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It was a cold Sunday when he woke up that morning. He didn’t even remember going to sleep the night before. His eyes slightly burned, and he rubbed them.
They were almost swollen shut.
It was the fifth night in a row that he had cried himself to sleep. He stared at the ceiling briefly, watching the fan spin slowly. He was just now noticing a crack in the ceiling. When had that gotten there? How long had it been there? He swore briefly that he saw the crack grow, but when he blinked, it hadn’t changed at all.
He got up slowly and turned to look at her side of the bed. The right side of the bed was cold and still made up. He couldn’t bring himself to sleep on her side.
It was her side.
She would get mad at him if he slept on her side.
The sheets still smelt like her. Lavender and rose. The day after she had died, he thought of stripping the bed to cure himself of the torment of smelling her. But as he stripped the bed, he began to hyperventilate so hard he passed out. When he awoke from it, he was lying on the floor with his bedsheets almost strangling him.
He rubbed the sleep from his face and walked to the shower. Mark stood under the hot water; steam filled the bathroom, and he rubbed his skin until it felt raw.
As he got dressed, he stared at her picture near the dresser. It was a picture of her in the backyard. She was wearing a yellow sunflower hat and smiling brightly. He couldn’t for the life of him remember when the photo was taken.
He took the picture off the dresser and stared at it momentarily. He wanted to memorize her face.
The doorbell rang, and it almost made him drop the picture.
He gently put the picture back on his dresser, fearing breaking it. He made his way to the front door. He knew it was his sister before he even opened the door.
Devon’s eyes were puffy and slightly red. Had she cried in her car? Mark doubted she spent the whole night sobbing like he had. He kept that thought to himself.
“Morning,” Devon said with a small smile.
He didn’t return it, but he mumbled morning back. She handed him a cup of coffee, and he closed the door behind her.
“This was at your front door, by the way,” Devon handed him a flyer.
TIRED OF THE DAY TO DAY STRESS? CONSIDER THE SEVERANCE PROCEDURE!
He stared at it momentarily before crumbling it up and throwing it in a random drawer.
“How are you feeling?” Devon asked.
He almost burst out laughing.
“Well, it’s my wife’s funeral today, so… not great, Devon.” He said it as if it were apparent, which it was.
“Right...” She said, clearing her throat.
“Her parents are gonna be there…” He whispered.
Devon gave him a sympathetic look. He hated that look. He hated how everyone would look at him like that today. He knew what the look was saying.
‘I’m so sorry about your wife… but at least this didn’t happen to me.’
They were going to leave the funeral and the wake, and they would go home to their spouses and feel a rush of relief that their wives or husbands were there to be held and loved. What was he going to do after the wake? Sleep in his bed alone so that he could dream of his wife?
“When was the last time you talked to her parents?” Devon asked.
Mark shrugged, “A couple of weeks ago, her mom dropped off some dumplings, and we talked for a bit…”
Gemma’s parents were from California and were very warm. Her father was an elementary school principal, and her mother worked at a bakery. It made sense that someone like Gemma would come from them, as her parents were his parent’s opposite.
“Are you going to be okay with giving your speech? I can do it, you know.” She said gently.
He put on his suit jacket.
“I can do it.” He said somewhat sternly.
Everyone was treating him like he was about to break. If one more person asked him how he was handling everything, he would scream, rip off his clothes, and run into the woods, never to be seen again.
She nodded.
“You look nice,” Devon said.
He could tell by her eyes that she meant it.
“Too nice? It’s not like I’m looking for a date. I mean, it’s a funeral-“
“You look fine. The perfect amount of tragic and handsome,” Devon joked.
He laughed. It was the first time he’d laughed in weeks. It almost made his throat burn.
“Are you ready?” Devon asked, and he nodded.
The amount of people at the church made him feel anxious. He avoided the eyes of his mother and father-in-law.
Are they still his mother and father-in-law even if his wife was now dead?
