One, two, three... One hundred ninety-two, one hundred ninety-three...
"Em, please hurry, we can't afford to be late." My mother's insistent voice penetrates the bathroom door and interrupts my counting.
I begin to question how long I've been on the floor, my eyes tracing the grout. Surely not long enough to warrant tardiness. I'm sure it was only a minute or two and decide my mother is exaggerating yet again to reinforce her idea that I am the star disappointment.
"Ember Layne, if you aren't down those stairs in ten seconds..." I pull myself off the floor, my hands slick and my mouth dry. My eyes follow the dust mites dancing in the morning sun as I wash the clamminess away.
My father looks at me and smiles sadly and for the first time, I notice his grey hairs. No doubt Harrison and I gave him those. Mother looks at my dress and begins to say something but must think better of it because she closes her mouth. She pushes her shoulders back and clutches her bag tighter. Father wraps his dry hand around mine and squeezes three times, I squeeze his four times in response.
The drive is long, quiet. Each of us in a separate world, ignoring the empty seat next to mine. I pull the stitching on the pull-down cup holder, the tan leather puckering where the thread pops free. One, two, three...
The car rolls to a stop and my father sighs at the trees looming above our heads. He takes my mother's hand and together they march into the brick building with broken smiles. Far too many unfamiliar faces greet us, strange hands and arms envelope me. I pull away and excuse myself to the ladies' room. The walls are pale blue and bare of decorations, basically what you'd expect from a place like this. People don't come here for comfort. The air feels stale, like nobody comes in here regularly. I revel in the emptiness.
I finally emerge from the washroom, my hands scrubbed raw. My mother shoots me a disapproving look then turns back to her sister. They lean on each other in a subtle way, neither of them wanting to show how they truly feel. I sit on the lumpy chair in the corner, staring at my brother. The literal golden child, his honey eyes and wheat-colored curls emphasizing his freckles. Harrison looks beautiful and it makes my heart twist. I force my eyes anywhere else.
A small, round man in black robes stands at the front of the room and everyone turns to him, waiting. He opens his mouth and a tinny voice escapes, "If you'd all join me in here..." He motions to the sanctuary, and we all follow as if we're sheep. We sit in neat rows to listen to this tiny man paint a portrait.
"Harrison Rhodes was a great young man, full of light. He held so much love in his heart for each and every one of you here today." The priest continues the cliché and dull retelling of my brother's too-short life, omitting the "vulgar and sinful" parts.
My parents hold each other tightly, small sobs coming from both of them as they walk to the casket, the roses they hold shaking as they do so. I follow suit, silent tears pulling black lines down my cheeks, salt covering my lips. I place the flower on the now closed lid then pinch the inside of my wrist. His favorites were daisies. I pace slowly to my seat, my fingers still grasping my skin. The rest of the mournful party adds their flowers to the pile. Six of Harrison's teammates lift the casket and set it on an oversized stretcher, readying it for the walk to his plot.
The thought of my best friend having his very own hole in the ground is gut-wrenching. I feel bile creep up my throat and try to swallow it back down. His teammates wheel him ahead of us, the rest of our somber party walking at a snail's pace. Watching my brother lowered into the ground, knowing he won't ever feed the earth because his ornate box will never break down, sucks the air from my lungs. I hold myself together long enough to release his balloon and get back to the car after as few goodbyes as possible.
The trip back home is shorter, emptier somehow. This emptiness breaks my soul. I stare out the window and imagine my brother chasing us, trying to rejoin our now broken unit. It makes me smile only slightly.
We arrive home, shells of people. We each retreat to a corner of the house to miss him in our own ways. I sit on the edge of the bathtub, picking at a scab on my thigh, enjoying the sting. I think about how Harrison must have felt with the blade against his skin, knowing it hurt less than whatever had been eating at him so much he couldn't even confide in me. I spiral, considering what it could have been. Focus on the tiles. One, two... eighty-six, eighty-seven... four hundred and five...
Reality creeps back in as my father taps lightly on the door, his big hands gentle as ever. I open it and he wraps me in his arms, tight as always. We both say nothing and go our own ways again, knowing everything that needed to be said had been. I reclose the door and go back to counting. Cotton swabs, cotton rounds, wash cloths, anything under the sink. I make my way up to the cabinet and find a bottle of mom's sleeping pills. I count them one by one. Considering. One, two...
Twenty-seven pills later, I feel the cold tile on my legs, hear my mother's voice as if through water. I can't lift myself to open the door. Decide I don't want to. Stay on the floor. Count the tiles. Hear the wood of the door split, my father's cry. He grabs my hand and squeezes, three times. I respond with four weak grasps. A final goodbye.
