Saving Grace

23

The Bayton Cemetery was a land caught in time. For five years, I'd waited for it to change and yet my annual visits always revealed to me the same old setting – rows upon rows of cracked headstones, rotten roses and forget-me-nots, drifters and grave-minders, weeping for dead. I suppose the only true difference lied in the fact that that year, my brother brought chairs and I brought whisky and we made use of both, sitting at the foot of our father's grave.

"About time you shouted, little brother," Scott said, throwing his arms around me. "I had half a mind to grab something on my way here, just in case."

I chuckled, breathed in the scent of cheap washing powder and cologne.

"To be fair, it is the first year I've been able to."

He pulled back, hands lingering on my shoulders.

"The old man would've been happy," he said quietly, "you even brought his favourite poison."

He looked down at the bottle of Alisa Caol in my hands, eyes sunken. There was more to say but neither of us could find the words.

"So what's the bet Aaron will show up this year?" He asked, taking the bottle and lowering himself into the chair. I shrugged.

"Who knows? He might even have himself a spot here, a permanent one."

I sat down in the fold-out chair, creaky steel groaning beneath me. My eyes soon wandered to the elephant in the room – my father's tombstone. Athelstan Grigori Downing, born February 26, 1967 and died November 13, 2012. Loving father, brother, and friend.

"Here."

Scott held out two glasses and I took them, downed the first in two greedy gulps and sat the second on top of the headstone. A dusty grey silence settled between us. We knew what was coming next.

"Should I go first or should you?" Scott asked quietly, staring at his glass.

"You go," I insisted. "I'd like to listen."

He nodded, breathed in deep.

"I think I told this one a couple of years ago, but what the hell, right? A good story is a good story. It's the one about the night he died. When we were in that hospital room, looking at him, hooked up to all those machines. We knew he only had a couple hours, at best – he knew that too, I'm sure – but all of a sudden, he cracked a smile; one of those cheeky smiles he had, like he was up to no good. 'I've a present for you boys,' he said. 'It's in that duffel over there.' So we grabbed it, pulled it over. Inside was about fifteen boxes of tissues, specially made some months before, when the cancer started to get real bad. The old bastard had hidden them in the attic, buried under some Christmas decorations. I looked at him and I smiled and I said, 'what the hell are these?' He said, 'Don't look at them yet, but I want you hand them out at my funeral, at the saddest possible moment, when all hope is lost. Don't show Richie, either. Trust me; you'll be grateful you didn't look.'

"Anyway, a week passed, we had the funeral, and I waited. It was half way through your speech, Richie, that I looked around and saw exactly what Dad told us about – a grey air of hopelessness, of grief, of impenetrable darkness. And I went pew to pew, handing out these tissue boxes without looking at single one." A small, sad laugh escaped Scott, despite the tears in his eyes. "And everybody started to laugh," he said. "Giggles, at first, then roaring laughter, until the entire church was in hysterics. I had no idea what was going on, so I pulled out one of these boxes, opened it up, and guess what the old man had done. He'd had someone – paid someone – to write insults and jokes on every tissue – stop crying; you sound like a donkey. Anyone ever tell you that you look like James Van Der Beek when you cry? I'll haunt your ass if you keep snotting everywhere. All sorts of notes and scribbles. It was the funniest thing I'd ever seen and it also taught me a valuable lesson – that joy can be found in the strangest places, and in the darkest times. And I think that's what really helped me get through. I love you, Dad," he said, raising his glass. "Thanks for everything you ever did for us ungrateful bastards."

I raised my glass with him, pretended not to notice the tear that escaped his eye. We drank, refilled.

"Alright," I said, clearing my throat. "I've not told this one yet, to anybody at all, so settle in. My story happened the same night. You'd fallen asleep, Scott, and I think Aaron had gone out to get us some coffee – or, at least, that's what he'd told us. So, it was just Dad and I, sitting there, waiting for Death to come a'knocking. He said to me, 'Richie, there's something I need you to promise me before I go. Something important.' I froze up. He'd never talked to me like that before – so serious, so afraid. I agreed, and with this haunted look in his eyes, he said, 'tomorrow morning, when my lights go out, you're going to feel more pain than you ever have. It's going to rip you apart. It's going to haunt you. And I know what you're like – you're going to bury it, put a smile on, go about your day pretending this never happened. And you're going to tell everyone you're fine – 'I'm fine, I'm fine, yes, I'm fine' – but you're not going to be fine, because you're not going to deal with this. And it's going to get worse and worse and worse until one day you won't be able to do it anymore, and it'll all be over. So what I'm saying to you, Richie, what I need you to promise me, is that you will deal with it. You will confide in your brothers, in your friends, in a homeless man on the street if you must, but you will talk about this and you will, one day, find a way past my death. You'll move on. Let it all go. And when I'm a memory, I will just be a memory, not a ghost.'

"I promised him that, and it turns out I'm a very good liar, because all his predictions came to pass. I buried everything – under assignments, exams, uni applications, studies, medicine. I thought, 'if I can't keep that promise, if I can't move on, I could at least become a doctor and help people like him.' But it was a damn lie. I was just too chicken shit to share, too chicken shit to keep my promise. And it's taken me this long to realise that he was right. I can't do this anymore, because if I do, maybe next time, I really will jump, and Grace won't be there to save me."

Those last few words slipped out on their own accord and I realised that Scott was listening. I met his eyes, saw the look on his face.

"I love you, Dad," I said, glass raised, "and I hope one day I'll be able to keep my promise."

© A.G. Travers 2018