Like Father Like Son Read online

  I drop the phone and all I hear around me is a massive crash as both Ned, my business partner, and Irene, fly into my office.

  Chapter 2

  Grief—it’s an unpredictable shit show. It’s an emotion of hurt manifesting itself into something so fucking physical, the pain has me gasping for air. The idea of burying someone who is a piece of my body and soul—it’s like I’m in a bubble. I no longer feel as if I’m in the world around me, and when someone speaks, it sounds muffled.

  Ned flew with me to North Carolina. I could barely function. I forgot what key unlocked my front door. I had sat on my bed—with a tie in my hand, unable to remember what I had been doing. It was only when Ned and Elise, his wife, arrived and found the front door open with my eyes heavy, that my mind finally played catch up.

  Elise had to pack for me while Ned made the arrangements. It wasn’t until I was on the plane did it fully hit me. A man, my size, crying like a baby in a packed confined space, had to have been a sight for many. Even the air marshal got involved once, thinking I was some flight risk, about ready to go postal on everyone.

  I’m now face-to-face with the casket. My mind is still clouded, I’m not even sure how Ned and I have gotten to the funeral home. Renting a car and getting our luggage are all events I can’t remember. It’s only when I enter the room with his body; I finally understand where we are.

  Christine flies into my arms and we both hold each other. I hate the woman ninety percent of the time, but at the end of the day—Scott is, well, was, a part of us. We created him, and this loss is only something the two of us can understand as parents.

  But so much is out of our control. Scottie, who would always be ours, isn’t ours to fully mourn together. Christine’s words race around in my mind, about his wife and all the arrangements she’s not letting Christine be a part of. It’s so much to take—the casket next to me and Christine’s incessant complaining, which I haven’t missed. It’s then, a girl who looks maybe sixteen, if that, enters the room for family only, by herself. Christine pulls away from me, muttering something about wanting to bitch slap someone, storming out of the room. I should go after her, but my mind is on the girl child near us. She deserves to be here as much as Christine or myself. I’d only met her a couple of times during my visits with Scott, but there’s no denying the anguish filling her puffy eyes.

  “Mr. Parrish,” she begins, stopping a foot from me, her eyes fixed on the casket. “I’m not sure if you remember me.”

  “Holland, yes, of course, I remember you, darlin’.” I look at her picture—hers and Scott’s—every day when I grab my keys from my desk where their wedding picture is placed. But what can I do for this virtual stranger who shares my same last name?

  Her hair is light brown with bright purple ends. She’s wearing a skirt decorated with pink flamingos and a bright green sweater. There’s no way I can miss her. Maybe grief messed up her color palette as it had with me and my tie. There’s more to her than her loud clothes and dyed hair. She’s so tiny. Compared to Scott, he had to have towered over her. Her face is narrow with high cheekbones. With bright red lipstick on her lips, they are full. I notice this as it begins to quiver.

  She clasps her hands together, her chin falling to her chest. I don’t see her eyes, a color I can’t tell as her tears fall quickly. She’s quiet, still looking at the floor. “Holland, darlin’, are you okay?” What the fuck am I asking, of course, she’s not all right and on top of it all—she has to deal with Christine.

  Her eyes pop up and a forced smile covers her face. “Um, I’m so sorry, Mr. Parrish. I mean, this isn’t just my loss.” As soon as she looks at me, she turns away. “You look so much like him. It’s uncanny.”

  Yeah, she’s right. Scott, from the day he was born, was my twin. Christine used to call me and complain about his attitude as a teen, swearing he was too much like me.

  “Um, yeah, we get that all the time.” I stop when I speak in the present tense, and it hits me all over again—I won’t get this compliment again, about my son looking like me. It won’t be we get—it will be we got that all the time—when he was alive.

  The flood of emotions come and go in the twenty-four hours I’ve lived with the understanding that I’m now a bereaved parent. Hell, I’m a parent without a child. I turn to the closed casket where Scott is in the room with us. He’s unable to tell me to stop. He’d only want me to take care of his wife.

  I try to steady myself, but I can’t, and I find the nearest chair in the room to sit down, my head between my legs. Tears fall from my eyes as they have with Holland. But then she grabs my hands, kneeling in front of me. “Mr. Parrish, I can’t even imagine.” Her kind eyes are a deep brown, almost black. With a small tip of her lips, her apology is heartfelt.

