An Unsuitable Season

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. The bright leaves of ember which fluttered and scattered the sidewalks did not suit Mom being gone. Her death had come a season too early. It should have been winter, when the trees were barren and desolate of life; when everything once vibrant was drained of all substance. 

     “You need a jacket?” My little brother Garrett raised an eyebrow. He was always trying to take care of me; it made me feel like an insufficient elder. 

     “No, I’m fine,” I monotoned. I had gotten into the habit of giving short, painless answers; ones that didn’t invite more questions. 

     “Do you want to go somewhere to eat?” Garrett asked--his mouth trying to curve into a smile. "You haven't eaten all day."

     “No, I don’t think so.” 

     His hand wrapped around my shoulder. “I think it’ll cheer us up.”

     The concept of feeling cheery again was unfathomable. In fact, I had never been the cheery type. I didn’t love Christmas or carols; I found them mushy and disingenuous. I was a proficient pessimist and expected the worst from politics and people. So how in the world was I supposed to be cheery now, when someone who was always supposed to be there—wasn’t?

     “I have to get going. I have work to do on the plane," I murmured, opening the trunk of my car and beginning to unload the leftover apple pie and pastries from the event. Mom hated waste, she had hoarded all things food; any molecule which was at all still edible she would store away and give us on another day. 

     “I really think you should take the next couple weeks off,” Garrett frowned. “You should stay with Judy and me for a while.”

     The funeral had been in Maine, Camden; our hometown. It had been a seven-hour flight from California; and I wanted nothing more than to be back home, completely secluded in my studio apartment. Judy and Garrett’s home, which was our Holiday get together location, was a six-bedroom palace. I had always admired the place, but in honesty, I was jealous of how someone five years younger than me with a less competent job could be more successful. 

     “I can't. They're depending on me,” I replied, not being able to meet his eyes. “Besides, I don't want to be a burden.”

     “You wouldn’t be!” Garrett cried, stopping me before I lowered myself into the front seat. “Look; I need you just as much as you need me. You’re really going to just go back to California and pretend like nothing happened?”

     “That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” I said, my voice a little too harsh. I jerked around him; now in front of the steering wheel. 

     “Just delay your flight till this weekend; I’ll pay,” he pleaded; and for a moment, I felt bad for him. His face looked young again; his countenance lacking confidence; his eyes unsure and scared. But before I could truly pity him, I remembered my own condition; and how going home to an empty apartment was much worse than going home to a wife and two happy children. 

    “I can’t. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I land, okay?”  

     That was the way we said goodbye. No hugging or good wishes; not even a pat on the back or a mutual warm expression. I pulled out of the church parking lot and watched my brother's figure disappear in the rearview mirror. 

     I had neither the decency nor the strength to wave a parting hand or turn around and tell him how good it was seeing him, or how much his presence had stopped me from breaking. I wouldn't tell him how his warm glances had got me through the funeral or how his reassuring tone had reminded me so much of Mom's warmness. I wouldn't tell him how much I missed him, and how if he had extended his and Judy's invitation a second time, I would have said yes. I kept driving. 

     Fall's leaves were not sympathetic. They danced around my car like orange and brown butterflies, taking off on their glorious flights to a new beginning. Sometimes they were so eager to lift off the ground that they got stuck in between my wiper blades. 

     I felt my body collapsing when I took the ramp onto the freeway. Every second I was getting farther and farther from my brother, from Maine, and everything that Mom was. The realization of returning to a life and a city I hadn't liked in the first place made me feel as though I was carrying out a life sentence. 

     Call him, I thought. Just call him. Tell him you want to stay. He would be happy about it. 

     I was in the midst of busy traffic now, everyone speeding and switching lanes as if they were on their way to meet with the president. 

     Just do it. Tell him you're not alright.

     But, like you do when you're driving, my mind started drifting to the call, the call that had woke me up from my suburbian California slumber. The one which had brought my attention back to the trees and the way the sky looked, the one which had brought me back to life only to kill me. 

     Garrett had called at three AM. I always left my phone on; I was a diligent employee and had been summoned many times to the office chambers to do some extra filing. I had expected the call to be just like those aforementioned; but as soon as I picked up, as soon as I heard that voice--I knew something was wrong. 

     "Hi, uh--Elijah?"

     "Garrett? What's going on? Why are you calling so late?"

     Silence followed. I could hear every sound of my apartment. The fridge's humming, the clock's ticking, the dripping of the faucet. I asked again. "What's going on?"

     It came out sharp and unbelieving, like a despairing whisper into the night. "Mom's dead." I knew what he wanted to hear. It's not true. You're wrong. You're dreaming. But I could provide no such answer.

     "What?"

     "She died two hours ago. Heart attack." He was crying now, his voice muffled; pathetic sounding. 

     But all I could see was her face; glowing there in the darkness of my room. Her two swirly brown eyes staring into mine, her cheeks playful, her smile optimistic. And then all at once, when my brother spoke again, she disappeared. 

     "Are you--Are you still there?" Garrett sniffled crazily, trying to keep his voice composed. 

     "Yeah,” I whispered, doubtful that he heard it.

     "Are you still there?" Panicked, desperate. I wanted so badly to be able to calm him but all my senses had left me. 

     "Yeah," I tried to amplify my voice. It worked well enough.

     "Are you okay?"

     "I'm fine."

     One week later, I took a flight to Maine. Garrett had begged me to come sooner, but I told him I had work. Work always got me out of things. 

     When Garrett invited me to his wedding in Maine, seven years prior, I told him I have work. I can't get out of it. After just being broken up with by my long time college girlfriend, I wasn't in the mood to see my brother and his perfect woman declare their love. If anything, I hated them for it. It was as if they had picked the date of my heartbreak on purpose; just to parade around their good fortune. 

     When Garrett had his first baby, Delilah, and told me to fly to Camden, I said I have work. I'm sorry. 

     I was a terrible brother. In all aspects, I had failed to be there for Garrett. I had envied his head and heart for too long; had taken pleasure in denying his demands. Mom had always told me that I was bad at making choices. 

     "You're too impulsive," she laughed. It was the last Christmas we had spent together. We had taken a morning walk (we were always the first people up).

      "And too prideful. You make an impulsive decision, and then you're too prideful to take it back. It's a nasty combination" She said it with a smile. 

      I realized, sourly, that I was completing the same cycle all over again. In fifteen minutes I would arrive at the airport. It would have been far easier to keep driving, to take that plane to California, and go back to my dull, colorless life. To not have to deal with Mom through my brother or through all the memories of the town she grew up in. 

     But I thought about her, in those moments. I thought about her power, her bluntness, her reliance in me, and most of all--what seemed like her endless encouragement. She had never ended a call without saying, "I love you, sweetie." She had never left a get together without telling me in some way or another, "I'm proud of you." 

     I got off on the next exit. 

      I'll give you something real to be proud of, Mom, I thought. And then I drove back to Camden.