~chapter five~

august

If there's anything worse than summer in St. Louis, it's the sweltering midway between summer and autumn in St. Louis. The start of the soccer season is the worst part of the season. When all the practices are straight conditioning. Stretches. Running a mile in ten minutes. Drills. Two more miles. Drills. Two miles. Stretches.

I'm drenched and overheated by the time we're done and Mom meets me in the car park with a bottle of water and a sports drink. "No hugs," she tells me, handing me the bottles. "At least not till you shower."

I slide into my seat, gulping down the rest of my water before starting on the one she brought. She rolls the window down and turns the air-con up. I stick my head out and let the hot wind slap against my face.

We sit with a CD playing. Taylor Swift. One of Dad's old CDs. Mom doesn't like Taylor Swift. It was Dad who had the Taylor Swift, Fearless, Speak Now, and Red albums in his room and saved on his phone. It was Mom who liked Jimi Hendrix and Led Zepplin and the Arctic Monkeys.

He's everywhere.

I'm not sure if Mom does it to keep him in our lives or if it's some messed up coping mechanism of hers. She uses men's soap– the same kind I'm sure he used– and she's always wearing something of his. Whether it be a hat or socks or a t-shirt. Like she's carrying him with her.

Sometimes, when she hugs me, I imagine it's him. When she tells me she's proud of me or cheers for me during games, I imagine it's him. The man who gave me my Y chromosome, the one who gave me my eyes and my hair and height. The one whose grave we visit every year on September 21.

We pull into the cemetery, the car rolling to a stop. The car was his too. Mom parks and climbs out. I follow suit.

She opens the boot and takes out a blanket and our dinner: cold chicken salad and cut vegetables. Bread and two cans of Coke.

I take the blanket and follow her through the maze of grave markers. Morbidly, as a kid, I used to read the names and make up stories of how they died.

Riley Fitch: Poisoned.

Kelly Corlew: Shot.

Xavier Johnson: Stabbed.

Emily Robertson: Drowned.

Phineas Smith: Car accident.

I knew people died, as a kid. People die in books all the time but it was always a vague sort of thing. Their deaths were always so gallant. They died in meaningful, impactful ways. They died for their loved ones, for values, for a rebellion, for a war.

My father, like most everybody in the real world, died not with a bang but a whisper. A whisper that brushed past the world's ears. A whisper that didn't impact any lives except ours.

"Hi, Finny," Mom whispers. She always whispers around Dad's headstone. Because, really, that's all it was. A stone. His body wasn't in the ground. He had been cremated.

Mama didn't want to bury a body.

"I brought Auggie."

I shuffle awkwardly on my feet. I think of the boy in all the photographs. That's what he was: a boy. He hadn't even turned nineteen when it happened. "Hi," I say.

I spread the blanket out.

We sit.

Mom makes me a sandwich.

She talks.

"Auggie finished soccer practice today. He's got the same coach as you." She laughs. "Coach Wilson. He pulled me aside during the first practice. Said, 'He's a good kid. Looks a lot like his dad.'"

There weren't a lot of people around who knew who Dad was. Most of the people from their high school moved away or to bigger places. And it wasn't like we lived in some small town where everybody knows everyone and remembers every freak accident. Just some neighbourhood in St. Louis.

I eat my sandwich quietly. I let Mom talk.

I don't like talking to him during these visits. I'm not sure how. I never knew the guy. He's a stranger to me. It's Mom who finds comfort in these visits. But I'm not sure if it's even comfort she finds. She goes into a Dark Age after these visits. Mama and I have to keep an eye on her until we can finally drag her out of it.

Mama and Grandma join us around 6. They bring with them the small vanilla sponge that Grandma had spent the day baking and icing. We eat it with plastic forks. They talk to Dad's headstone. You'd think I'd be able to learn more about him during these visits but it's really about Mom and The Grandmothers telling Dad about our lives.

"We've started the pastel unit," Mama informs him.

"She comes home every day with smudged fingers and blue-streaked cheeks," Mom adds.

Grandma sits quietly, like me, listening.

It ends like it always does.

Night falls.

Grandma and I get up and pack all of our stuff away.

We leave Mom and Mama to put it all in our cars.

They come back, their faces red, arms wrapped around each other.

They drive us home.

They say these visits help them. That it reminds them that he was actually there.

But I don't think it does.

I think it breaks them more.

I think it reminds them that he isn't here.