He recognized some of Gemma’s students. A short blonde named Gabriella and a scrawny black boy named Jason sat near the back. Gabriella wore no makeup, and her cheeks were bright red. Mark couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or because she had cried so hard it made her hyperventilate. He once came to Gemma’s office for lunch, and the two had an intense conversation about Aleksandr I. Kuprin. They turned and gave him sympathetic looks, the first of many.
Mark tried making his way to the front of the church with Devon without being seen, but of course, he was spotted immediately and almost hounded with hugs and handshakes.
Many professors from the university were in attendance. Mark would call them colleagues, but he didn’t like any of them enough to call him that. An English professor with thick glasses and short red hair approached Mark and hugged him. Mark could not remember her name, so he just nodded. Many people he did not know well or at all were hugging him. The dean was notably absent, which Mark thought was odd, but he never particularly liked her.
It was at this exact moment he realized how much of a sullen person he was becoming. He didn’t remember being this easily annoyed and angry. Was this a normal thing to be feeling? A grief counselor he was very, very, very briefly seeing would say yes.
He finally sat down and let out a breath. Devon sat beside him, Ricken by her side, giving her hand a quick kiss in greeting. The sight made him want to vomit. As people began to settle, he felt his hands sweat, and he clutched the written eulogy in his pocket.
Gemma wasn’t particularly religious. They did not go to church. But her parents wanted a church funeral. He couldn’t deny them that. She was his wife, but she was their daughter. He could not write off what they wanted. Although she would not be buried in the ground (her body had practically been burned, and a burial and an open casket were pretty much out of the question), there was a picture of her placed in the center of the room.
Devon picked the picture. He couldn’t find one he wanted to use. There were so many pictures of her that captured her perfectly, and it was impossible to pick just one. The picture she chose was nice, though.
It was her in a pink sundress, holding up a cactus she was about to plant in the yard. The sun shined behind her and almost made her have a halo. He stared at it while the pastor talked. Something about how death was a part of God’s plan and that they should find comfort that she was in a better place.
He didn’t want her to be in a better place.
He wanted her here. With him. Where she belonged.
She wasn’t supposed to go where he couldn’t follow.
It almost made him hate her for leaving him alone to deal with all of this. To him, there was always a silent understanding that he was going to die first. He wasn’t sure why he believed this. Husbands usually die before their wives, or so it was said. Both his parents died when he was in his late teens, so he was genuinely surprised when he outlived his father.
“My great-grandmother lived to a hundred; we have good bones.” Gemma had told him once.
Her family lived long. His family lives always got cut short.
He snapped out of his daze when he noticed Ricken approaching the podium. For a second, he was confused, but then he remembered.
The poem.
Ricken had asked him if he could read the poem he wrote for her. He completely forgot he agreed.
It’s going to be stupid. He thought. Just like that damn album he made. It’s going to be horrible, and he’s gonna embarrass himself and her and me and fuck, why did I agree? I must have been drunk fuck, fuck, fuck-
Ricken cleared his throat and looked down to read.
“Like a bee with a broken
antenna
I am now in a sad man's
dilemma
For draining my soul
Is a dark, weeping hole
In the shape of my dear, sweet
friend Gemma.”
Ricken choked on the last line and wiped tears from his eyes. He nodded somewhat awkwardly and made his way back down the aisle. The pastor began to speak again.
Mark glanced around. Everyone was crying or trying not to cry. Mark looked at his eulogy and suddenly felt a rush of embarrassment.
“Devon, can you read this?” He whispered to his sister.
She looked at him, confused, “what?”
He crumbled the eulogy into her hands and gave her a pleading look.
“Can you read it for me? I can’t do it.” Mark bundled his hands into fists.
“Mark, you’ll be fine-“
“Devon, I can’t fucking do this, please,” He put his face in his hands.
Devon looked at him like she was about to rock herself back and forth. When their parents used to get into arguments, she would have to rock herself back and forth to calm herself down. His sister suddenly looked like a baby to him.
“Okay,” she whispered before walking up to the podium.
She wiped her tears from her face and gave a tight smile.
