Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
He could have made it.
♦
Numbness.
It’s what I feel as I sit in the front church pew next to my parents, staring blankly at my brother’s coffin.
It’s closed casket, of course. Most of the victims of the Titans’ plane crash had closed caskets or were cremated, since many were already so badly burned. Identifications were done through dental records and rapid DNA testing. It’s grisly information, but I know it because my dad asked those questions to the FBI agent assigned to oversee victim identification and felt the need to share it with the entire family via email.
I personally could have done without that information, but my dad wanted it, not to ease his mind in any way but so he could use the drama during his interviews with news stations. He may have lost a son, and I’m sure he’s grieving, but he’s also in his element with the spotlight on him.
It’s why he let reporters with cameras into the service, so they could record how much he’s suffering after losing his precious son. He sits on the other side of my mom at the end of the pew, near the aisle, so he can make sure everyone sees the pain weighing him down.
Sitting in between me and my father is my mom. Brooks was the light of her life—or so I’ve heard her say on many occasions—and she sits with shoulders hunched, tears streaming down her face.
I try to put my arm around her—some measure of comfort—but she doesn’t seem to notice. She merely murmurs over and over again, “My son… gone. My precious boy.”
The Episcopalian service is disingenuous, given that we’re not a religious family in any way. It’s only being held here because my father wants the maximum effect. My mom weeps through the entire service. The Episcopalian priest talks about Brooks as if he knew him well, but it’s obvious they’re prepared remarks—I recognize my father’s hand in all the ways the world will be dimmer without Brooks’s greatness. Then it’s a painful ten minutes while I have to listen to my father eulogize my brother in a manner I find offensive.
Of course, he lists all the accomplishments of his second but favorite son. How well he did in college, getting drafted to play professional hockey by the Pittsburgh Titans and how his star shone brighter than he ever knew possible. He talks about what a loving and devoted son Brooks was and that he will never suffer a loss as great as this one. In fact, he tells the captive audience—while looking straight into a news camera—that he’s not sure he has anything to go on for.
I’m a little prickly about my parents’ behavior, for sure. My brother was indeed a great hockey player and a good person, and I miss him so much. But those blindingly overarching compliments are nothing but a slap at me. My father never misses an opportunity to raise Brooks up and try to knock me down at the same time.
My eyes remain dry throughout the entire service, just as they’ve remained dry since the moment my father called me a week ago with news of the crash. Too many emotions pulling me in a dozen different directions to even process the finality of what’s happened.
I’m resentful of my brother, and my father has made me that way. Over the last few years, my father managed to single-handedly destroy my relationship with Brooks, and he’s apparently removed my ability to grieve or mourn his loss. I know that’s some psychological, twisted, fucked-up nonsense, but there you have it.
I’m relieved when the church service concludes. I would leave now if I weren’t a pallbearer for my brother’s coffin. So I do my duty and carry him to the hearse. I ride silently in a black sedan along with my parents to the graveside. The entire time they clutch onto each other and stare blankly ahead without even bothering to look at me.
Not once have they offered me any solace. Not even a hug when I arrived home here in Ithaca to be with the family at this terrible time. Not even an acknowledgment that I lost something too.
When we arrive at the cemetery, I help carry the coffin to the waiting grave. The priest and other mourners file in around chairs lined up in front of the casket for the family. I choose to stand at the outer edge of the crowd, counting down the minutes until this is over.
The priest offers a brief prayer, and my father has a dramatic breakdown during the words meant to comfort.
Just before the casket is lowered, people file by to lay red carnations on top. I may have been mostly estranged from my brother, but I knew him well enough to know he would hate this.