Planning a funeral is emotionally exhausting.
I was clueless at the beginning, but Croix helped me get through it. When I became frustrated and too overwhelmed, he took over. For someone who hasn't experienced much loss in his life, he seemed to know exactly what to do. We went to the cell phone store to have Roscoe's phone unlocked so that I could extract his contacts. Croix was by my side when I called everyone to give them the news of my brother's death. When my hands began to shake, and my voice began to slur with sorrow, he held me close until I was able to pull myself together again.
Though I still feel like Croix dropped the ball the night that my brother shot himself, he has picked it up and ran with it since. I'm not sure I'd be able to get through all of this without him.
Now he's with me at the funeral. There seems to be an equal mix of family and unfamiliar faces around. The one face I'm glad not to see is Sheri. The level of resentment I feel towards her is staggering. It's probably better that she's not here, because I can't guarantee that I wouldn't beat the bloody fuck out of her.
Even thinking about her showing up gave me anxiety. Croix spent several minutes calming me down and rubbing my shoulders, pouring over different scenarios with me and what he would do to keep my rage at bay. I appreciate that he understands what I'm feeling and why I feel the way I do. He said that if it were him in my shoes, he'd probably want to kick her ass too.
Due to the gunshot wound, I decided to have a closed casket. The surgeon did well to piece Roscoe back together, but I don't want everyone to remember him how I do. For those who were close to him, it would cause too much pain.
I stand like a sentinel at the front of the room, feeling like I'm trapped in a nightmare, the kind where your feet are glued to the floor. People walk up to me and give me their condolences. When I spoke to everyone on the phone, I told them that the divorce drove Roscoe over the edge. Without getting into too much detail, I painted Sheri as the villain she is. I wonder what they'd think if they knew that my rejection of Roscoe was the final straw that made him pull the trigger.
Just thinking about it makes my eyes water—makes me feel unstable. I suppose I look normal, though. Who wouldn't cry when they're about to put their brother in the ground.
***
Roscoe's suitcase has been sitting next to my closet door ever since Croix and I went to pick it up from the hotel he was staying at. I had thought to ship it back to Sheri, but since she seemed so nonchalant about his death, bitterness made me decide to keep it. She'll get everything else of my brother's. I can have this.
I let it sit for a few days until I know I'm emotionally stable enough to open it without breaking down. There's nothing special about the suitcase. Well, unless you consider it being name-brand special. My brother rarely buys anything cheap.
I've already gone through his toiletries. Smelled his aftershave. Smirked over his exuberant shaving kit. Then I unzipped the bag that had his suits and smelled them, briefly marveling over how they're perfectly pressed.
To be honest, I have no idea what I'm going to do with this stuff. Probably hoard it back until I have the strength to sort through it and decide what to keep and what to give away, sell, and donate. Croix and Roscoe are about the same size, so maybe Croix could wear the suits. I don't know. I don't really want to think about it right now.
I pick the suitcase up and set it on my bed. The damn thing feels like it weighs about a hundred pounds. No man should be traveling with this many clothes. Then again, I imagine that he planned to stay a while. He would have stayed a while if I had accepted him back into my life, I think with a frown.
I run my fingertips across the beveled polycarbonate surface of the suitcase. It's a hideous green color. I'm pretty sure that Roscoe chose it because he knew it would stand out among the other suitcases going down the conveyor belt at bag pickup.
I take a deep breath while my hands find the latch. A smirk plays across my lips as I think about how everything inside it probably going to be perfectly folded. If anything is out of place, it will be because of the jostling that went on when the hotel staff handled the suitcase.
I pop the latches and slowly pull the top open. My breath hitches as my gaze fixes on the two rows of frames sitting on top of Roscoe's clothing. My eyes instantly water, and for the briefest of moments, I feel the urge to close the suitcase and turn away.
There are eight pictures in all. One of them is a family portrait of him with Sheri and the boys. There's another picture of just the boys. Then there's a family portrait of us with our parents. I was just an infant then, cradled in my mother's arms. Roscoe stood close to her side, his head practically touching her shoulder. The other five pictures are of Roscoe and me. They're not studio portraits, just candid shots of us playing together or hanging out.
