Chapter 30: The day after dad's funeral

Grayson sits on his red oak leather chair, its familiar musky scent lifting into the air as he settles onto it. He was in his favorite place in the entire world. A place where time stood still, where nothing external could affect him; not people, not his job as a cop, not his countless meaningless flings, not even a stormy day. His reading room. 

When he had saved just enough for a down payment for an apartment, he bought the furniture for that room before even buying himself a bed. He spent months carefully choosing the cedar wood that would form his shelves that would then perfectly match the singular leather couch he’d place right at the center of the room. Every wall had rows and rows of shelves, from the floor all the way to the ceiling. It was like being wrapped up by books and it was his personal form of heaven. 

Grayson closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath, his tense shoulders drooping the more he empties his lungs. He opens his eyes and they fall onto the mysterious manuscript that he had found in his mailbox early that morning. 

He’d spent all day thinking about it. 

Today was quite possibly one of Grayson’s busiest, most difficult days of his thirty year old life. His father’s funeral. Grayson Senior had passed away a week ago; pulmonary embolism. The entire family always assumed he would die of something lung-related due to his excessive chain-smoking habit but when the news came that the old man was unresponsive in a hospital bed after a severe coughing fit, the shock that he felt was so severe that Grayson was unable to get out of bed for four straight hours.

So the entire day had been spent in a funeral home surrounded by his heartbroken younger sister, his impossibly calm, might-blow-up-any-second mother, his energetic and surprisingly chipper uncles, and a seemingly endless crowd of people who claimed to have known Grayson’s father very intimately (which was weird in and of itself since he didn’t even know his grumpy dad was capable of having an intimate friendship). Needless to say, it was a long, arduous day and to not lose his head entirely, Grayson focused on the book that he had discovered that morning which was patiently waiting for him in his reading room back at home.

Now randomly receiving this book in his mailbox was not as weird as it could be for other people. Grayson was involved in a buddy-book community in which its members would send and receive books monthly. It was simple: send a book, receive a book. What was weird was that Grayson hadn’t yet finished the book he was currently reading, so there must’ve been some system error in which a book was sent to him even though he hadn’t yet mailed one of his own. 

The book. It was an average sized book of maybe four hundred pages, clad in a dark red leather. It was eerily similar to the leather of his chair. Funny. Both the front and back covers were completely blank. Grayson had read enough books in his lifetime to know not to judge a book by its cover but…a completely coverless book? No title, no author name, nothing? It was hard not to judge. He opens to the front page and the first words that greet him leave him completely breathless:

Mom didn’t cry today, did she? She never does. No matter how many times we revisit the day of dad’s funeral, mom never cries. 

But don’t worry, she will by the end of this book. 

You wore the gray suit today, didn’t you? Little joke just between you and dad. Grayson, the gray son, wearing gray on his dad’s funeral. Funny. 

I’ve been waiting to send you this. I hope I got the address right, my memory’s suffered a bit throughout the years. If you’re not who I think you are, well then, I guess: Hi stranger, enjoy this definitely boring nonfiction story.

I think I got it right though. In that case:

Hi Gray. 

Grayson feels as if his whole nervous system has just stopped working. He can’t feel his heartbeat, his chest is failing to rise and fall with his short breaths, his fingertips can’t feel the cool leather of the book anymore. He’s gone numb. 

Grayson flips the book closed again and squints at the leather binding it together. He frowns as he nears the book to his face, as if bringing it closer would somehow reveal words he hadn’t seen before. He opens the book once more, the two last words of the first page seeming to have grown, stretching far and out to invade his personal space. 

Hi Gray.

Grayson tosses the book onto the table in front of him as if it has burned him. He stares at it in disbelief and rubs his eyes in frustration. He was tired, he needed to get some sleep. This entire week had been sleepless for him. Maybe the insomnia was finally getting to his head. He stands up without casting another glance at the splayed out book and heads off to his bedroom. 

He wakes up the next day with a start. He’d dreamt of that cryptic book all night. Maybe he’d just dreamt of it entirely. He checks the time: 7:05am. A breath of relief flows out of him, he’d slept all night. Today would be a good day. Grayson was a routine-guy. He was a creature of habit who liked to relive the same day over and over again, it made him feel at peace, in control. 

He gets out of bed and neatly makes it. He goes to the bathroom, splashes cold water on his face, brushes his teeth, doesn’t stare at his reflection in the mirror. He changes out of his pajamas and tucks them neatly behind his pillow. Dresses into a comfortable, loose pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Rolls deodorant on under his shirt, sprays some cologne on himself. 

He turns his coffee maker on, grabs his phone and calls his mother. 

