Disclaimer: I don't own Boy Meets World. Any recognizable dialogue and plot events belong to the episode writers Michael Jacobs, April Kelly, and Gary H. Miller.
A/N: This is in response to a reader challenge I received from Alschein. It basically starts towards the end of S. 6, Ep. 13 "We'll Have a Good Time Then" and then continues the scene that the show cut off. It helps to bridge the gap between that episode and the following one ("Getting Hitched").
"He's been in there a really long time," Shawn said. He sat down in the purple hospital chair right across from Mr. Feeny and Jack.
Mr. Feeny gave him a reassuring smile. "Your dad's a fighter. Besides, he owes me a game of pool."
Shawn knew he was trying to lighten the situation, but it wasn't really helping. It didn't look like it helped Jack either. He was staring off, still clutching that annoyingly festive birthday present. "Hey, you going to open your gift?"
Jack seemed to come out of his daze and looked down at the blue wrapped package in his hands. "Oh, yeah," he sounded distracted. He unwrapped it and pulled the lid off of the white box within, pausing before pulling a picture frame out of it. He turned it around to show the others. "Now that's something I don't have." It was the picture Rachel had taken of Shawn, Jack, and their dad right before the heart attack.
Shawn swallowed hard. The smile on his face in that picture looked just as fake to him now as it had felt at the time the picture was taken.
A balding man in blue scrubs walked out. Shawn rushed over to him. Finally, some news. The expression on the doctor's face didn't bode well. The surgery was long, though. He had to have been tired. That's all it was. It had to be.
Jack was at his side in only a few short seconds.
The doctor looked down before looking between Shawn and his half brother. "We lost him. His heart wasn't strong enough. I'm sorry." He walked away.
Shawn shut his eyelids hard against the tears he felt building. It felt like someone punched him in the gut. Just when it seemed like his dad actually might stay for a change, he had to leave him again. Just like he always did, except this time it was forever.
He sniffled and blinked away the tears. He swiped at the few that rolled down his cheeks.
"I should—I should probably go take care of the arrangements with the staff," Jack said from beside him, always the responsible one—the one who was able to handle things. The one who wasn't a screw up. The one who wasn't turning into their . . . their dad.
Oh, God. He was gone. His dad was . . . .
Shawn felt someone's arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug.
"I'm so sorry, Shawn," Mrs. Matthews said.
Shawn pulled away after only a few short seconds and looked around at all the people who had come here to see his dad and to support him and Jack. They all looked on worriedly. He couldn't deal with this. He didn't know how to deal with this.
"I think I need some fresh air," he said. He headed straight for the elevator doors, pushed the button, brushed off everyone's concern, told all of them he was fine. He knew he wasn't fooling anyone, least of all himself.
He pressed the down arrow a few more times. He just needed everyone to back off. He needed to get out of here. To be alone and just . . . not here. Where was the damn elevator? Did it usually take this long? Forget this. There had to be stairs around here somewhere.
He took long strides down the hallway. He mumbled apologies to everyone he almost ran into in his rush. Somewhere behind him, he could hear Cory calling his name, telling him to wait up. Shawn didn't. He kept going. He needed to do something—anything. He couldn't just stay there with all those people who would tell him they were sorry and ask if he was okay and tell him they were there for him if he needed to talk or needed anything at all and remind him that his dad was . . . .
There was a sign ahead showing a stairwell to his right. Shawn sped up and pushed through the doorway, knowing Cory was still following and trying to catch up but choosing to ignore him.
He was pushing everyone away again. Just like his dad does—did. He really was his fathers' son. He still wasn't sure that was a good thing. Scratch that—he knew that wasn't a good thing.
Was it wrong to be angry with the dead?
Shawn practically leapt down the stairs in his rush to get out of there. He felt like he couldn't breathe or like he would get sick. The sterileness of this place was overwhelming. It wreaked of antiseptic. The bright blue walls seemed out of place. It was like the painters tried to make it cheerful, but they failed. The intended cheerfulness was as fake as all the promises his dad made that he never kept.
The worst part of it was he had actually started to believe his dad again this time. Just like all the other times, though, the promise was shattered beyond repair. This time was a new record. It lasted all of a few minutes before his dad backed out on it.
Except that it hadn't really been his dad's choice to back out this time. Death took the decision out of his hands.
