold. My voice cracks and strains as I fight hard to say the words I prepared to say goodbye, but what I’m saying isn’t for him. If my words were for him they would be different; softer, and more meaningful. They would be whispered in his ear instead of projected to a crowd. I want to beg for this to have never happened. Or maybe I want to beg to be taken the way he had been. But there’s no one to beg. I know now without a doubt that there is no God. What kind of God could take the life of a child?
‘Seven months ago, my son, Riley, was diagnosed with Neuroblastoma.’ My voice trembles with tears. ‘It was terminal, and despite the doctor’s best efforts, nothing could be done.’
It was less than a week ago when I looked into his bright blue eyes, the only feature left unaffected by the cancer, and said goodbye to him.
At his bedside I had held his hand and told him how much I loved him. ‘Don’t be afraid to let go,’ I said.
Don’t go, I prayed.
‘You’ve fought so hard, like a superhero.’ The only response I got came from the machines around him, assaulting my ears. As I was ushered aside by men and women whose faces had become a blur in my mind, I threw myself head first into agony and I didn’t stop crying for days.
‘Riley was only four years old. This isn’t what I meant when I told you not to grow up…’ I can’t speak anymore through the pain. My face is wet with tears, and cold from the light breeze.
My mum, her cheeks stained with tears of her own, stands up and comes towards me. She grips my hand and squeezes until I look up at her. Her blue eyes, so similar to Riley’s, shine with her sorrow. Slowly, she pulls me towards the small mahogany box; half the size of a regular coffin and still not full.
Sinking to my knees, I lean over to where my boy lies, hidden in his enclosure, his last ever hiding place, and pull a small superhero figurine from my coat pocket. I tucked it in among the flowers that sit neatly on top of dark wood.
‘I love you,’ I whisper, quietly enough for only myself and the dead to hear.
I stand and brush the dirt from my dress, facing the others with as much composure as I can manage; holding myself together, if only until I was alone, where breaking down would be a less public affair.
No one says as much, but I know they expect me to be a mess. I should be unable to speak through tears, or yelling at a cruel God for daring to take my child from me. They think I am not dealing with my grief, but I simply refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing it. I won’t let them console me and feel like they’ve played their part well and done all they could do. I will not let them make today about them, and I refuse to make today about me.
Today is about him.
<><><>
The floral scent affronts me as soon as I open the front door of my house. I had never liked flowers, but I didn’t have the heart to throw them out. Each time a bouquet appeared on my door step with a card expressing ‘deepest sympathies’ I brought them in and sat them in the small front room. The flowers filling the room now ranged from dying to some floral equivalent of decomposed.
I shake my head to stop a harsh thought before it begins.
I throw my car keys down on the small table at the side of the room, kick my shoes off, and drop my coat to the floor.
I walk with purpose until I reached Riley’s room, the door open, the way I had left it. I walk to his cupboard and open it. The smell of him hits me and I almost smile.
‘I miss you so much baby boy. I wish you were here; I’d give anything for you to be here.’ Tears well in my eyes, and I momentarily wonder if there will be a point when I can’t cry any more.
Riley had been buried a week ago, and I had spent every day since in his bedroom, talking to him, or more accurately, talking aloud to myself.
Toys lay abandoned at the foot of his bed from the last time he’d played with them. I couldn’t clean them, even before he left me, unable to give up the hope that he would come back to them. I reach for one of his unwashed jackets and clutch it tightly to my chest as I step towards the centre of the room, over the plastic dinosaurs and toppled blocks.
The tears brimming in my eyes fall silently, and I can feel the sobs in my heavy chest.
‘Lacy?’ I hear my ex-husband calling, the thud of a door being closed behind him. He isn’t the first to come around and check on me since Riley’s funeral, but he’s one of the least expected. Before Riley was diagnosed we had hardly been on speaking terms, and though we spent a lot of time together during his treatment, I had expected to return to our silences since his death.
