"Mother"
Chapter Two
It had been two weeks since his mother's death, and Don had held himself together through it all—the funeral, the burial, the obligatory visits from well-meaning friends and relatives, endless dishes of kugel. He had watched his father retreat further and further into himself just as Charlie was starting to open up, and seeing it broke his heart. He was used to counting on Alan's sparkle, the love of life that somehow emanated from his face, and the warm sound of pure contentment that came with his low chuckle. But now, the sparkle was gone. In its place, Alan's eyes had become dull and vacant, given to staring off at nothing in particular for minutes at a time without blinking, until they watered. Don wouldn't have minded so much if they watered from sadness, if his father let his grief out through his tears, but since the funeral he had not seen Alan cry. He wasn't sure what stage of grief this technically was, but it didn't take a psych major to recognize the signs of depression. Alan barely got out of bed anymore, sleeping until two or three in the afternoon and then only sitting in his La-Z-boy in his robe and slippers until one of his sons called him to the table for dinner. All of his desire to be part of the world seemed to have left along with Margaret.
On the other hand, Charlie had really been coming around. Don had helped him through his shock, his sadness, and his anger, and now he was trying to be there for Charlie as he tried to get back to his normal life. In some cruelly ironic way, their mother's death had actually brought the two brothers closer together. They had gotten into the habit lately of meeting up at the end of the day just to talk or watch movies. On nights when Don's work kept him from coming by, both men felt the other's absence keenly. They had become friends.
But now, fourteen days after his mother's death, Don was suddenly, inexplicably, feeling his world crumble around him. He didn't understand why, but each day was becoming more difficult than the next. He went to work, he did his job the same as always, and he watched over his family as best he could. But when he was alone and no one was there to see it, he would start to think about her and not be able to stop. Tears would stream down his face even though he was silent, standing still at the window, looking down to the garden below. He would stand like that for an hour sometimes, in the middle of the night, unable to sleep and unwilling to make the long drive back to his own apartment, just repeating over and over in his mind, "I miss you." He hadn't had any trouble returning to work after her death—in fact, although he was entitled to a compassionate leave, he didn't take it. He had shown up for work the very next day. When his father and Terry had begged him to take a few days off, he had dismissed them easily. "Why?" he'd shrugged. "I'm not sick! What am I going to do at home?" Everyone seemed to expect such behavior from him anyway, and soon they stopped bugging him about it. He was always the strong one.
"Always the strong one," Alan murmured.
Don shook himself back to an awareness of the room around him. "What's that, Dad?"
"You were always the strong one, poor Charlie." He was holding a framed photograph of the four of them at the beach—Alan and Margaret standing behind their sons with their arms entwined around each other's backs; a teenaged Don striking a macho pose, flexing his biceps for the camera; and Charlie, thin little Charlie, looking like a bedraggled dog just out of the water, his wet hair hanging black and shiny against his cheeks.
"Yeah, I guess so. I was a better swimmer than him, that's for sure," Don said, looking over his father's shoulder at the picture. His eyes moved from Charlie to Margaret, and studied her face closely. Her hair was loose, her smile was wide, and she looked even happier than he remembered her being. Once again, Don stopped his own daydreaming to think of Alan. "Dad, you've been sitting here all evening. You're gonna get bedsores pretty soon." The second he said it, he cringed. Quickly, he added, "C'mon, let's go for a walk. It's beautiful out—I'll buy you an ice cream." He walked around to face his father, held out a hand, and smiled.
Alan sighed, placed his much larger hand in Don's, and struggled to his feet. "Okay, but I want tiger paw."
"Aw, you know what a mess you make with that!" Don joked. "Only if you promise to eat it all outside." He took the picture frame from his father's other hand and set it down gently on the side table. "Let's go."