Shawn shoved the door open with way more force than was necessary and breathed in the fresh air gratefully. He slowed down, but kept walking until he was far enough away from the building for his own comfort. He hated that place.
The last twenty-four hours played over and over in his mind in an unending loop stuck on fast forward. His relationship with his dad sucked. There was no denying that. He was still so angry with him for constantly leaving even when he promised he wouldn't—even when Shawn told him time and again he wanted him to stay . . . that he needed him. Why did he have to finally let all of that anger explode so much in his dad's final hours? He'd been pretending for years. Why couldn't he have just kept pretending for a little while longer? Maybe then he could have had at least a few more good memories to balance out the bad. Maybe then he wouldn't have had that horrible moment when he realized his dad had heard what Shawn thought of him. Maybe then his dad never would have had the heart attack in the first place.
His dad said it, after all. It was Shawn's yelling at him that caused it. It had stung at the time—yet another reminder of their lousy father-son relationship. It stung even more now. What if there was something to that? Could he have been the cause of that?
"I would ask how you're doing, but I guess that's a pretty stupid question," Cory's voice broke through Shawn's guilt.
"I'm fine," Shawn said out of habit. He couldn't look at Cory, though. The dam he had keeping his fragile emotional state somewhat in check would break if he did. If he didn't look at anyone, he could pretend everything was fine—that this was all just a bad dream—that he was really fine because there was nothing to actually be upset about because it wasn't real. The sheer concern and sorrow he knew he would find in Cory's and the others' faces would make it real. He couldn't handle that.
Besides, as his dad said, he hadn't been good enough for Shawn, and Shawn was his father's son. Guess that meant he wasn't good enough for all the people in his life either.
He didn't want to be his dad, though. He knew he was turning into him and he hated that. He loved his dad, despite how angry he was at him, but he didn't want to be him even in the slightest.
He was him right now, though. The sheer act of pushing everyone he cared about away—of trying to run away from them—was exactly what his dad had always done.
He was so screwed up, and the one person he thought might be able to help him left him alone again.
Shawn noticed Cory still standing there from out of the corner of his eye. Well . . . not completely alone.
Maybe making the choice to change was all it would take to stop this downward spiral he was on. God, he hoped so.
He turned towards Cory—his best friend, his family . . . closer family to him than anyone who was actually related to him.
Cory was looking right back at him when he did. Patience wasn't usually a virtue he associated with him, but Cory seemed to exhibit that in full now. Shawn was unbelievably grateful his friend waited for him to be ready rather than try to push him like he normally would—like he was sure his friend wanted to. His face was full of concern and worry and sympathetic—and maybe even some personal—sorrow.
"You can say you're fine all you want, but you and I both know it's not true," Cory said. "There's nothing wrong with being upset. I mean, your dad just died." His voice cracked a bit on the last word. Shawn swallowed the lump quickly forming in his throat, making it impossible to reply. "Actually," Cory continued, "I'd be more worried if you weren't. Don't get me wrong, I'm worried about you regardless, it's just—"
"I know what you mean." Shawn took a deep breath in and out in an attempt to keep the sobs he felt building at bay. "I'm still so angry at him. It's horrible. I know I shouldn't be, but I am. How could he leave me like that? Again. After promising he would stick around. Again. How could he?" His body was wracked with sobs. Tears streamed down his cheeks. "How could he d—?" He couldn't even choke the word out.
He felt Cory pull him into a hug and awkwardly pat him on the back in an attempt to comfort him. "I don't know, Shawn. I don't know."
Shawn didn't know how long he stayed like that—crying in his friend's arms. It didn't matter that guys weren't supposed to hug one another. It just mattered that he was a broken mess and he had someone who cared about him willing to be there to support him and help him through it.
Shawn never did go back up into the hospital. He couldn't. Jack had everything covered so there was no real need to do so. Cory understood and went back in to let the others know not to wait for him. Everyone offered their condolences and support when they came outside to leave as well.
He didn't know how to act around Jack. His half-brother was almost as awkward about it as Shawn was. So, for now, Shawn just chose not to deal with it. Jack may be related to him, but he was much closer with almost everyone else there than he was with him. Jack had Eric and Rachel to help him through this. They'd be more help than someone who was barely family.
