Chapter 6

School's out, and what better way to celebrate the Christmas season than by visiting the local cemetery? Old wounds blossom and new realizations are met. But are new burdens what a fifteen year-old needs?

 

         

Chapter 6

 

 

          I don’t like surprises. I don’t really care if it’s good or bad. I hate them all. And with it being Christmas Eve, I couldn’t really care less for the holiday. I wasn’t always like this, though. Three years ago, I loved surprises just as much as the kid next door. Maybe even more. But after receiving the worst surprise in my life, it’s kind of understandable that I’m not eager for more. When a eleven year-old answers the door to a grave police officer outside on Christmas Eve, that’s basically the end of any kid’s love of surprises.

Today, three years ago, was the day my father died. It wasn’t Christmas Eve to us anymore. It was an anniversary of death. 

          At seven o’clock in the morning, I was up helping my self to a bowl of cereal, waiting for my mother to wake up. I sat down in the living room, armed with cold cereal and a spoon, to watch the sunrise. From our east-facing living room, every morning was beautiful because of the sun. When it rose, it would make everything in the room glow a soft gold. The furniture looked heavenly and my mom’s glass trinkets sparked like crystal amber. But not today. There was no sun, just a blanket of gray clouds that stretched beyond the horizon. Outside, the yard went from dark to visible. I sulked as I ate my cereal. Not even out of my pajamas and I’m already depressed. But something caught my attention. A shaft of light breaking through the dense sky, almost like a ray of hope. I watched as it shimmered on the lawn across the street, slowly gliding over a small roof spire, coming to a rest over Jonathon’s window before disappearing– the milk from my cereal leaked out my half-opened mouth. Again. Again I think about him. I quickly shoved everything to the back of my mind. No, I though to myself. This day is all about Dad. I’m not letting that weirdo worm his way into my head, today of all days. I glanced down to see my T-shirt covered in milk. Great.

          It was now eight o’clock and I was dressed, ready to run down to the local supermarket. We used to have a more diverse bed of flora in our garden then most stores, but three years of neglect allowed an empire of weeds to claim the flower beds for themselves. Now we relied on the nearest supermarket to supply for funeral bouquets. I glanced outside as I walk by a window. The clouds were swelling, sagging closer to the ground as they rumbled across the sky.

          It must be getting ready to snow.

          I paused by the bottom of the stairs on my way out. “Mom,” I called. “I’m heading to the store. I’ll be back in a bit.” I heard a muffled groan followed by “Mm’ kay” as my mother struggled to get up. Usually, she was more of a morning person than I was, but work had recently started to take a toll on her. 

          I grabbed a scarf on the way out the door, locking it behind me. My hand brushed against my jean pocket, making me sigh and take out my key. I quickly ran back in to get my wallet. When I was thoroughly prepared, I started down our steps; and quickly stopped. 

          Jogging up my side of the sidewalk was a tall, lean figure wearing only a T-shirt and long sweat pants. His jacket was tied around his waist as he glanced up and grinned. Jonathon stopped in front me, hands on his knees and panting slightly. I watched his back as it rose up and down under his gray shirt, my hands still holding the scarf I was wrapping around my neck. 

          “Hey, Bambi.”

          Jonathon’s voice, along with the nickname, snapped me out my trance. I looked down to see his eyes gazing back up at me from behind his hair. I resisted the sudden urge to sweep his damp hair back. So instead, I asked him, “Want some water?”

          He smiled again and straightened up. “Sure.”

          “Well, too bad. I just locked the door, and I’m not going back in.” With that I walked off the opposite way he came, feeling very smug about myself. I felt my scarf snag as Jonathon pulled me backwards. “Okay,” I relented. “How about I buy you something at the supermarket?” He released his grip and pushed me forward.

          “It’s all right,” he said. “I was on my way down there anyways. We’ll just both go.” We began to walk.

