Why Didn't You?

Three years had passed since I last saw Matthew.

I remember the last day we were together quite vividly. It was a sweltering hot afternoon in June, a few weeks before he was supposed to leave for Notre Dame. The faint scent of freshly cut grass filled the air, along with the sound of cicadas buzzing nearby. The trees swayed gently, but the breeze did nothing to cool me. I tried to fan myself with my hands, but beads of sweat dripped down my back anyway.

Bethel Baptist was the only Southern Baptist church in the town. Calder County was one of the few Southern areas that had more ABC stores than churches, where liquor mattered more than God.

I’d imagine Bethel Baptist once stood proudly, but the years had eroded it. Ivy climbed up the chipped white paint, the ceiling was caving in, and most of the Bibles were mildewed, and some had pages torn out.

The only thing still treated with an ounce of respect was the cemetery behind the church. That’s where we stood.

We were asked not to attend the funeral, but that didn’t stop Matthew from coming the next day. They hadn’t taken down the green tent or removed the velvet green chairs. There was a program caught beneath one of the chairs, half-soaked from the rain that had passed through overnight. I picked it up and almost gagged when I saw the picture on the cover.

Matthew knelt before the fresh mound of dirt, tears dripping silently onto the soil. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, cupping some of the dirt in his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

We stayed like that for a few hours. I stood behind him, careful not to get too close. He just stayed on his knees, either unable or unwilling to get up.

Back then, I thought faith would hold him together. Matthew grew up with God in his house.

They prayed to Him before meals, before bed, whenever they wanted to, really. Every Wednesday and Sunday, they went to Mass. Matthew took confession seriously; he went whenever he made a mistake, which was often.

A few days after the accident, I asked if he had been praying. He was slumped over his dad's leather armchair, head between his knees. He didn’t answer me. He barely even acknowledged that I was there.

“I can pray with you,” I offered, even though I stopped believing in God when I was thirteen. He still hadn’t said anything, so I walked to the armchair, got on my knees, and took his hands in mine.

“Heavenly Father,” I started, unsure of where to go from there. “Please watch over Matthew as he—”

“You’re not supposed to talk to God,” he snapped, ripping his hands from mine. “You don’t even believe in Him. Why do you care?” He pushed himself off the armchair, towering over me. “You’re going to hell anyway.”

He had stomped upstairs, leaving me sitting on the cold hardwood floor, helplessly watching as he walked away. He slammed his bedroom door so loudly that the house rattled, making me jump.

I stayed on the floor long after he left, hoping ‘God’ might speak to me.

He didn’t.

I haven’t prayed since, not even standing at her grave. Matthew kept his eyes closed, repeating the Sign of the Cross over and over.

“Matthew,” I sighed. “We have to go.”

He didn’t move; his hands stayed planted in the earth. I walked up slowly behind him, placed a hand on his back, and began tracing circles.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I whispered.

He turned to look at me for the first time in hours. His cheeks were stained with tears, his lips trembled as he said, “Of course it was my fault. A girl is dead because of me.”

“She was drunk,” I said, my voice barely steady. “She ran through the median, Matthew. You couldn’t have done anything.”

He shook his head, snot dripping from his nose. “She had a graduation gown in the backseat.”

I blinked.

“It was still wrapped in plastic. She was supposed to graduate this weekend, like we were.”

“How do you know that?” I asked, dropping my hand from his back.

“Her dad told me,” he replied. “She was going to be a nurse.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

He wiped his nose before turning back to the grave. “We drove separately. Why don’t you just go?” he bit out.

So I did.

I stopped at the edge where grass met gravel, turning back to look at him. He was still kneeling in that same position, his blonde hair matted with sweat. I heard his cries grow louder as I walked away, like he could finally grieve now that I had left.

Even then, I remember standing there and feeling like the most selfish person in the world. I was worried about the future of my relationship, and someone had just buried their daughter.

That was the last time I saw him until today.

We stopped talking after that day, but I kept up with our mutual friends just to ask about him.

“How’s Matt?” I’d ask our friend Lizzy after exchanging pleasantries about our own lives, pretending it was a casual question.

“He’s good,” she would say. “He’s having fun at Notre Dame.”

I wonder if she intentionally withheld the truth from me, or if she didn’t know that he was popping pills like candy.

I’m holding up the line, and I need to move, but my legs are frozen in place. They chose a beautiful oak casket, but I wish they had chosen the blue tie; it would’ve brought out the blue in his eyes. Though I suppose that doesn’t matter now.

He looks peaceful. His dark eyelashes rest on his pale skin, as if he fell asleep. The same way he used to look when we would lie on the couch together. His arm would wrap around my back, and I’d rest my head on his warm chest, listening as he breathed in and out.

I tighten my grip on the casket as I lean down. “We used to be so good, don’t you remember?” I whisper, a tear sliding down my nose. I place a kiss on his forehead and force myself to walk away.

I suffer through the funeral, trying not to cry when they play Amazing Grace—his favorite hymn. He used to hum it on his way to church, and then on the way home.

I don’t stay for the reception, I drive home instead. I don’t listen to music on the drive; I just keep my hands wrapped tightly on the wheel. As I drive, I imagine meeting God.

I’d ask Him, “Why didn’t you do enough to help him?”

He would scoff, spit at my feet, and say, “Why didn’t you?”