The rest of that day and the next few that followed were a blur. Shawn walked around in a fog. None of it seemed real. His dad was hardly ever around even when he was still alive, so it was just like normal almost. It was too easy to believe his dad was still off on the road somewhere chasing fantasies like he always was. That made way more sense than the truth. Every time it seemed like he was convinced that's all it was, that what really happened was nothing more than a bad dream, someone would say they were sorry or Jack would call and try to talk about the viewing and funeral arrangements and reality would come crashing back down on him.
They chose to only have their dad laid out one day. The listing for his obituary would only be in the local paper, and there was only a small number of people who would come pay their respects in the area—just Shawn, Jack, the Matthews, Mr. Feeny, Rachel, and the half of the trailer park that had known and liked his dad. He dimly wondered if any of the many cops his dad had gotten to know over the years from speeding tickets and stuff would come.
The viewing itself was awkward. He just had to stand there in the stuffy room next to Jack with his dad's open casket. The mortician did a good job fixing up his dad, except for the fact that his dad didn't even look that recognizable. He knew it was him, but it didn't look like him. He didn't know if that made it better or worse.
Cory, Topanga, Angela, Eric, and Rachel had stuck around for most of the time for moral support even though they didn't have to. The rest of the Matthews and Mr. Feeny stayed for a while when they came. The Hunter clan was all hit or miss. Some of the ones not in jail did come—like Uncle Mike and Aunt Loraina—but others were no shows. Eddie was among those who didn't bother to come. Whether that was because he was in jail or simply didn't want to come was anybody's guess, but Shawn didn't really care. He hadn't looked forward to seeing his other half-brother again, anyways.
He could just see it—Eddie showing up and Jack somehow finding out that this was another half-brother of theirs (from a different mother still from both Shawn and Jack). Some family tree they had. Of course Jack would go on about how great it was and how he wanted to get to know him. Yeah. Shawn and Jack may not be close, but at least they could get along. Jack and Eddie were about as likely to get along as a shark and a fish—Eddie of course being the shark.
The funeral was the morning after the viewing. Most of the people who came to the viewing came to the funeral as well. They filled maybe half the room. His dad was never one to go to church, so they just held it at the funeral home.
Jack delivered the eulogy. He had tried to get Shawn to do it. Shawn hadn't wanted any parts of it. What was he supposed to say about a man who was a lousy father who kept abandoning his kid?
The request had kept eating away at Shawn, though, ever since Jack asked. He finally decided he should say something at the funeral—that he needed to say something—the night before, but he hadn't told anyone except for the funeral director.
Shawn ignored the surprised looks from everyone when he was called forward to say what he had to say. He just pulled the folded up piece of paper out of his pocket and went to the podium.
"I know I said before that I didn't want to say anything here because, despite having more time with him than Jack, I still don't feel like I really knew him, but I also feel like I owe it to him to say something, so here goes . . . ." Shawn attempted to smooth the paper down on the polished wooden surface. "One thing about dad was he was never very good about being consistent. He'd constantly keep changing his mind about things, like what he wanted to do or even where he wanted to be. I think that's why he could make a promise to stick around one minute and be on the road traveling to someplace else the next. There was one thing that he was always consistent about, though. He always dreamed big. Over the years I've heard him joke about how he was responsible for the invention of the microwave and CNN, though he referred to it as Chet's News Network. I don't know what it actually stands for, but I'm betting that's not it. The few times he called when he was on the road, he was always telling me about all these great experiences he had, like spending time in the White House and getting to fly on Air Force One, touring with Aerosmith as the band's personal assistant, visiting the Pope in the Vatican. He even told me once that the Queen of England knighted him. They were all just stories. I think he thought he needed to impress me or something. What he never realized was he didn't need to try that hard. All he had to do was just be there—be my dad. Stick around for a while. Since he wasn't there, he tried to make up for it with his imagination."
Shawn tried to swallow the lump in his throat. It was harder and harder to talk by the second. "So, wherever you are, dad, I hope it's just as grand as all those stories you used to tell me. We didn't have the best relationship, but I still love you dad. I just wanted you to know that."
He folded the paper and shoved it back in his pocket before going back to his seat. Angela put her arm around him as soon as he did. He didn't feel any better after saying all of that. He didn't feel worse either. He just was. His little speech could be described the same way as his relationship with his dad—disappointing and not nearly enough. He and everyone else should have just expected that by now. After all, he was his father's son.