Lucas

The strangest part about death is our inability to fathom its finality. Even as we understand that death will someday come for us all, it’s still hard to wrap one’s mind around the idea that a person—who once had a home, a family, and a place in society—can cease to exist. All the threads that connected them to this world cut in an instant, leaving behind fragmented pieces of a former life.

According to the therapist, Uncle George forced us to see, our burden now is to pick up what remains of those jagged remnants, so we can keep their memory alive and use those pieces to build a future without them. But how? How are we supposed to go on when, just six days ago, they were as essential to our well-being as the air we breathe? How is one expected to pick up those damn pieces when, with each attempt, the jagged edges cut through the flesh of your heart?

Dropping my head to my arms, I fight back the tears I refuse to let fall. I deserve this. The pain. The anguish. The guilt that’s got me wasting away like a parasite desperate to consume its host. After what I’ve done, sitting here absorbing the burn in my throat, in my eyes, in my fucking chest, this is how I honor them. My version of picking up the remnants of their lives by depicting and enduring every bit of the pain they may have felt at the end. This is my penance.

Handshake. 

“Your parents were the most wonderful people. I’m so sorry for your loss. If you kids need anything, and I mean anything, please stop by and see me.”

Nod, and then, “Thank you for coming.”

Handshake.

“Oh, my dear boy, I’m so, so sorry for your loss. Your mother was the most amazing woman and your father… God did he love her.”

Nod, and then, “Thank you for coming.”

And round and round it went. For hours, my sister and I stood together, forced to endure everyone else’s pain. Their tears. Their pitying stares. Meaningless platitudes and well-meaning words that did nothing but fan our grief into a raging inferno.

Embree’s dad, our self-proclaim sentinel, stood by our side through the funeral service and burial. Amid tragedy, the meek and unassuming man morphed into a watchful and fierce protector. As he promised, he spent the week sharing in our grief, and walking us through the endless maze of coordinating my parent’s “end-of-life celebration.” That’s what the funeral director called it, but based on the somber mood of those in attendance, nothing about today felt like a celebration.

Leaning my head back against the brick wall, I look up toward the bright blue sky. White fluffy clouds hang above, as a bird of prey glides through the air in a circular pattern. The treetops, heavy with the green leaves of summer, sway in the breeze, emitting the swishing calm that not long ago would have filled me with a sense of peace. Today though—the surrounding beauty, the tranquility that coats the air—it does nothing but stoke the rage and resentment I have toward a universe that continues to turn even as my world has stopped spinning.

Then, as if that cruel realization wasn’t enough, the flowery scent of the rose bushes takes me back to that god-awful moment when Jenny and I said our final goodbyes.

It was Uncle George’s idea. The plan was to give Jenny and me a few minutes alone with our parents and, given how lost we felt, neither of us knew whether to agree or object. Regardless, nothing could have prepared us for the sight of two mahogany caskets displayed at the front of the room. The smiling faces of our parents sat upon easels behind each of the caskets to identify where they lay. Not even the white blooms that cascaded like a blanket over the top of the caskets were enough to hide the wreckage that’s now our reality. A reality that slammed into us violently. Mercilessly, to the point, all we could do was weep.

It made everything real. Until that moment, there was a part of us that refused to believe they were gone. Refused to believe that our lives, along with the stability we knew, had crumbled under our feet. It broke me. Especially as I watched my sister fall apart. I did this to her, and as unfathomable as it is, there’s nothing I can do to fix it. Because of me, her future, her hopes and dreams, and every opportunity that a week ago was guaranteed is forever and irrevocably changed. 

And then there’s Embree. Since the night of the fire, the same night I declared my love for her and vowed to put her first, I’ve done the opposite. Less than an hour. That’s how long we had before the bubble I’d so callously assumed was our destiny, exploded in a fireball of guilt and misery. My decisions that night set off a chain of events that destroyed everything I loved, and now every time I look at her, that is all I see. Death. Grief. Guilt.

I regret everything about that night and based on the sadness hidden behind those whiskey eyes, it’s obvious she knows. It’s why I avoid her gaze. Why I’m back to using my grief-stricken sister as a buffer. Keeping Jenny between us under the guise she needs us both to get through this, when really, I just can’t bear the high cost of everything I’ve lost, including her. My Embree. There’s no coming back from this. At least not for us.