I pull out the first photo of us, and a tear rolls down my cheek. It's another picture where I was just an infant. Roscoe was giving me a bath. I'm gazing up at him with a smile on my face and my hands in the air. It looks like a sweet picture, but the story behind it is a lot more on the comical side. Apparently, my mom took the picture at the calm right before the storm. Because after the picture was snapped, I pooped in the bath water, and Roscoe pitched a fit because my mom teasingly told him he would have to clean it up. He stomped away in anger, and my mom took over. It was not one of Roscoe's favorite memories, but Mom thought it was hilarious.
The other photos have less of a story behind them. There's one where Roscoe is pushing me on the swingset in the backyard. Another of us sitting at a picnic table on our family camping trip to Florida. I was seven then.
There's a second vacation picture of Roscoe and I fishing from a pier. I'm wearing the most ridiculous looking sunhat. He's dressed like a bum in a ripped up t-shirt and baggy jeans. It's one of the few times I've seen my brother not put together. He didn't want to get any of his good clothes dirty, though.
The last picture is one that never made it to my parent's collection. It's of him and me taking a drunk selfie at the first house he ever bought. Sheri was out of town for the weekend, and he thought it would be fun to let me come over and do some underage drinking. I got so wasted that he ended up having to hold my hair back while I vomited. You can tell that we're both drunk in the picture. Our eyes are glazed and his smile is way too easy. It was one of those nights where you barely remember what happened, but you know you had fun. The memory brings a smile to my face.
I sigh as I set the pictures down on my bed. The second the nostalgia from looking at them fades, depression rolls in like a wave trying to sweep me back out to sea. Roscoe kept these photos for all this time. Chose them as the memories that he wanted to bring with him. He loved me. It may have been masked by his desperation to try to keep his relationship together with Sheri, but he did love me. Even when he was my enemy, he was always my brother.
There's a hollowness in my chest that nothing in the world could possibly fill right now. I clutch at it, fighting the tears from pouring out into sobs. It's no use, though. Knowing that I could have done something to stop this... Just a few kind words and I'd still have my brother. The guilt is more than I can bear.
My eyes volley from picture to picture. In all of them, we were happy. There were smiles on our faces. We were family. Nothing else mattered. Why couldn't I see that when it mattered the most?
***
“You're going to get through this, Raven.” Cindy rubs my back as I sit at the dining room table, my torso sprawled across it. I've been crying off and on ever since I riffled through Roscoe's things. It seems like I don't even remotely have a grasp on my emotions anymore.
“Will I?” I ask, knowing the answer. If I survived my parents dying, I can survive anything. It just hurts so much right now.
“You will. I'm here for you.” She takes a chair from the other side of the table to drag it next to me.
“I should have listened to you. Why didn't I listen to you?” I bury my face in my arms.
Cindy sucks in a deep breath. “You can't go back, only forward. What happened, happened. You can't take it back. You just have to forgive yourself and move on.”
I lift my head for a moment, my eyes puffy from all the crying I've been doing. “How am I supposed to forgive myself? My brother is dead because of me. How do you move on from something like that?”
She scowls. “He's not dead because of you. There was a whole lot going on inside of his head that didn't even have to do with you. You were not the cause of his depression.”
“But I was the end of it.”
“You don't even know that. You don't know what he was thinking.”
“No, I don't, but I can only imagine.” I exhale as I turn my head and lower it so that I'm looking at her instead of hiding my face.
“You take this experience, and you learn from it.” She nods to herself.
“What am I supposed to learn?” I huff. “Not to kick someone when they're already down? I already knew that, and I did it anyway.”
“You learn to cherish the people that you have in your life because you never know when they're going to be gone,” she says softly, her eyes watering.
Guilt strikes at my chest. The distance in her gaze tells me that she's thinking past my situation. She's remembering her daughter.
I wet my lips, sitting up to give her a hug. “You're right. The people still in our lives are precious. I can't fix what happened with Roscoe, but I can learn to be a better person because of it.”
She raises her hand to give my arm a gentle squeeze. “This has taught me something too, you know. Maybe not taught me something, but reminded me.”
“You miss your son, don't you?” I offer her a weak smile.
“I do. Terribly sometimes.” She presses her eyes closed, and tears cascade down her cheeks.
“You should call him.”
“I should. I think I will.”