I don’t go to greet him, and I don’t make a sound, but he knows where to find me. When he walks in I’m sitting on the floor near Riley’s bed; it is a full sized single bed that we had bought him at the beginning of the year that he would now never grow into. I look up at Derek and see what Riley might have looked like had he lived for another thirty years. His cropped brown hair and slightly crooked nose identical to his sons. I cradle the jacket like a baby, like my baby who is lost to me, and cry openly.
Without speaking, Derek sinks down beside me and wraps me in his arms. It’s the acknowledgment of a feeling only we share. We sit like that for a long while before I break the silence with more than my sobs.
‘Sometimes I talk to him.’ It’s an admission I didn’t think I would make.
‘I never really stop,’ Derek says with a distant, watery look in his eyes. I’m a little bit shocked, but very relieved.
‘What do you say to him?’ I sit up now, feeling I have the strength to hold myself together in a way I couldn’t have done before.
‘I tell him everything. How much I miss his every day. How sorry I am for not being there. I tell him things I wish I’d said when he was still here. That I’m sorry for leaving the way I did. That what happened between us had nothing to do with him. I tell him about how fast his baby sister’s growing. About how I wish he could meet her when she comes.’ He begins to sob too, and for the first time since our marriage fell apart I feel like he’s truly acting like a man. Someone Riley could have aspired to be like, if only he’d been given the chance.
‘I never really know what to say,’ I confess. ‘But I stand in here every day and try to talk to him. I know he can’t hear me…’
‘You don’t know that for sure. You need to have faith.’ He looks so sure of himself that my next confession almost hurts to say aloud.
‘How can I have faith anymore?’ I sink back into his arms. ‘They stole my son from me.’
I shake my head to stop a harsh thought before it begins.
I throw my car keys down on the small table at the side of the room, kick my shoes off, and drop my coat to the floor.
I walk with purpose until I reached Riley’s room, the door open, the way I had left it. I walk to his cupboard and open it. The smell of him hits me and I almost smile.
‘I miss you so much baby boy. I wish you were here; I’d give anything for you to be here.’ Tears well in my eyes, and I momentarily wonder if there will be a point when I can’t cry any more.
Riley had been buried a week ago, and I had spent every day since in his bedroom, talking to him, or more accurately, talking aloud to myself.
Toys lay abandoned at the foot of his bed from the last time he’d played with them. I couldn’t clean them, even before he left me, unable to give up the hope that he would come back to them. I reach for one of his unwashed jackets and clutch it tightly to my chest as I step towards the centre of the room, over the plastic dinosaurs and toppled blocks.
The tears brimming in my eyes fall silently, and I can feel the sobs in my heavy chest.
‘Lacy?’ I hear my ex-husband calling, the thud of a door being closed behind him. He isn’t the first to come around and check on me since Riley’s funeral, but he’s one of the least expected. Before Riley was diagnosed we had hardly been on speaking terms, and though we spent a lot of time together during his treatment, I had expected to return to our silences since his death.
I don’t go to greet him, and I don’t make a sound, but he knows where to find me. When he walks in I’m sitting on the floor near Riley’s bed; it is a full sized single bed that we had bought him at the beginning of the year that he would now never grow into. I look up at Derek and see what Riley might have looked like had he lived for another thirty years. His cropped brown hair and slightly crooked nose identical to his sons. I cradle the jacket like a baby, like my baby who is lost to me, and cry openly.
Without speaking, Derek sinks down beside me and wraps me in his arms. It’s the acknowledgment of a feeling only we share. We sit like that for a long while before I break the silence with more than my sobs.
‘Sometimes I talk to him.’ It’s an admission I didn’t think I would make.
‘I never really stop,’ Derek says with a distant, watery look in his eyes. I’m a little bit shocked, but very relieved.
‘What do you say to him?’ I sit up now, feeling I have the strength to hold myself together in a way I couldn’t have done before.