“Um, hello, my name is Devon… Gemma was my… she was my sister-in-law and well… she was probably my best friend I think… um… my brother Mark, her husband, asked me to read this so… here we go,”
She let out a slight cough and began to read. Mark wanted to cover his ears but sat frozen, staring at Gemma’s picture.
“Gemma was… a good person. She was kind and thoughtful. She was always interested in what everyone had to say, which is what made her such a good professor and an amazing wife. I met her in graduate school and thought someone like her was too good for someone like me.
The first time I ever talked to her was at a party that I did not want to be at. It was my first time away from home, and I felt incredibly homesick and anxious about classes. Then I saw this girl come in, and she… shined. The whole room lit up and got better because she was simply there. That’s what she did. She made places better. When she came up to me to talk to me, I thought she had mistaken me for someone else, but she continued to speak to me despite me fumbling over my words and staring at the floor.
I knew I was going to marry her after our first conversation. I’ll… I will miss her every day, and I know everyone else will, too, because rooms will never be better again. I’m not a poet or anything, just a history professor. I guess what I’m trying to say is, Gemma, the world isn’t going to be the same now that you’re not here.”
Mark covered his face; his cheeks were bright red. This was worse than torture. This was hell, and he was sure of it. He was the one who died, and this was his personal hell. He felt his sister sit back next to him. She took his hand, removing it from his face. He glanced at her, but she was not looking at him. She stared ahead, looking at Gemma’s picture. She held Ricken’s hand as well. Tears rolled down both their cheeks as they looked at the picture. Together, they seemed to all think the same thing.
She wasn’t supposed to be the first one to die.
The wake was only slightly better than the funeral because he could avoid people by hiding in his kitchen. He didn’t eat any of the food that Ricken had catered. He felt too guilty to eat anything.
There seemed to be more people at the wake than at the funeral, but he wasn’t sure if that was the case. Faces he only vaguely recognized hugged him and told him stories of his wife that did little to comfort him.
“She was so kind.”
“She was so smart.”
“Her smile made you feel better.”
He was aware of all of this. Why was everyone telling him that he didn’t know her better than anyone? Like she wasn’t his best friend?
While picking at his pasta salad, Gabriella and Jason approached him sheepishly. Behind them were a few of Gemma’s other students whose names he did not know, but he recognized their faces.
“Um... Mr. Scout?” Gabriella asked him.
“Hello... nice of you all to come. I’m sure you all have exams to study for,” he said somewhat robotically.
“Well, the dean canceled our exams for this semester... besides, we all wanted to come,” Jason said.
“Oh.”
“Um, well, I wanted to give this to you... Dr. Scout let me borrow it, and I don’t think I should hold on to it.”
Gabriella handed him a book, and he took it. He looked at it.
Fathers and Sons
by Ivan Turgenev
He opened it and flipped to a random page. The page read,
“A withered maple leaf has left its branch and is falling to the ground; its movements resemble those of a butterfly in flight. Isn't it strange? The saddest and deadest of things is yet so like the gayest and most vital of creatures?”
Gemma wrote in the margins; so sad!!!! incredible reflection on how, even in the process of dying, there can be a fleeting moment of beauty
He closed the book and stared off for a moment.
“You should, um... keep this. I think she would want you to have it,” Mark cleared his throat and handed the book back to the younger woman.
She took it back, clearly stunned. Tears prickled in her eyes, and she hugged him before he could realize it. He had been hugged all day today, but something about this felt different, and he could not figure out why.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” Gabriella said in a cracked voice.
The girl pulled back before he could even hug her. She wiped her cheeks, and black tears stained her face. Jason rubbed her back, and Gabriella let out a shaky breath.
“Excuse me a moment,” He said, moving past the group of college kids.
He moved quickly to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of wine, entered his bedroom, and closed the door. He wasn’t sure if anyone saw him, and he didn’t care.
He opened the bottle and took a swig. He sat on the bed and let out a sob so visceral it made him sound like a dying dog. He cried so hard it made him out of breath, and he had to take deep breaths to ensure he did not suffocate from his tears.
A knock on the front door startled him.
“Fuck off!” He yelled.
