Chapter Twelve: Ground Zero
DANIEL lay in the back seat of his truck, shivering in the pre-dawn stillness, his damp jacket providing little warmth. He longed for his own bed, but couldn’t find the impetus to move, his alcohol-driven stupor weighing him down like a chilly leaden blanket. He was dimly aware of the ocean, the dull roar only audible because of the early morning silence. Self-pity washed over him, but he quickly tamped it down with a mental jeer; his misery was his own fault, after all. His phone hadn’t appreciated being soaked with sea-water, leaving him marooned in his truck until he sorted that out.
Serves you right for passing out on the beach, dumb-ass, he thought miserably, guilt and sorrow sweeping over him at the thought of his phone dying because of his negligence.
He shook his head, his cheek pressed against the fabric of the back seat as he suppressed his sudden alcohol-driven sentimentality. It had been a long time since he’d gotten that drunk; seeing Nicolette had stirred up feelings that he had finally started to bury, bringing his baffled rage surging back to the foreground, along with his frustration and resentment.
He shrank into the seat as he heard a quiet ticking against the passenger window over his head. He listened to the sound, unable to identify it, clenching his eyes shut as the sound touched something in him, grief welling up, suffusing his thoughts. It took an interminably long time before he recognized the sound as water from a broken sprinkler intermittently striking the glass, the sound reverberating through his memory.
Nikki was crying, he thought disjointedly. She was the only one there that wept openly...
The water cycled back, the quiet sound eliding with memories of Ramona, his mother, carrying a handful of dirt toward the open hole, the soil ticking against the lacquered box. His thoughts fuzzed apart, suffused with grief welling upward through the momentary resonance, dream and memory eliding as
the priest intoned, “Into your hands, Father of mercies, we commend our brother Connor Hayes.”
The chilly sun beat down on the back of Daniel’s neck; his black suit was an icy furnace, magnifying the sun’s heat directly onto his skin, despite his shivering. The discomfort was a welcome distraction from the ceremony. He had one hand on his little sister Audrey’s shoulder, keeping her uncomfortable squirming under control. At 8 years old, he wasn't sure she fully understood what was going on, but he could see she was frightened by the solemnity of the affair, with everyone acting so strangely. He could feel her tension, her need for comfort as she strained to go to Ramona, their mother. He knew she wanted to cry, but was afraid of getting in trouble.
He understood her need for maternal reassurance.
He glanced sideways at Ramona, in her black dress and black veil, staring into the middle distance, refusing to look at the black lacquered box resting on the small wooden pedestal behind the deep rectangular hole waiting to receive it. As the priest continued with his prayer, she remained expressionless; only the hint of puffiness around her eyes giving the lie to her stony calm.
He wanted to shout at her that it was okay to feel -- that it was okay to express her feelings. He knew her calm strength was a facade; he had sat on the stairs every night since his father’s death, guarding her grief when she was alone in the empty master bedroom. He wanted to howl in protest, to kick over the black lacquered box, to tear up the priest's prayer notes -- anything to stop this ritual from going forward, as though it might prevent his father from leaving. He wanted to scream at the box, “We still need you!”
He glanced at his mother and swallowed, forcing the scream back down as he stared at the black glistening lacquer, its surface broken by a small golden harp on a green flag proclaiming his father’s pride in his ancestry. Daniel had been the one to pick it out; at the funeral home, his mother had stared at the catalog, blankly flipping the same pages back and forth until Daniel had finally intervened.
It must be hot in there, he thought disjointedly. On its heels came the stray thought, Probably not as hot as the oven...
He made an inarticulate noise in his throat as the scream threatened to push its way out. He closed his eyes and swallowed again, forcing his throat to unlock enough for him to breathe. He needed to be strong for the family, for this mother. He felt his throat locking again at the thought of his ER RN mother -- normally so capable and completely in command -- barely able to function through her grief; he didn’t think Audrey or Ryan understood. He would protect them; he had promised his father that he would. From an early age, his father had impressed upon him that as someone with strength it was his obligation to help those without. At the time, his father’s words had been unexpected, apropos of nothing; now they seemed tragically prescient.
Daniel banished the memory, his father’s earnest expression making his eyes sting. Conner had always seemed like a giant to Daniel; so full of unexpected knowledge and opinions, yet managing to balance his own passions with the burgeoning intellectual growth of his children, allowing them to find their own way. It still seemed impossible that he was gone -- that he could be reduced to seven pounds of ashes in a box.
He glanced at his brother, reading his hurt bafflement as the priest’s intonation changed, suggesting the prayer was almost over.
He jumped when he felt Nicolette’s cool hand touch his. Their fingers automatically intertwined. He listened to her weeping beside him, her grief surprising; he hadn’t realized she had gotten to know his father so well, or cared about Connor so much. He wanted to reach across and hug her, to offer her comfort, but his howls of protest were too close to the surface; he couldn’t let himself get pulled into her grief lest his own resolve waver. He doubted he’d be able to get himself back under control if he allowed that first crack in his resolve.
Ryan and Audrey and his mother were depending on him.
Later, he thought. When things settle, we’ll talk and I’ll help her feel better. Later we can try and make sense of this together.
He closed her out of his thoughts, seeking stillness, praying it would last long enough to finish the ceremony and see the family home. He didn’t know what would come next, what new emergency would follow the interment, but one way or another he’d deal with it; there was no other option. He stared at his mother resentfully out of the corner of his eye; years passed before he was able to articulate his resentment: she had stolen his grief, was forcing him to try and fill the impossible void left by his father.
I’m only eighteen!, he shouted in his mind, I’m not ready for this!
Beside him, Nicolette winced as his unconscious grip became crushing, though he stood with his eyes closed, expressionless, breathing deeply. She squeezed back, knowing his stillness was a lie, hoping that somewhere he could feel her counter pressure, could read her sorrow and her love for him through that painful contact.
He slowly turned back to the grave waiting to receive his father’s ashes, his eyes returning to the simple black lacquered box. He watched a wispy white bit of cloud drifting in reflection as he waited impatiently for the priest to finish the ceremony, only distantly aware of Nicolette’s grief or his brother’s puzzled hurt or Audrey’s fear.
He watched as two attendants gently lowered the box into the grave. The priest paused in his prayer, waiting patiently for Ramona. Daniel gently nudged his mother who jumped, startled, then nodded slightly, her stony calm momentarily shaken. She knelt for a handful of dirt, a red rose clutched in her off hand.
When things are easier, he promised. There’ll be time for me and Nikki to...
The sound of soil striking the lacquered box momentarily distracted him, the quiet rattle of
water hitting the window bringing him partly back to consciousness.
That was ground zero with Nicolette, he thought, his remembered grief and pain momentarily spilling through the alcohol-soaked cracks in the fortress he’d built around those memories. The thought briefly floated on the surface of his thoughts, the water from the broken sprinkler ticking against the passenger win
dow over his head. He tried to hold onto it, knowing it was important, that he’d want to revisit it later...
He shivered violently, wishing his phone wasn’t dead, that he hadn’t killed it with his carelessness.
I wish I could take it back, he thought, momentarily confused which memory he was addressing, his observation slowly sinking back beneath the turbid currents of his mind.
The warranty probably doesn’t cover death by sea-water, he thought, struggling to recapture the idea as it slipped away.
He shivered violently again, then hazed back into unconsciousness until Tommy finally found him several hours later.