“Hi baby.” Her sweet voice answers on the second ring. 

“Hey beautiful. How’d you sleep?” 

Their conversations over the phone always started the same way. Even a week after his father’s death. “God not great at all. You know that horrible woman who moved next door to me? Well it seems that she’s invited her entire extended family over to stay with her and they’ve been yelling in some foreign language all damn morning.” Grayson turns his phone onto speaker and places his phone on the counter as he listens to his mom’s routine ranting. 

He pours himself some coffee, his mother’s exasperated voice echoing across his red-bricked kitchen. “She’s foreign? I thought she was from California.” He says a little absentmindedly as he pours thick honey into his coffee. He twirls it around with a tiny silver spoon slowly. 

“Ohhh she’s born and raised in California but that family of hers is definitely not from here. What’s that language where people say Dios mío? That’s what she said to me the night your father collapsed.”  

Grayson chuckles. “That’s Spanish, mom.” She goes off into another rant. 

Grayson grabs the phone and his coffee mug and walks over to his favorite chair. He sits down and then his eyes catch onto the red leather book on his table. The world comes to a halt all over again. He can’t even hear his mother’s chattering anymore. With trembling hands, Grayson sets the mug down and slowly lifts the book off the table. It’s open to the second page which reads:

Chapter 30: The day after dad’s funeral 

He wakes up the next day with a start. He’d dreamt of that cryptic book all night. Maybe he’d just dreamt of it entirely. He checks the time: 7:05am. A breath of relief flows out of him, he’d slept all night. Today would be a good day. Grayson was a routine-guy. He was a creature of habit who liked to relive the same day over and over again, it made him feel at peace, in control. 

He gets out of bed and neatly makes it. He goes to the bathroom, splashes cold water on his face, brushes his teeth, doesn’t stare at his reflection in the mirror. He changes out of his pajamas and tucks them neatly behind his pillow. Dresses into a comfortable, loose pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Rolls deodorant on under his shirt, sprays some cologne on himself. 

“Jesus fucking christ.” Grayson gasps out. His mother’s voice halts suddenly. 

“Grayson for God’s sake do not use the Lord’s name in vane. How many times have I told you that?” Grayson’s widened eyes slowly shift over to his phone. 

“I have to go mom, I’ll call you later.” Her complained reply is abruptly interrupted as he ends the call.

Grayson proceeds to read over the first chapter. It described everything that had just happened. As if someone were watching him and actively narrating his life. And then it goes onto what the rest of day would’ve looked like had he not found the book. He flips through page after page obsessively. Details of his day being read to him like he was some made up character of a very boring author. 

Someone who knew him very well was writing about him. Was it a joke? What kind of person would play a sick joke like that after his father just died? 

Grayson’s eyes move rapidly across the pages of the book, details of a future life that apparently belonged to him jumping out at him: Chapter 33: Finally get that job; Chapter 41: Maybe true love is real; Chapter 46: Let’s get a dog; Chapter 50: Sissy’s shotgun wedding; Chapter 58: Mom gives us a scare.

He keeps reading through the book with a velocity he didn’t even think possible. He was glued to his reading chair, his coffee gone cold, his entire apartment seemed to be holding its breath as he immersed himself into the book. Every chapter title seemed to be connected to the age he was supposed to be at that point in the story.

Then, partway through reading a segment about how he was upset he’d let himself gain so much weight after meeting María (who?), he remembers something from the very first page of the book. 

Mom didn’t cry today, did she? She never does. No matter how many times we revisit the day of dad’s funeral, mom never cries. 

But don’t worry, she will by the end of this book.

Grayson lets out a troubled breath and flips the book over to its final page. 

Chapter 63: The big C word

Grayson got the results back today. They were positive. And not in the optimistic sense of the word but in the your doctor calls you into his office for a serious talk and reveals to you that you have metastatic lung cancer. In other words, your lungs have gone to rot and you have very few months, years if you’re lucky, to live. You’ve never smoked a day in your life. And here you thought you were nothing like your father. Funny. 

Grayson shuts the book closed with an audible gasp and stares at it with wide, frightened eyes. It’s dark red leather gleams back at him tauntingly. He swallows and stays frozen there for what seems like an eternity. He closes his eyes briefly and lets out a short breath. 

He stands up, grabs the book and goes outside, putting it back in his mailbox. He goes back into his apartment and walks to his reading room, grabbing the mug of coffee and walking to the kitchen. He pours the stale coffee down the drain and turns the coffee maker on. He dials his mom’s number. 

She answers on the second ring, “Hi baby.” 

“Hey beautiful. How’d you sleep?”