The door opened, and Devon and Ricken came in.
“You alright?” Devon asked him.
“No,” he said finally.
Devon whispered something to Ricken, and he nodded and moved to leave.
“Ricken,” Mark said, getting his attention.
“Yeah?”
“Your poem... it was good. It was, um... she would have liked it.” Mark swallowed thickly, not making eye contact with his brother-in-law.
Ricken smiled at him. He could see in his eyes that it meant something to him.
“Oh, I’m glad.” Ricken nodded at him.
He wanted to say something else, but he left.
“Sorry...” Mark said after a moment.
Devon sat on the bed next to him.
“I couldn’t even read my stupid fucking speech at her funeral jesus christ, I’m so pathetic.” he rubbed his forehead.
“You’re not pathetic,” Devon said, looking at him.
As much as he wanted to believe her, he didn’t. He knew everyone out in his living room was judging him. What kind of husband can’t even give his wife a final goodbye?
“I don’t understand why she can’t be here anymore,” he choked out, clutching the bottle close to his chest.
She rubbed his back in circles and sniffed.
“I know.”
The answer irritated him because, no, she did not really know, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything else.
“I keep thinking I see her when I’m out. I’ll be in the grocery store, and I think I see her by the fucking fruit or something. Or if I’m driving, I glance over at the sidewalk, and she’s just there. But she’s not...” Devon looked at Mark and Gemma’s wedding photo almost wistfully.
“My speech was shit...”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“It took me so long to write it, and it wasn’t even good.” He took another swig of the wine.
He offered the bottle to Devon. She took a swig.
“Mark, no one is grading you for your eulogy speech,” Devon said jokingly.
It was quiet for a few moments before Mark spoke again.
“Devon, I’m going back to teaching,” He said, staring off.
“Is... that... a good idea? Don’t you think you should wait a little while? Maybe until next year?” Devon said hastily.
“What else am I supposed to do with my time.”
With my life
Mark looked at her, her tears still fresh in his eyes. They stared into each other’s eyes, the same eyes in many cases. Despite being only a year apart, they always looked identical until puberty changed their faces forever. But they still had the same eyes. Their mothers’ eyes. Devon kissed his forehead.
“Do you think I’m a bad person?” Mark asked suddenly clutching onto the wine bottle for dear life.
“No, of course not,” Devon said looking at him confused.
He nodded and looked away. She stared at him for a moment. He looked like a ghost.
“I’ll be out here okay?”
He nodded not looking at her.
He heard the door click close behind her and lay down on the bed. He immediately was hit with the smell of Gemma for the second time that day.
Lavender and rose once more.
He didn’t remember drifting off into sleep, but when he woke up, it was 3 a.m., and he had a massive headache. He left his bedroom and walked around the house for a couple of moments in a daze. It was as if no one was there. The house looked as it had in the morning. A note was left on his front door.
WENT TO CHECK ON YOU BUT YOU WERE ASLEEP. ME, RICKEN + MR. AND MRS. CASEY CLEANED UP FOR YOU.
THEY TOLD ME TO TELL YOU THEY WERE GOING TO BE UNAVAILABLE FOR A LITTLE WHILE; THEY’RE TRAVELING
FOOD IS IN THE FRIDGE.
EVERYTHING’S GOING TO BE OK
I LOVE YOU
CALL ME WHEN U CAN
-- DEVON
He placed the note on the kitchen table and read it multiple times. His stomach growled, and he realized he hadn’t eaten all day. He sighed and opened the fridge. There were so many containers of food that it became slightly overwhelming, so he shut the fridge quickly.
He grabbed a bag of pretzels and tossed them in his mouth.
He opened a drawer to grab a knife so he could cut up an apple. He frowned when he saw a crumbled-up piece of paper. He opened it.
TIRED OF THE DAY TO DAY STRESS? CONSIDER THE SEVERANCE PROCEDURE!
He threw it in the trash and made his way back to his bedroom. He kept thinking it was their bedroom but it wasn’t anymore. It was just his.
It would now forever just be his.