  “Oh, darlin’, I should be…” What should I be? Stronger? Here for her? I barely know her.

  “No, Mr. Parrish. He’s your son. I know you didn’t see him much, not as much as you two would have liked but…” she stutters, taking in a deep breath. “He adored you, respected you, and only wanted to make you proud.” She places her hand over her heart, visibly shaking.

  Did he ever wonder anything else about me? I couldn’t have been more proud of him, even if I tried. And now I’m left to speculate if he ever knew this.

  Somehow, I find it my responsibility to console Scott’s dad. With his mom, there’s such a large knife wedged between us, but with Mr. Parrish, it may be easier since he’s an older version of Scott.

  It makes my heart physically hurt. The idea of thinking of Scott as a mature man, in his early forties—a couple of kids calling him dad. It’s with all the what-ifs I know this will never happen, I fall to my knees, a sobbing scream escaping my mouth. Now, both the father and wife are in a grief-stricken state, our actions and erratic movements unable to be understood by anyone unless they’ve been through this.

  Scott’s dad wanted him—us—to move to California. He’d begged Scott, who only ever wanted to work to restore old cars and trucks. His dad offered him a job at his company. Scott had been equally skilled in woodworking. Maguire wanted Scott to come work for him with a chance to go in as partners in a restoration shop for older vehicles, eventually. But, when Christine found this out, she’d flown off the handle, screaming and accusing Scott of loving Maguire more than her.

  In Scott’s own mind, if he chose a neutral ground, he’d not hurt his mother. The military offered him a way of caring for me. He was working toward a goal. A family was part of our plan, but in his own way, he wouldn’t have to choose his mom over his dad. He didn’t blame his father. He understood where the selfishness lay. And maybe that’s why seeing Christine’s face in pain and mourning is too much to take. If she’d just let Scott have his desire, working with his dad, he’d still be alive.

  In one part of the room, crying, I’m aware of strong arms consoling me. For a second, a brief second only, I almost believe they are Scott’s. Hell, his dad has his same exact touch, and when he begins to speak, I swear it’s Scott. “Shh, darlin’.” Although Scott would call me Holly. “It’s going to be okay, Holland.” Shit, Holland sounds just like my husband would have said it to me, as he’d stroke my brown hair, stopping at the purple ends, always fixating on them.

  And Maguire is doing the same thing. The purple ends of my hair are in my face. I’m left to remember how they had been this color since I’d been with Scott. At that time, it had been all purple. Before, no one ever knew what color of the rainbow would grace my head. But he was partial to purple on me and purple is what it stayed since he asked me out all those years ago. Though, now I only dye the ends of my hair this color.

  “Mr. Parrish.” My words are barely audible to me. But I don’t want to open my eyes that somehow are closed, and in them, I can imagine it’s Scott, my husband, my soul mate holding me. But as soon as I think it, I back away.

  “Oh, darlin’, you don’t need to worry about me,” his father says. “Scott would
want me to make sure you’re okay.” He’s backed up, too and I’ve forgotten all together my husband is actually in the room with me. I’ve not had the courage to open the casket yet. I’m not sure I can look at him. I requested his casket to remain closed until I can bring myself to stare at his lifeless body.

  I need to breathe and to think, as I work up the nerve to face my husband. “Umm, Mr. Parrish, could you give me a couple minutes with Scott?”

  Taking a Kleenex, he wipes his eyes, only for me to look into the exact hazel green eyes of my late husband. He doesn’t say a word but walks to the door.

  “Wait, Mr. Parrish, Scott made me promise to give you this letter if anything happened to him. He asked you to read it right away.” I turn because I’m a bit jealous of this letter. He has final words from Scott when, I, the wife, don’t.

  He’s wiping his eyes, as Scott had when he arrived home from one of his last tours, the same one his close friend was killed in. Carbon copy doesn’t quite explain the similarities in them, all the way down to the same pointy nose they share. It’s all too eerie.

  “Sure, darlin’. And please call me Maguire.” He shuts the door behind him and I’m left in the presence of my husband’s body.

  Chapter 3

  The envelope reads:

  Holly, honey, in case I’m gone—please give this to my dad immediately.