‘I tell him everything. How much I miss his every day. How sorry I am for not being there. I tell him things I wish I’d said when he was still here. That I’m sorry for leaving the way I did. That what happened between us had nothing to do with him. I tell him about how fast his baby sister’s growing. About how I wish he could meet her when she comes.’ He begins to sob too, and for the first time since our marriage fell apart I feel like he’s truly acting like a man. Someone Riley could have aspired to be like, if only he’d been given the chance.
‘I never really know what to say,’ I confess. ‘But I stand in here every day and try to talk to him. I know he can’t hear me…’
‘You don’t know that for sure. You need to have faith.’ He looks so sure of himself that my next confession almost hurts to say aloud.
‘How can I have faith anymore?’ I sink back into his arms. ‘They stole my son from me.’
<><><>
I hold the small box tightly as I step out of the car. The shiny blue paper and orange ribbon crinkle when I move. The damp ground squishes beneath the heels of my boots as I trudge towards Riley’s gravestone.
The water drops clinging to the fresh flowers that adorn his grave make the entire plot look serene. Riley’s flowers never have time to wither, since my mum replaces them every day. It's her way of coping. She's lucky to have found a way.
I force a smile onto my face as I sink to my knees beside the headstone. Reaching out, I trace each letter of the inscription. I pause on the second line.
‘Happy birthday, baby.’ I bite my lip to stop it from trembling. ‘I got you something.’ I pull the small present from where it had fallen when I sank down. ‘I wanted to get you more, but I couldn’t do it. It hurt-’ I pause.
I pull the ribbon undone and let it fall to my knees.
‘It hurt to think of how much you would have loved to be here. But when I saw this.’ I shrug and try to smile. ‘I knew it was perfect for you.’
I pull the tape from the joins in the wrapping paper, and unwrap the small box.
‘It’s not exactly for playing with, but I think it’s better.’
Opening the box, I pull the small, sterling silver figure out and hold it tightly for a moment. It's cold in my hand, the harsh edges digging pain into my palm.
‘Just like you,’ I say. My smile is forced again, but I still give it to him. I’ll always smile for him whenever I can. I want to be okay for him.
I place the ornament of the boy who never grew up into the grass at the base of Riley’s gravestone, and push it into the ground. Not enough to be buried, but enough that it won’t leave its place.
‘Now you won’t be alone,’ I tell Riley.
And even though I had told myself I wouldn’t be able to, when I close my eyes, I can remember Riley’s smiling face. Two tears fall softly to the ground as I smile.
The water drops clinging to the fresh flowers that adorn his grave make the entire plot look serene. Riley’s flowers never have time to wither, since my mum replaces them every day. It's her way of coping. She's lucky to have found a way.
I force a smile onto my face as I sink to my knees beside the headstone. Reaching out, I trace each letter of the inscription. I pause on the second line.
‘Happy birthday, baby.’ I bite my lip to stop it from trembling. ‘I got you something.’ I pull the small present from where it had fallen when I sank down. ‘I wanted to get you more, but I couldn’t do it. It hurt-’ I pause.
I pull the ribbon undone and let it fall to my knees.
‘It hurt to think of how much you would have loved to be here. But when I saw this.’ I shrug and try to smile. ‘I knew it was perfect for you.’
I pull the tape from the joins in the wrapping paper, and unwrap the small box.
‘It’s not exactly for playing with, but I think it’s better.’
Opening the box, I pull the small, sterling silver figure out and hold it tightly for a moment. It's cold in my hand, the harsh edges digging pain into my palm.
‘Just like you,’ I say. My smile is forced again, but I still give it to him. I’ll always smile for him whenever I can. I want to be okay for him.
I place the ornament of the boy who never grew up into the grass at the base of Riley’s gravestone, and push it into the ground. Not enough to be buried, but enough that it won’t leave its place.
‘Now you won’t be alone,’ I tell Riley.
And even though I had told myself I wouldn’t be able to, when I close my eyes, I can remember Riley’s smiling face. Two tears fall softly to the ground as I smile.