          “Wait, aren’t you going to change? It’s freezing.” I pointed out, eyeing his clothes. The temperature was already below thirty-five degrees and dropping. No one should be out showing any skin. Jonathon merely laughed.  

          “It’s not that bad, once you start to build up body heat,” he said. “But I’ll put my jacket on if it makes you feel uncomfortable.” 

          While he was talking, my eyes didn’t once leave his shirt. It was an ordinary gray shirt, but it was tight. Tight enough to reveal a taut chest, slender yet firm from daily exercise, as well as elegantly sculpted abdominal muscles, no doubt as hard as rocks. The shirt was damp, causing it to cling to his body with no hope of drying properly in the cold air. A pang of envy and longing struck my gut, which held no fat or muscle to leave any impression. I shifted my eyes to the sidewalk when Jonathon slipped on his jacket, hiding my red face in my scarf as we strolled to town. 

          “You know,” Jonathon began. “It was pretty nice of you to give Ren and Carson some cash over for Christmas.”

          I shrugged. “It’s the least I could do. Besides, they’re volunteering to help me. It’s actually their money, too. So why didn’t you take your share?” I asked suspiciously. 

          “I have enough.”

          We arrived at the supermarket several minutes later, both hunched over from the cold. Heat rolled over us in a wave as we stepped through the automatic doors.       I glanced up at Jonathon, who was bouncing on his heels to warm up. “And you said you didn’t need to change,” I remarked, warming my own hands against my cheeks. Jonathon gave me a shove, rolling his eyes.

          “I’ll be in the medical aisle if you need me,” he said as he walked away. “You owe me a drink.”

          “Whatever,” I called back. I then began my own trek to the floral arrangements on the other side of the store. The air grew cooler as I approached the giant humming refrigerators, the silence only broken my the sound of my footsteps and the quiet elevator-like music playing from the store’s sound system. Small vases of roses and tulips lined the shelves, wilting and long pass their season. Larger arrangements of various flowers were scattered within the chilly domain of these metal boxes, all kept for the desperate customers.  Plastic imitations sat in cups around me. I scanned the shelves behind the cold glass until I found the flowers I was looking for. Red zinnias, my father’s favorite flower. I opened the door and selected the least pathetic bundle, checking the price on it’s side. Seventeen dollars for one dozen. I sighed. It could be worse.

          “Christmas present?” asked Jonathon from behind me. I closed the fridge door slowly, my other hand crinkling the flowers’ wrapping paper.

          “Yeah, something like that.” I coughed as I strained to keep the depression from my voice. I bit my lip to keep control over a wave of emotion. Jonathon was waiting for me to continue, so I tried to laugh it off. But when I opened my mouth, my voice cracked. “I- it’s not a big deal. More like obligation than anything else—.”      

          “Stay right there,” Jonathon ordered as he snatched the zinnias away from me. I watched him in a confused stupor as he strode to the front of the store, flowers in hand. I stood there for almost a minute, not sure how to react. Then I hurried to the cashier when I realized what Jonathon was trying to do. Sure enough, he was standing in front of the register, paying for them. When he saw me walk up, he handed me the flowers. “Here,” he said. Then he passed a Styrofoam cup to my other hand. He carried one as well. It smelled like hot chocolate.

          When we were out of the parking lot, Jonathon broke the silence. “So, who are these flowers for again?” He took a sip of his hot chocolate and breathed out a cloud of steam. I looked down at my own cup as I bit back screams. I was starting to feel mad.

          “Does it matter? You already bought them, even though no one asked you to.” I took a swing from my cup, burning my own throat as I swallowed the hot liquid. I was really starting to hate hot chocolate.

          Jonathon glanced back at me. “Why? Were they for me?”

          I sputtered. “N- no, you moron! I’m just saying that I don’t like it when you try to help me. It’s almost like you think I’m a girl.”

          Jonathon didn’t say anything right away. We kept walking up the street, and then turned into our neighborhood. I was getting nervous.  Finally, he spoke.

          “You’re nothing like a girl.”

