Translucent

Chapter 35: Farewell, Haywood Lad

My eyes sprung open. Was I in heaven?

The sight before me was nothing but my room with my mother kneeling beside me, clutching my hand and cried uncontrollably. I was back. What happened? My father returned but stood frozen a few meters away from the bed only to find my body lying restlessly, hesitating to move closer, bothering to see it. He would be happy now and his delirious face was just a disguise. I knew he'd be happy that I was gone. Angus stiffened, his expression was stunned. Meanwhile, there was only my mother's cry breaking off the silence in this room.

I moved closer to see my body, now lying cold and stiff – with dilated pupils staring blankly at the ceiling.

Mama wept uncontrollably after she closed my lids. After a long process, some people replaced my clothes with new ones. I watched them carefully putting on a formal black suit and a waistcoat, brushing my hair aside, before later, putting me inside a coffin and closed it carefully with the lid.

The small crowd in black had been waiting outside my house and together, lined up behind my coffin as the entourage started moving, taking to my body's last resting place–a lone tomb lying in the woods. Father's intention of hiding me couldn't be clearer, otherwise he would've chosen the public cemetery. The requiem filled the empty space, along with low sobs and cries. My friends were there, including Norris, who looked in a more genuine pain rather than my father. I was there, walking with them, observing in silence.

But instead, I welcomed a new life that was even less than perfect than before. After the priest muttered prayers, the sight of the coffin disappeared in the earth. Mutters arose.

"Farewell, Haywood lad."

* * *

"Look what you did to him." Mama argued. "Look what you made me do. He was our son, Thomas, for God's sake."

Mother and Father's relationship worsened after my death. Months later, I witnessed them having another quarrel like usual in Father's study.

"I had no choice, Eloise." Father looked beaten.

"You had no choice? You gather that our son's life was a choice? Some kind of an exchange currency?" She clutched her fist onto Father's chest.

"It will destroy my reputation, Eloise!" Papa spat. "I'm trying to save this family, or what was left of it. Our son's illness would serve as a hindrance. We're losing our money and I saw an opportunity. Had Weatherby known I wouldn't be sending Cornelius for some...illness, he would cut off ties with the estate. We'd be done for."

"Is the estate all you care about?" Mama confronted. I watched the quarrel closely at the corner of the room–unnoticed. "You are a heartless beast. You've ruined our family, Thomas. Bridget may be happy that now she's away from you, but do you not even realise that our son had a child to take care of."

Things went silent as she looked sharply at the fierce look of my father. Mama was possibly the only person if not a woman who could challenge Papa's views. The air was lifted from the room.

"I'll find a way. They mustn't know the truth behind Cornelius' death." His voice grew calm yet cold. He went to his desk and scrambled into his drawers, beginning to devise his plans. "Gather our things. We have some news for Weatherby, and summon Lyla in."

As soon as Mother brought her lady maid into her presence and Father's where she was the first one to hear, blood drained from her face and she quickly dashed off the room all the way to the servants' quarters, where all other maids, valets, cooks, and even gardeners had gathered in.

And that was it.

The late son of Thomas Haywood took his own life, as confirmed by my father. Only a few  were left to know. For father, death by suicide sounded better than death by illness. People in the area had known our family for generations and surely had recognised me as the hardworking, young Haywood. The illness would only stain the reputation.

What began with whispers with mild gasps and expressions of disbelief following suit in my own house's maid quarters, traveled far and quick across Perthshire. But of course such news weren't all taken serious. Conspiracies emerged: about my perishing in the trenches in Marne, murdered by a stranger, or even going missing in the war. Journalists pursued my father for details and the same words were always repeated.

Everything rolled by like a film–something you could only watch but not talk to. Mother packed all the furniture. Some were disposed and some were stored to the attic, covered in white cloth, and locked there forever.

* * *

March 1915

Still in the rage of the war, my parents departed the house with a big entourage that spring. The servants had left within the week. I remembered the last stare my mother threw from the manor drive towards my once bedroom window. I caught her gray eyes–once bright and now dull. Her look beneath her hat was somber and remorseful. Our eyes were locked for a second, and I indulged in the idea that she might have sensed me. If only words of a dead son could travel across to a living mother, I wanted her to know that I forgave what she and Papa had done to me.

That was the last time I saw them before the estate was sealed. From then on, Haywood would be just a name that everyone would soon forget. Sometimes I wondered what had become of my parents and the thought bothered for me weeks, months, and years until their presence no longer mattered to me.

But as their son, I still wished they were well, wherever they may be.