Cheating Gods of Death (Sequel to L: Find A GirLfriend)

Prologue

I remember it was a sleepy Thursday.

Mom woke us up with her voice outside the door, then opening it to send a focused beam of light from the hall across our bedspreads.

I remember it all in gross detail.

The March dawn was fading into the cold around us, the dark treeline showcasing the delicate blues and yellows. They would bloom and leaf soon.

"Can I go ahead and fix your cereal?"

Mom called from downstairs, her voice carrying enough to ring through my conscious.

"Sure, Mom!"

I called back, advocating for Erica, who was struggling to detangle the mess of black hair she had failed to braid. Mom will have to fix it, I thought.

After dressing and running a comb through my hair (which is my mom's, light brown and wavy, she tells me), I went downstairs. Mom was ready, too, her hair fixed just so and her pantsuit free of hair. She was making coffee.

Which was dumb, given she hated coffee, but dad would drink as many as eight cups a day.

She set the bowl of fruit loops in front of me, and set her hand on my shoulder for a moment before removing it as a loving gesture. She took it away to give Erica her breakfast, then to pour a cup to be ready for dad when he decided to come to breakfast.

I remember Erica was just about to say something when Dad appeared in the doorway.

He looked the same, same white shirt, jeans, absence of footwear and nearly blackened eyes. He didn't sleep well, ever, Mom explained. Something wasn't right today. He sat at the table, on my left past the corner of the side I sat at. Mom handed him his coffee, he took it very slowly, gingerly. He brought it to his lips to sip the black, sugared, stuff (I wasn't sure that it was then, I just called it stuff.), but set it back down. For a while he sat like that, sitting...normally as opposed to his usual posture. I had looked back at him after taking a few bites of cereal, his eyes unfocused and dark as always, but looking much like the eyes of a doll. Gradually, then all at once, he became weaker and fainted. His face hit the table with a clear thump.

We all stopped and stared until Mom grabbed the phone and hurried up to him. She took his shoulder and attempted to sit him up, only to find that he was completely limp.

Tossing me the phone, she urged, "George! Call 911, put them on speaker, and point the phone to me!"

She was calm. She always was everyone's rock. Erica had frozen, and I didn't know what I was. The operator spoke, and I pointed the phone towards her, looking away from the thing she was laying on the floor.

To skip the details, he was barely alive, and they rushed him off to the hospital while Mom shoved us into the car and raced after him. Her pantsuit had wrinkled, her makeup had smeared, and this well-composed, clever woman had become a damsel in distress worthy of Bridezillas, despite the fact that her panic was well-deserved.

The hospital was white and clean. I had cried against Mom after we sat down, Erica had joined in, and we made a tearful family huddle in the waiting room. Yes, people stared. The only thing that bothered me was that we had nothing to stare at ourselves, we were the main attraction at the moment.

It was noon when we left.

"We're not taking him home, you guys. I'm sorry. Daddy is going to stay here."

As she pulled out, she began to weep, but she kept driving away. Erica had burst into tears again, and my heart was slowly sinking into all of the other guts I had.

That was all that happened. I was eleven and a half, Erica had turned six the month before. But, I forgot to mention one thing. There was never a funeral (or memorial).

And as his son, I should have known.