          I rolled my eyes. “Oh really?”

          He nodded. “You’re moodier.”

          That one earned him a glare.

          “So, what are the flowers for?” he asked again.

          It was my turn to be silent. I looked down at the zinnias as we trudged up a small hill. I never liked sharing my personal life with anyone. Even in kindergarten, when we were told to bring something special to us, all I brought was a plush toy my mother had bought me the day before. So this feeling of wanting to confide in someone really startled me. “These are for my father’s grave,” I whispered, still not sure if this was the right thing to do. I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want a fake, understanding nod. I didn’t want people to delicately avoid the subject like it was something inconveniently unpleasant. Because of these reasons, I never told anyone anything. I don’t want to see people pretending to care. Carefully, I watched for Jonathon’s reaction.

          He brought the cup to his lips. “What was he like?”

          This brought me a halt. “What?”

          Jonathon looked over his shoulder and stopped a good three yards away to face me. “Your dad; what was he like?”

          It wasn’t that I didn’t comprehend the question. It was just more of a shock. I didn’t know how to respond. Everyone knew my father. That’s why no one had ever wanted to pursue the matter further than offering condolence about his death. So my mouth went on auto-pilot.

          “Um, my dad is- was Oliver Breakfield. He worked as executive manager for a manufacturing company.” My voice dropped in volume. “He was coming back from a business trip when the train wrecked.”

          “No.”

          What? I gaped at him. “No? What do you mean, ‘no’?”

          Jonathon shook his head. “That’s not what I wanted to know. I was talking about his personality.”

          Another sincere question I had never come across in my life. His personality? My auto-pilot never had to go this far, so my mind was left alone to explain while we continued to walk.

          “O- oh, his personality,” I repeated, skimming through my memories that held my father. “Well, he was really nice. Especially when he came back from business trips.” I smiled sadly. “He’d always bring me stuff from the places he visited. A lot of times it was just toys and stuffed animals you couldn’t find where we used to live. When I was nine, he had brought back a pack of building blocks. I told him I was too old for kids stuff. But he took off from work the next day just to show me all the cool things we could do with them.” Jonathon smiled beside me as I chuckled. “Mom had to bring meals into the living room since we didn’t want to quit. We spent hours creating things. Eventually, we decided to stop when we ran out of pieces to build the Eiffel Tower. He was also pretty strict when it came to certain things.   No going to town after dark by myself, always show respect to adults, remember table manners,” I sighed. We were approaching our houses. “But he was always fair. He’d always listen to whatever problems I had. If I wanted to talk to him when he was busy, he’d finish as fast as he could just to hear what I had to say. And even if I tried to hide something from him, he could always tell if something was bothering me.” My voice began to crack.

          We stopped in front of my house. It was noticeably colder than it was when we left. For some reason, I was feeling extremely tense. Aside from my father, there was no one else who knew so much about my personal life. But now there was one other person, standing right in front of me. I wondered it I’d regret exposing my past to him.

          “When you go to see your dad, tell him I said he’s a pretty neat guy.”  I blinked. That response was totally unexpected. Jonathon turned to face me with a smile. Then he reached over and brushed his hand against my hair. The touch was so gentle, so soft, I froze in surprise. Then the moment was ruined. “I never knew you had dandruff,” he remarked, thoughtfully. Horrified, I swatted at my own head.

          “But I don’t! I swear I don’t!” I heard Jonathon laugh.

          “I’m kidding, Thomas. Just snow.” He smiled as he looked up, his breath crystallizing in front of him. “It’s going to be a white Christmas after all.” 

          I scowled, then gazed up to sky and, sure enough, white specks of ice floated down around us. As I watched, another memory surged into my mind. It was a cold December morning five years ago. I sat in the kitchen eating waffles while my father sat across from me, reading his novel and waiting for his breakfast. I looked outside to see it snowing. When he glanced up from his book, my dad smiled. Thomas, do you know why I love the snow? I shook my head. It’s because each snowflake reminds me of a person. Alone, we can’t accomplish much. But if we trust in one another and stand firm, together we could stop even the heaviest of traffic.

