I bent down to kiss him on the lips. But they were so awful, so death-ugly , that I changed my mind and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead. I should’ve kissed him on the lips. I would have, if I’d known that goodbye was forever.
And so, sometime around lunchtime on Thursday, while I picked at a peanut paste sandwich and pretended to smile at some kid’s stupid joke in the school yard, Dad died. Later, one of my aunties came and pickedme up early from school. I knew as soon as I heard the school gate clanking that it had happened. I tried not to see Aunty Joan, willed it not to be her, even tried praying again, but she got nearer and nearer until she stood at the classroom door with her eyes swollen, twisting a man’s hanky in her hands. She whispered to Sister in the doorway, dark evil figures against the afternoon sun. Sister kept glancing over at me with a frown, nodding and frowning some more.
Her sensible nun shoes tapped to the front of the classroom.
‘Class,’ she said. ‘I have some bad news. Brian’s father has died. He has to go home.’
I wanted to smash her wrinkly old nun face into the floorboards. She told. I hadn’t told anyone, not even my best mate, Jacko. On purpose. I didn’t want any of them to know. Not until I was ready. Till I’d figured it out. Till I could joke about it so they wouldn’t look at me like I was some kind offreak, which is what they were doing now, their eyes and mouths gaping.
Aunty Joan came over and wrapped her arm around me. I shrugged it off, gathered my stuff and walked out without looking at anyone. I could never go back in there again.
That afternoon the sky turned black just like the bible said it did the day Jesus died. It cracked open with thunder and heavy rain and I stood in the middle of our street until my clothes were soaked, letting the rain hide my tears. Trying to feel real. To get clean again. But I couldn’t clean my insides.
The house was full of aunties and uncles, all talking. There were cakes and biscuits, even some with chocolate, but I wasn’t hungry. I didn’t want treats. I wanted Dad back. And if I couldn’t have that I wanted the house quiet, just me and Mum and Douggie, so I could think. So we could makea circle together and understand that our number had gone from four to three.
But Mum was surrounded by an army of grown ups who wouldn’t let me near her, who kept pouring booze that smelt like Christmas pudding into her glass, lighting her cigarettes, telling me to shush and let my mother be. No one even noticed I was wet.
I couldn’t see Douggie anywhere. Then I glimpsed him hiding under the kitchen table, curled into a ball sucking his thumb. Mum had made him stop doing that ages ago. I got down on my hands and knees on the lino and crawled between the wall of stockinged legs to join him. When I got close I heard him making a funny whimpering sound, like a dog that’s been locked out.
‘Douggie,’ I whispered. ‘Doug?’
He didn’t take the thumb out of his mouth, but he looked at me. He looked so scared that it made me feel brave and I put my hand on his back and patted him a bit.He uncurled then and came to me, tried to bury himself in my puny wet chest.
I’m going to have to look after him. But I don’t know how.
Douggie’s not here today. They said he was too upset to come, too young. Not me though. I’m thirteen. Old enough for a funeral. Old enough to look after everyone. Douggie, and Mum too.
So I can’t jump in after Dad, no matter how much I want to.
Anyway, you never know what might happen. Remember Jesus? He died, but He wasn’t really dead. So I’ll wait.
I’ll wait three days.
I waited three days; I’ve waited three bloody years. God sucks.
About the Author
Teresa Schaeffer is a novelist, screenwriter and film producer who currently resides in Boston, Massachusetts. Her most recent film project, Jack on the Rocks, is coming in the fall/winter of 2012 and other film projects are in
And so, sometime around lunchtime on Thursday, while I picked at a peanut paste sandwich and pretended to smile at some kid’s stupid joke in the school yard, Dad died. Later, one of my aunties came and pickedme up early from school. I knew as soon as I heard the school gate clanking that it had happened. I tried not to see Aunty Joan, willed it not to be her, even tried praying again, but she got nearer and nearer until she stood at the classroom door with her eyes swollen, twisting a man’s hanky in her hands. She whispered to Sister in the doorway, dark evil figures against the afternoon sun. Sister kept glancing over at me with a frown, nodding and frowning some more.
Her sensible nun shoes tapped to the front of the classroom.
‘Class,’ she said. ‘I have some bad news. Brian’s father has died. He has to go home.’
I wanted to smash her wrinkly old nun face into the floorboards. She told. I hadn’t told anyone, not even my best mate, Jacko. On purpose. I didn’t want any of them to know. Not until I was ready. Till I’d figured it out. Till I could joke about it so they wouldn’t look at me like I was some kind offreak, which is what they were doing now, their eyes and mouths gaping.
Aunty Joan came over and wrapped her arm around me. I shrugged it off, gathered my stuff and walked out without looking at anyone. I could never go back in there again.
That afternoon the sky turned black just like the bible said it did the day Jesus died. It cracked open with thunder and heavy rain and I stood in the middle of our street until my clothes were soaked, letting the rain hide my tears. Trying to feel real. To get clean again. But I couldn’t clean my insides.
The house was full of aunties and uncles, all talking. There were cakes and biscuits, even some with chocolate, but I wasn’t hungry. I didn’t want treats. I wanted Dad back. And if I couldn’t have that I wanted the house quiet, just me and Mum and Douggie, so I could think. So we could makea circle together and understand that our number had gone from four to three.
But Mum was surrounded by an army of grown ups who wouldn’t let me near her, who kept pouring booze that smelt like Christmas pudding into her glass, lighting her cigarettes, telling me to shush and let my mother be. No one even noticed I was wet.
I couldn’t see Douggie anywhere. Then I glimpsed him hiding under the kitchen table, curled into a ball sucking his thumb. Mum had made him stop doing that ages ago. I got down on my hands and knees on the lino and crawled between the wall of stockinged legs to join him. When I got close I heard him making a funny whimpering sound, like a dog that’s been locked out.
‘Douggie,’ I whispered. ‘Doug?’
He didn’t take the thumb out of his mouth, but he looked at me. He looked so scared that it made me feel brave and I put my hand on his back and patted him a bit.He uncurled then and came to me, tried to bury himself in my puny wet chest.
I’m going to have to look after him. But I don’t know how.
Douggie’s not here today. They said he was too upset to come, too young. Not me though. I’m thirteen. Old enough for a funeral. Old enough to look after everyone. Douggie, and Mum too.
So I can’t jump in after Dad, no matter how much I want to.
Anyway, you never know what might happen. Remember Jesus? He died, but He wasn’t really dead. So I’ll wait.
I’ll wait three days.
I waited three days; I’ve waited three bloody years. God sucks.
About the Author
Teresa Schaeffer is a novelist, screenwriter and film producer who currently resides in Boston, Massachusetts. Her most recent film project, Jack on the Rocks, is coming in the fall/winter of 2012 and other film projects are in
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