The following Friday, Crash asked for my phone and called his dad.
The following Sunday, I was at work at my second job and got a call from B.'s number. When I listened to the message, it was his girlfriend, L. She told me there had been an emergency and she was with Brian, and to call her back. I called her back and left a message. The next fifteen or twenty minutes were a blur. I felt that clutch of adrenaline response that turns your knees liquid. I tried to wait on a customer and had to ask her to repeat herself several times. I tried to wipe down a slicer (second job is at a grocery store deli) and realized, after my first attempt, that I was trying to wipe a running slicer.
I knew that B. had lung cancer. I knew bad things could happen. But the previous Sunday, he looked better than he had in months: he had more energy, and he'd put on some weight. I wondered if I would need to take off work and take Crash to see his dad in the hospital.
L. called me back, and I went outside the back exit. L. and I have never had a particularly polite relationship; in fact, the last thing I'd actually said to her was, "Fuck off, thundercunt." Despite my part in our contentious relationship, she tried to break the news very kindly and gently.
I interrupted her before she got many words out, though, and asked, "Is B. dead?"
He was dead. He had died the night before, from a complication with the cancer. I try to take comfort in some things. He died after spending the evening watching TV and eating Chinese takeout. If there had only been a few strippers involved, it would have been his perfect night. It was still one of his top ways to spend an evening. He died after spending a really good day with his son, and having a good conversation with him. And I hugged him the last time I saw him.
My relationship with B. was extremely rocky over the last ten years. But we were together for thirteen years, married for ten, and we had an amazing, wonderful child together. It's shocking to realize what a void his death leaves in my life. It's not as much of a void as it leaves for his mom, or his girlfriend, and especially not for Crash, but it's still a big hole in the fabric of my existence.
After L. told me, I spent some time at work crying and placing a few incoherent calls. My sweet, sweet co-workers at the deli tried to comfort me as they dashed back and forth during one of the busiest times of the week. I would get a hug, get a fresh dish towel to sob into, and then hear, "Fuck! I'll be right back."
After a while, I left. It took me a long time to get home because Crash was at home, and my next job was to tell him his dad was dead. On the way, I called some more friends. I pulled over into parking lots and cried some more. During this long journey home, Crash happened to call the deli to see when I was coming home for lunch. The co-worker who answered the phone didn't know if Crash knew, and didn't want him to be alone, so she stayed on the phone with him until I pulled up in the driveway. It is little acts of kindness like this that make life bearable. I will always be grateful for her thoughtfulness.
Crash knew something was very wrong when I arrived home early, my face swollen from tears. I told him something bad had happened, and he cringed. I told him it was about his dad, and he crumpled. The saddest thing I have ever seen was my son's face when I told him his dad was dead. Telling him was the most horrible thing I've ever had to do.
Two weeks later, we are doing okay. Okay-ish. Crash has shown a lot of strength and resilience. He takes comfort in his school routine. I think we are both a little more likely to hug each other and say, "I love you." I think from now on, I may take very special care to hug everyone I love, and tell them that, every time I see them. Be warned -- I am now even more of a hugger than I was before.
Death burns away the petty, and it turns out that a lot of it is petty.
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