          Even though it was bittersweet, I couldn’t help but smile at how corny he could be. I rubbed the heel of my palm against my eyes, smearing the tears. My drink lay forgotten on the ground. “God, I miss him so much.” I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I leaned in. My head rested against his warm chest while my other hand limply clutched the flowers. Jonathon didn’t move for a second, obviously caught off guard, but then I felt his arms enfold me. For the first time in three years, I felt reassured. Maybe there was someone else in this world I could trust. Someone who would listen. “Thank you.”

          Jonathon seemed to hesitate, but then pulled me in tighter. I felt something press into my hair. Then Jonathon whispered into my ear.

          “Merry Christmas.”

          In one graceful move, he released me and swooped down to retrieve my cup before walking back to his house. I stood there, watching him leave. As my hand carefully stroked my hair, only one though raced through my head.

          Was that a kiss?

 

 

          Because the cemetery was farther away than the supermarket, I decided to ride my bike. I parked it beneath a bare maple tree outside the rusted iron gates. A thin layer of snow crunched beneath my feet as I made my way past multiple tombstones, searching for one in particular. It lay thirty yards away from the rest, at the edge of the field. Even after death, he still preferred to avoid crowds. Kneeling down beside the headstone, I tenderly set down the zinnias. Their red color was made brighter by the white snow, reminding me of a beacon. I brushed the headstone and stood up, admiring the newly decorated grave. Then I looked around to see if anyone else was nearby. The graveyard was silent, vacant of anything living, save for me. I turned my attention back to my father’s grave.

          “Hey, dad. It’s me again. Just wanted to let you know that everything’s going fine…” I faltered as the lie struggled to get out. Even though he was dead, it still felt like my dad could see through my lies. I sighed as I ran my fingers through my hair. “Okay, you caught me. I have been having some trouble. Well, a lot of trouble. Mom got herself mixed up with some loan sharks, so now we have to pay them back. But it’s a lot of money, so I got some friends to help me.” I paused to check if anyone was near. “Five million dollars, to be honest. And getting my friends to help really wasn’t my idea. It was my friend Jonathon’s. He just transferred here. I forgot from where, but he’s a really good kid. He’s basically everything that I’ve ever wanted to be. Tall, good-looking, smart, and he’s really good at pool. There’s also Ren and Carson. Ren’s kind of weird at first, but he’s cool once you get to know him. I guess you could say that he’s an undercover genius. Then there’s Carson. He is one of the biggest soccer freaks you will ever find. If they named a country after the sport, he would definitely run for president.” Silence fell over the cemetery as I paused to think. The toe of my boot dug into the snow and dirt as I looked back down to my father.

          “You’ve probably noticed that mom isn’t here, haven’t you?” I asked sheepishly. “So much for fooling you. She’s still in bed. Work’s been hard on her, apparently, so she’s really tired. Especially last night. I heard her stumble in at around four this morning, so I hope you understand.” I felt the familiar sting of tears that came annually for three years now. And like the years before, I didn’t try to stop them as they came cascading down my cheeks, the cold nipping the wet trails. I wiped my eyes with my coat sleeve. “Dad, there’s something else I want to tell you. I know I probably shouldn’t, but I need to tell someone.” I coughed as the tears came down faster, drying my throat. “It’s about my friend Jonathon.” My vision blurred as I looked away from the tombstone.

          “I think I may like him more than I should.”

 

 

          As I walk away from the grave, the burden on my shoulders seemed to have been lifted only to be replaced with something heavier. I staggered to a tree and sank down against the trunk, the snow falling around me like pieces of shredded clouds. All my grief and sorrows were suppressed with a feeling that was strange yet familiar to me. It wasn’t until later that I recognized the feeling.

          I was utterly lost.

Author's Note

Bugger, I'm starting to get melodramatic. . .