“Aidan, now’s not the—”
“I know, I know. Now’s not the time to be talking about sweaty balls. Yours must be frozen solid. Whatever. The point is, I am not leaving Hawaii. Not for Alex. Not for you. Not for the Callahan Corporation or any other goddamn—”
“Aidan! Your parents—”
“And especially not for my parents. Dad hasn’t even bothered to call in three months. I’m glad he’s retiring now. Maybe that means he can drag his wrinkled ass around the golf course and remember what it’s like to actually move his body. Maybe, with all his new found free time, he could actually call his other son!”
“He’s dead, Aidan! Your parents, Alex… all three of them. They’re dead.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I grind my teeth together, pulling the Jeep off to the side of the road. This is a new one. I’ve heard, we’ll cut you off. I’ve heard, your mother misses you. Believe it or not, I’ve even had Alex tell me my ex girlfriend Hannah was home from her stint in Africa with Doctors Without Borders, and that she was willing to consider dating me again, so long as I agreed to take an executive position within the Callahan Corporation. Unbelievable, right? I am yet to hear the ‘they’re all dead’ bit.
Interesting.
“Listen, Art. I already told Alex the answer was no. The answer is still no, and will always be no. Pretending they died is definitely a ballsy change in tack, but it’s not going to make a difference
Arturo remains silent. At least I think he does. And then his voice rattles out of the speaker on my cell phone, all of a sudden crytsal clear. He says. “—not pretending! Your brother was driving your parents to the fundraiser last night. It was late. Alex was tired. They should have left hours earlier than they did. I should have driven them home. I’m—I’m so sorry.” The noise on the other end of the line no longer sound like static, but more like crying. Uncontrollable, soul-wrenchingly pained, distraught crying.
A cold chill runs from the crown of my head, down through my body, settling in the backs of my knees. What a bizarre sensation. “Art? Art, what—what do you mean?”
“I should have called them a cab or something. None of us were drunk, but still…it all just happened so quickly. The police think Alex fell asleep at the wheel. I was meant to meet your father this morning. I—”
Holy fuck, he’s not joking. My grip tightens on the phone, my vision suddenly dimming. How can he not be fucking joking? “Art? Art, slow down. Tell me exactly what happened.” My heart feels like it’s galloping in my chest, like it’s trying to flee the scene of the crime. This can’t be fucking real. It can’t be. I hold my breath, waiting for Art to start explaining so I can stop him a second later, telling him that none of it can be possible because my father, Jeremy August Callahan, the man who raised me would never have allowed himself such an arbitrary death. A car crash? No. The old man was always determined to go out skydiving or running a marathon or some shit. Not drooling on the backseat of his Mercedes Benz.
“I’m so, so sorry, Aidan.”
“So, Alex…this is Alex’s fault?” I’m having trouble even computing that. My brain just won’t comprehend it. Alex, the goddamn saint. Alex, next in line to the throne. Alex, the guy who’s been fucking perfect since we were kids. How can he be to blame for this?
“I’m afraid it’s looking like th—” The line breaks again. I press my chest against the steering wheel, holding the phone to my head, holding my breath, like these actions will somehow make the connection better. “That’s not all,” Art says. “The car crashed through the barrier into oncoming traffic. There…there was another car involved, too. A truck.”
Oh god. It feels like there are razor blades grinding against the bone of my ribs. Fuck. “And the other driver? How many people were in the other car?” I can imagine two angelic, curly haired children sleeping, feeling the impact, waking, screaming…
“Just the driver. He was the only person in the truck at the time. He was badly injured on the scene. It looked like he might make it for a moment, apparently, but his injuries were just…”
“Fatal.”
“Yes.”
I think I’m going to throw up. “What…what am I supposed to do?”
“Come home, Aidan. Please. Come home.”
The line goes dead.
I kill the Jeep’s engine and climb out of the car. Above me the sky is a deep blue, the breeze warm. The sun carries on blazing regardless, completely oblivious to the fact that my life just ended. The air smells sweet, like coconuts. A car, a red convertible, zooms past me, the laughter of the girls inside it washing over me. Happy people, going about their business. Just a few moments ago, I was one of them. But now this.
Now, I don’t think I’ll be happy ever again.
FIVE
ESSIE
The hole of depression I fall into is endless. I keep expecting Vaughn to show up. I keep expecting to hear his voice, or to get a text message from him, but nothing. He’s gone. I can do nothing, say nothing, think nothing. It’s like my brain’s been hot-wired and the only thing it’s now capable of registering is pain.
Pain comes in a dizzying array of disguises. There’s the physical pain of it—my throat scraped and raw, my eyes swollen, tear ducts incapable of producing any more tears. My body, completely exhausted but unable to sleep. Then there’s the mental anguish. My thoughts run on this endless vicious loop. Why him? Why us? Why now, when things were finally looking up?
Those missed calls on my phone plague me. Why didn’t I pick up? Why did I ignore it, thinking that I’d have time to talk to him later? That he could wait? The one thought that cycles through me over and over, refusing to give me peace or rest is this: Was he calling when he was dying? Was he calling me to say goodbye, and I fucking screened him because I didn’t want to get into trouble at work?
Max goes with me to the funeral home. His eyes are red and it looks like he hasn’t slept. We both walk in, stunned expressions on our faces. It’s a cruel fucking trick to be expected to organize a funeral when you feel like this. When you wake up and can’t believe that you’re actually awake, that you’re not still asleep, still dreaming, still having this nightmare that you know can’t actually be true.
But it is.
The director says he is very sorry for my loss, and then starts showing me caskets to choose from. Tears sting my eyes as I realize even the cheapest one is far more than I can afford. So what happens now? What happens when you can’t afford a casket, the most simple of pine boxes? I can’t help but think of Vaughn’s body, cold in the morgue. What are they going to do with it? What are they going to do with him if I can’t afford to bury him?
I’ve failed. There’s no other way around it. I have failed in every possible way. If it were the other way around, if it were me who was dead and Vaughn was trying to figure out a way to pay for the funeral, he’d do it, somehow. That’s just how he is. Was. Jesus, I can’t get used to using the past tense. He was always able to figure things out, always able to make sure that we got through okay. And now I can’t even do this one simple, important thing for him. My throat aches.
“I can’t be here right now.” I rush out of the place, barely able to make my legs work properly. It’s too much. This was not what was supposed to happen. I’m not supposed to be picking out a casket for my brother. I’m supposed to be watching the surprise on his face when he opens his Christmas present. We’re supposed to be watching movies and hanging out in our apartment, being grateful that, despite everything we’ve been through, life is finally working out.