At the sound of voices coming out onto the back deck, I freeze. Tucking my legs closer to my chest, I slow my breaths, determined to remain hidden away. By the time we got back for the reception, I’d had enough and couldn’t handle not one more I’m sorry or heartfelt condolence. It’s why I snuck away the minute I had the chance.

“I’m sorry to come by unannounced, especially with everything happening today, but I’m afraid this conversation couldn’t wait.”

“That’s all right. We can spare a few minutes.” Embree’s dad tells the woman whose voice I don’t recognize.

“Mr. and Mrs. Preston, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’m going to come right out with it. As you know, the Holt’s estate plan didn’t include guardianship instructions for the children in the event of both of their deaths. As such, Lucas and Jennifer Holt are now wards of the state. Though your temporary guardianship over them has been approved, I’m afraid that given your health situation, Mr. Holt, the state can’t approve permanent placement…”

“Now, wait a minute. Why the hell not? These children have been in our lives almost from day one. They’ve been raised alongside our daughter, in the only town they’ve ever known, and you’re telling me the state doesn’t see us fit to continue raising them?” Uncle George’s voice is taut with tension, and as the words settle into my brain with the grace of an explosion, tremors rattle through my body.

“The state is aware of your close relationship with these children, and if circumstances were different, your request for guardianship wouldn’t be an issue. But Mr. Holt, your prognosis is six months. I don’t mean to be insensitive, but your cancer is terminal and your wife… well, Mrs. Holt, the state has concerns over your ability to afford three children on your own.”

Everything goes eerily quiet. The unspoken question hangs heavy in the air as we wait for Aunt Muriel’s answer. That she doesn’t respond is barely a blip in my awareness. Instead, my mind is stuck on the words terminal cancer and six-month prognosis.

“No…” I whisper, my head shaking in utter disbelief as tears fall fast and furious down my face. How can this be? After losing my parents, after all the assurances he made to help Jenny and me through the grief, how could he be dying?

“So what’s the appeal process, and what does it mean for these kids in the meantime?” Uncle George’s voice projects every bit of the fierce protector he’s become since our world came crashing down, but it’s what I don’t hear him say that sends waves of dread and betrayal crashing over me. He knew. Six days ago, when he comforted me and made promises to be there as he begged I put my trust in him, he knew. He fucking knew he was dying and still, he made those impossible promises.

“So you still want to pursue guardianship?” The woman asks sounding surprised.

“Yes, Miss McKee. We’re still pursuing guardianship of these children, and while I may not have much time left, I assure you I will use every bit of that time, and every resource at my disposal to make sure these kids stay here, where they belong. So, again. How do we appeal, and what happens to them in the meantime?”

“I’ll submit the appeal on your behalf, and the children can remain in your care while it’s under review. However, please understand the chance of both these children remaining under your care is a tough sell for the state. One child, maybe, but both? Under the circumstances, I don’t see the state reversing its decision.”

“We’ll see about that,” Uncle George challenges.

“Mr. Preston, please understand that all decisions made by the state are based on what’s best for the children.”

“I’m happy to hear it. So, if the state revokes our guardianship, then what? Where do they go?” The woman hesitates, and Uncle George scoffs. “That’s what I thought. So explain it to me, Miss McKee, how is sending a 17 and 16-year-old into the foster care system what’s best, hmm? How could anyone who advocates for children deem foster care the most suitable option over a home and life they’re already accustomed to?”

Foster care? And just like that, all hope that at least some part of our lives would remain intact disappears.

“I get your frustration. I do. And if it were my call, I would never consider removing these children from your care. But I have no power here other than making a recommendation which I already submitted. I’ll submit the appeal and again, recommend to the powers that be that it’s in the best interest of the children that they remain here. I just can’t make any promises. In the end, it may not be enough.”

“You said we could keep one of them?” Aunt Muriel voices out of nowhere.

“No. I said possibly, but to be honest, separating siblings…”

“If that’s our only option, then so be it. Lucas is what, seven months away from turning 18? He’d only be in the system for a short time…”

“Absolutely not, Muriel!” Uncle George roars. “We are not sending either of these kids into the system in hopes the short stint in foster care won’t do permanent damage. I won’t allow it. Never. And you should be ashamed of yourself for even suggesting it.”