Part 16 (1/2)

BRANDON.

The sky is dark, nearly pitch black. Not because it's night, but because a storm is brewing.

Thunder roars. Sounds like G.o.d's clearing His throat, giving me some kind of warning that lightning's about to strike.

It's a quarter to ten in the morning, looks like it's a quarter after midnight.

April 2, 2004 November 21, 2009.

Days before Thanksgiving, and I was robbed of all reasons to be thankful.

Today, my son would have turned nine. Nine. Halfway to being a legalized man. An age where he could stand and stare me in the eye and tell me he was ready to make his own decisions. An age where no matter how tall he was or how deep his voice got, he was still growing. An age I'll never see him reach.

Today is the first time I've been to Reginald Brandon Carter's gravesite since his death. I never wanted to come back here, never wanted the memory of that week to replay before my eyes. But, no matter how long I try to avoid it, my mind will never be able to fully hit delete. Holding your child's lifeless body is something a father should never have to do. ”Why didn't I come check on you that night?”

My heart threatens to stop beating as light raindrops mix with my heavy tears. I don't understand why G.o.d didn't send me a message to let me know my son had stopped breathing. I was the head of the household and didn't know what was going on in my own home. ”What kind of man am I?” Now my wife tells me she's been sick and I couldn't tell. Instead of getting to the heart of what was troubling her, I start getting close to another man's wife.

I squat at his grave. Run my fingers across his name.

Footsteps draw me out of an emotional beatdown. I wipe tears and rain from my face.

A shaky hand touches my shoulder. I turn around and see Rene standing above me. ”What are you doing here?” I question as if she has no right.

”I come every year on his birthday,” she answers in a condemning tone. She knows I don't come here at all.

In the distance, I see the blue hatchback again. Ask her, ”Did he have to come with you?”

She doesn't have to turn around to see who I'm talking about. ”He's my nurse.”

”Nurse? Are you that sick?”

Her eyes tell me yes, but her lips tell me nothing. In her hand is a small bucket with soapy water inside. She sits it in the gra.s.s. Takes a few moments to pull overgrown gra.s.s from around the tombstone, tosses the excess to the side. Wipes leftover fragments on her jeans, then pulls out a brush from the bucket of water. Begins scrubbing away at dingy marble engraved with our son's date of birth and date of death.

All of a sudden, rage takes over. I s.n.a.t.c.h the brush from her hand, toss it as far away from her reach as possible. Grab the bucket, turn it over until every drop of suds slide from the plastic container.

”What'd you do that for?”

”Do you think any of that matters to him?”

She's still on her knees, picking away at nothing in particular. ”It shouldn't look like this.”

”Like what, Rene? No matter how hard you scrub it with bleach, it's still going to get dingy. It's part of the ground.”

”He shouldn't be part of the ground,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

I make sure my voice is heard. ”Told you we should've had him cremated.”

Quickly, she rises to her feet, shoves me in the chest with more strength than I thought she had. ”You're so d.a.m.n insensitive.”

My anger goes up a level. ”I'm insensitive? You've been walking around with cancer, and instead of talking to me about it, you lead me to believe I had done something wrong. Made me self-conscious and insecure. Had me pack up and move out of a house I've been making payments on. Left me vulnerable and open like a motherf.u.c.ker, and I'm insensitive?”

With folded arms and solid posture she stares me down. ”Who is she?”

”What? Who is who?”

”You said I left you vulnerable and open. That could only mean one thing.”

I nod my head at the car not too far in the distance. ”I could say the same.”

”He's. My. Nurse.”

”That's what you say.”

Just like that she turns and walks away. Goes in search of the brush I tossed.

Thunder roars, sending another warning to take cover.

I look up to the sky, find the darkest clouds looking down on me. Any minute, they're going to unleash a mult.i.tude of broken dreams and desperation.

I go after Rene. ”We need to get out of here.”

She makes no rush to move. ”It's all my fault,” she reveals with her back turned toward me. ”I pushed you away. I wanted you to find someone else to love because I knew I would no longer be in the picture.”

All fears of downpour forgotten. ”I don't understand. Why would I want to love someone else when you're the only woman I've loved?”

”Because I'm dying, Brandon.” She says that as if I was supposed to know. ”There's no hope for me, no hope for us.”

”Who says this has to be your death sentence? We could go to that cancer treatment facility in Oklahoma. I've seen the commercials on TV a million times. People are living years after being diagnosed.”

Her eyes survey the many tombstones surrounding us. Takes it all in with shallow breaths. ”I've lost count of how many funerals I've done out here. One day, I see someone in the grocery store, the next I'm draining blood from their body and replacing it with formaldehyde. The last twelve months have been the hardest. More pa.s.sed away from cancer this year than in the eight years I've been in business.” She starts walking slowly in the direction of where the rain has started falling.

My footsteps are right behind hers.

We stop in front of a gravestone with the words Served His Community With Pride etched above his name.

Rene rubs her index finger across the words of remembrance. ”I was the first person Wes confided in when he got his diagnosis. It was a Sat.u.r.day morning. We were getting ready to head out for a service. He pulled me aside, told me in a couple of months I'd be preparing for his service. He found out in his final stage. Had no idea how to tell his wife and four kids.”

”I guess you two did have a lot in common.”