When You Are Gone

Chapter 13

He didn't even have a full set of teeth yet. He'd only just started walking. My grandmother always nagged my mom to take him for his first haircut but she never did – she was never going to see it anymore, he was never going to experience it either. He was never going to find his own Francie, or know what love is. He was never going to say my name properly or call Simon daddy. God took my little brother too soon, He always takes His angels early. And this left us all shattered.

The atmosphere at the funeral was heavy, weighing me down. I sat with Gina most of the time, speaking only when people we didn't even know we were related to came up to hug us. After a while, I couldn't feel anything, I just stood up and smiled routinely, trying to be kind. Simon's mom, who insisted we call her grandma Donna was there. She dressed formally in a gray pantsuit with her snow white hair curled upwards a thin slit of red lipstick and a mild paste of gray eye shadow over her eyes. She too like Simon was a workaholic because she constantly kept leaving Mass to answer calls despite the fact that she was pushing into seventy.

"Death is a reminder of life." Father Thames preached. My mind was unable to comprehend these words for a while but when I finally did, I came to the realization that what he was trying to say was we don't appreciate that we're alive until we die. Jonah's passing came to me as a lesson to appreciate those I still have because death is a professional thief – it strikes when you least expect it.

We hadn't even prepared the perfect spot for Jonah, these things never come with a warning. We ended up burying him at the minors section in the cemetery between Yolanda Baker, who died 1992 at sixteen months, like Jonah and a Samuel Freire, of 2000 who died on his first birthday. Watching his casket lower reminded me of a finished book – which ended too soon just when it got to the good part. Watching my mother helplessly resting her head on my grandmother's shoulder, her eyes running out of tears made me cry too. Quietly, under my palm.

It wasn't until after the burial that I saw Francie's mom. She was standing isolated away from the crowd, approaching timidly. She wrapped her arms around me – she was almost the same height as me despite the fact that she was in stilettoes.

"Francie wanted to come but she had an appointment with her physiotherapist," she explained. "I'll definitely bring her over to the house some time."



My grandmother was practically living in with us now. It started with a duffel bag on the night of the funeral and then she had to call grandpa to bring her more clothes. This time a suitcase. She did the cooking, washing and brought groceries every time for the first few days when my mom was too numb to do anything. Grandpa would drive by at night for his salt-less, low cholesterol dinner with grandma insisting that he take his medicine the instant that he put his fork down. Sometimes he'd drive back home, alone listening to Dolly Parton miserably in the SUV but of late, mom has been insisting on him to stay. Gina would make hot chocolate for the family and then we'd sit around the fireplace with the TV turned off.

Grandpa would tell us stories about the country club, how he always wins every golf match he plays. How he once made money off predicting a Bingo match on the club TV. He'd then try to explain Bingo but I'd always confuse the rules with lotto; "Oh, like the lotto." My grandma would shake her head pitifully, "Kids nowadays. What have you been teaching them, Muriel?"

Simon would take advantage of the conversation diversion to brag about how he once won the lotto twice in a row and how he can predict everything, even US politics. "I'm like a physic with numbers. Nothing gets past me."

"Oh, really." Gina would tease. "What am I thinking now?"

"Nothing worth the announcement," he'd retort and then we'd all laugh.

Gina would take out the monopoly – she'd learnt that Twister was no good after the last time grandma almost did the splits trying to put right leg on green and left on yellow.

"How come Roman has so much property," grandpa would grumble.

"Because he's cheating, that's what." Grandma would back him.

"Alright, alright," Simon would announce, illegally fishing the deck of cards for a get out of jail card, "Let's just start over."

We'd all go to sleep grumbling, setting more challenges for tomorrow. Forgetting about our problems. Grandpa would sleep in my room – his sight was no longer good for night driving, and I'd sleep on some inflatable mattress next to him. He would complain about how crammed my room was.

"I had to move all of your grandmother's paintings to the garage when it came to this," he explained. Now the SUV stays just outside their bedroom window, exposed to vandalism and bird poo.

Francie did show up like her mother had promised. Her mother pushed her into our living room on her wheelchair. Her mother shared a conversation with my mom over a cup of green tea, courtesy of grandma. My mom would then show her Jonah's baby pictures out of the album. Explaining how Jonah had always struggled with his condition. Tracing the events of that fateful day; apparently the nanny at the day care was new. She knew nothing about his condition. The allergy to the drugs was unforeseen. Francie never spoke. She was just as ill-disposed and unresponsive as she'd ever been. She only lifted her head to say, "Hi," when I walked in and then went back to staring in a corner.



Simon began receiving infinite calls from his boss, grandpa's blood sugar raised and the school term began. Simon was back at work, grandma moved back home to take care of grandpa and mom and Gina were back in school. This left me all alone during the day. I'd take walks down the same old roads in the same old streets and sometimes, I'd sit in the park and sketch anything about everything, the fountain, the road, couples – anything. At night we'd switch on the TV in the family room like old times and drink the instant coffee you pour from a sachet without talking much to each other.

Days passed and the winter got colder, lonelier.