To Build a Home

37 | It Ended...

On the one-year anniversary of Phil and Theresa's accident, I drove five hours to Windber to visit their graves. It was a clear August morning through the Pennsylvania countryside, the trees and mountains and endless blue sky guiding me home on the turnpike like a trail of breadcrumbs I had left behind in case I ever lost my way.

St. Anthony's Cemetery was a large patch of green framed by an old stone wall on the edge of town. There were large mausoleums and shady trees scattered throughout as landmarks. My parents were somewhere in the middle of the cemetery, close to the statue of St. Anthony that had always scared me with the weathered face and long robe. I stopped by their grave, which took me twenty minutes to find, and then continued up the hill. There was construction on the small road that ran through the center of the cemetery, so I had to park the car at the bottom of the hill and walk up the wet grass.

Phil and Theresa's graves were towards the back of the cemetery where there was a large stretch of green waiting to be filled with plots. When I reached them, their names and achievements carved into the stone––husband, father, brother, wife, mother, sister––I could see that two rows of plots had been added behind them in the year since they were buried. It was hard to imagine that many deaths in such a small town and it was overwhelming to see such a stark pronouncement of death, like a silent stone tide of tragedy that only traveled in one direction.

I kneeled at my brother's grave and said a prayer, although it had been a long time since I had attended church. My eyes were closed and I was trying to remember the words of the prayer when I heard the crunch of shoes in the grass behind me. I turned to find Darren, carrying two bouquets of white roses, the hot sun just above his head in the sky, his hair blowing in the wind.

"Sorry," he said, pausing at the sight of me. And then when I didn't say anything, "I thought it might be you when I saw the New York license plate. Is it a rental?"

"It's a friend's." It was the first thing I said to him in almost a year. I rose from my spot in front of my brother.

"I can come back," he offered.

"I'm finished. I can't remember the stupid prayer anyway." I walked past him towards the car at the bottom of the hill. I didn't look up. I knew––the second I heard the crunch of his feet behind me when I was praying––that if I looked at him, I'd run into his arms. So I kept my eyes focused on the manicured lawn of the cemetery.

"Ryan..." It was sudden, I could tell it came out faster and louder than he had intended by the way his voice cracked and he didn't continue right away.

I turned around, my eyes pointed intensely at his shoulder, careful not to wander any higher.

"I'm glad to see you. Well, glad isn't the right word." He fidgeted with the flowers and a few white petals fell to the ground.

I realized he wasn't looking directly at me either. "I was going to stop by the house to see Noah, if that's alright," I said.

"Of course. Sadie's with him there now."

"What happened to Anna?"

"She opened a daycare in Johnstown a few months ago. Noah's practically joined the renovation crew, he's on site with me so much."

I imagined Noah in an oversized construction helmet. I forced a small smile and turned away after a moment.

"Are we ever going to be friends again?" Darren asked me from behind. "Because this sucks. This has been the worst year of my life. And I've buried a lot of people in this cemetery over the years." He took a breath and I didn't turn around, tears already streaming down my face. "You're it for me, Ryan. You're all I have left. I'll do anything to take it all back. Tell me what I can do."