We're Not Strangers Anymore

Chapter Twenty One - The Graveyard

The grassy field was filled with gravestones; there wasn't a single patch of mud that wasn't covered. This was just one of the many distracted observations that Charlie had made about the place.
After the main service had finished, he had made the conscious decision to walk ahead of everyone else. Above all other reasons (including the avoidance of the inevitable fights, drama and so on, so forth) it could very well have done him the world of good. The rest of the mourners were now scattered around the grounds in small groups, each one discussing a different part of the service, murmuring in a discomposed manner.
As Charlie rested on a nearby bench, a resting spot that overlooked the very gracious yet haunting field, he began to wander into a deep trail of thought. The image of Uncle David was still strongly imprinted in the forefront of his brain, his dead, lifeless body laying there in the coffin, completely motionless, completely un-alive. Uncle Pierce drifted into his mind too, only briefly, a man whom he perceived as totally innocent.
He loved Uncle David, Charlie pondered peacefully, and he would never have done anything to hurt him.
A familiar set of footsteps approached, and Charlie sunk his head even further into his shoulders. It was exactly who he'd expected.
'Hi, Mum.'
Irene smiled through eyefuls of tears.
'Hi, son. You doing okay?'
'Yeah, I guess,' he calmly muttered, kicking a heap of gravel away with the end of his shoe.
Charlie slumped into the bench, sniffling into his tissue.
'Mum?'
'Yes, Charlie?'
He took a deep breath before asking the question that would play on his mother's mind for the rest of the day: 'Mum, why did Uncle David kill himself?'
Irene Broomer also took a deep breath, wrapping both arms around her son. She too was sniffling, attempting to mask it with a series of polite coughs. After a minute had passed, she decided to try and answer his question.
'Because he was depressed, son. He didn't like the state his life was in, and he couldn't see a logical way out.'
'But what state was his life in? He always looked so happy, especially when I went to see him.'
Irene paused. For the first time today, she felt as if she had no relevant words to give.
'I don't know, son. I wish I could give you the answers that you're after, my boy, but I'm not quite sure that I can. But look, don't worry too much about it, all right? We'll get through this together, I promise. As a family. And I'm sorry about my little outburst earlier, it wasn't right of me. Come here.'
And with that, she took her only son into her arms, running her long fingers through his dark hair as he weeped gently onto her chest. It had been a long time since she'd seen her only son cry; she was on the verge of a fit herself.
Charlie lifted his head up, looking out at the muddied field of gravestones.
'Why do people have to die?' he asked, fresh tears rolling down both cheeks.
She held him tighter, dabbing his eyes gently with a handkerchief.
'Well, I suppose we all have an expiration date at some point. Take that meat in the fridge at home, for example. You know the lamb that I've been saving, for when your gran comes to stay? That's probably only got another two weeks left, but we probably won't have a funeral for that. The meat, that is, not your grandma.'
Irene looked down at Charlie, who was now rubbing his nose discreetly, and together they giggled in secret.
'I just wish Uncle David didn't have to leave us so soon.. I wish I could've had the problems he had, instead of him.'
Irene looked down at the floor, rolling a pebble distractedly under her shoe.
'That's the cruel thing about depression, son,' she said softly. 'It doesn't discriminate.'
Charlie looked up at her once again.
'Are you depressed, Mum?'
'Me? Good heavens no, I love my life. And do you know why I love my life so damn much?'
She sounded stern, way too formal, and Charlie didn't like it one bit.
'Why?' he finally asked her.
Irene took his hand, gripping it as tight as she could.
'Because I have the best son in the whole, wide world,' she answered. 'And I wouldn't change that or you for the world.'
She poked a finger into his waist jokingly, and Charlie tittered to himself quietly.
'And do you know what else, son?' she said, slowly standing up from the delicate bench.
'No, what?'
'I love you more than anything. Now come on, let's get those eyes dried, we've got something called the wake to go to now.'
'What's a wake?' Charlie asked curiously.
'Well,' said Irene, leaning in closer to him, 'between you and me son, it's where you go to stuff your face with free food and drink, sausage rolls and that sort of thing. So, reckon you're up for that?'
Charlie beamed, his face lighting up.
'Hell yeah!'
'Come on then,' Irene mimed at him, smiling and taking his hand. 'Last one there's a rotten old egg!'
And together they walked, hand-in-hand up the path. The feeling of emptiness that Charlie had previously felt had now been replaced with a different emotion entirely, one that he had been craving for a long time: love.