  In the years Scott has talked about Holland, at least six years, I’ve never heard my son call his wife, Holly. It’s cute, his own little name just for her. Oh, how I wish I could have known him more.

  I saw him four or maybe five times a year. I’d rent a place near him and Chris, taking him for those couple weeks. We’d made furniture together, mostly gifts he’d set aside for Holland and himself. And he’d come home to stay with me for a month, too. But now, twenty-two years of having the honor of being his dad just wasn’t enough. It leads me to think of how he’d talked about Holland.

  I’m going to marry her one day, Dad. I knew it the first day she’d moved to town and I saw her. When you know, you know.

  And I was nothing but jaded, counseling him to exhaustion that young love is hard. I didn’t give him the support he needed and fuck, he sure didn’t get it from Christine.

  My hands tremble as they sweep across the sealed back. These are the last words I’ll ever get from Scott. And whether they are spoken or written, the thought is sobering.

  My mind wanders for a moment, and I need it to, to anything but this being the last goodbye from my son. In it, I think of Holland. Scott once told me he loved her crazy colors so much because it showed him she didn’t give two fucks about what others thought of her.

  But the envelope in my hands is a double-edged sword. I want to rip into this letter, absorb it, and have Scott’s last words live inside of me forever. But then, when I’m done, he’s basically gone. My son will be forever gone.

  The tears fall from my eyes so quickly I move the letter to avoid ruining it with my waterworks. I pull out a single piece of paper. One last page is all I have of my boy. Before I open the paper that’s folded in thirds, I take in a deep breath. I unfold it, carefully, and I’m not surprised by his signature sloppy penmanship. Us lefties are known to have an almost lazy kind of chicken scratch. I laugh at this remembrance. It drove Christine crazy—just one of the many things my son got from me.

  His first words still me, and my gaze stays on them. Dear Dad. Shit, this will be the last time I’m referred to as Dad. Because Chris made me so jaded, I never tried to find a woman to settle down with. And I’m no longer a dad. Not after today, not after I bury my son.

  I stop to let this sink in. I’m a father without a son? Is this possible? My lips tremble at the thought of the last time I’d seen him only a month ago. He never brought Holland, wanting to spend as much time together, just him and me. If I’d known it was all the time I would get with him, would I have held him longer? Done anything different? It doesn’t matter, not now that I essentially have my father status stripped from me.

  As if staring at Dear Dad isn’t enough to rip my heart out, I begin to devour the letter and his last words.

  Dear Dad,

  Fuck, If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. I had one dream, growing old with Holland. Death won’t stop me from providing for her, though. And because you’re the best man I know, what I’m about to ask you—I know you’ll do for me. Please take care of Holland. Take her back to California with you. It’s my last request and a lot—I know. But I’m placing my most precious possession in your hands.

  See, we don’t have much saved and the military won’t let Holland stay in government quarters long after my death. I have very little to provide for her if I die. I have my SGLI (life insurance), but it’s not enough after she pays for school. But she’s talented in design. Please help her get on her feet. Love her like you love me. She has nothing to go back to in Virginia. Her family will suck the little life insurance she has of mine dry.

  Mom would have felt so abandoned if I went straight to you from high school. But if I trust anyone with Holland, it’s you.

  One of my regrets in life is not fighting Mom to come live with you. By the time I knew I could stand up to her, I had met Holland. Please don’t tell Mom this. She tried; I know she did. She loves me, this I never doubted. But I wish I knew you better, Dad.

  Please know that every moment we had together, I treasured. I know that’s not a real dude-like thing to say, but I did. You made me the man who Holland fell in love with. Let her know when she falls in love again, it’s okay! I want everything for her that we couldn’t have together.

  And, Dad, I know Mom did you wrong. You never made me choose, but it made you cynical. That’s why you’ve never committed to anyone else. Please, find a woman you love and live the life I couldn’t.

  You will always be a dad—my dad.

  Love,

  Scott

  He has given me closure and purpose. In his honor, I’ll make sure Holland is taken care of.

  The casket has remained closed and I’m almost positive I’ll crumble if I’m to look at the man I’ve planned my whole life around. With my hand on the vessel my soul mate will be lowered into the ground inside, a sheen of sweat covers me. I’ve not been able to do this on my own, but that’s what I am—on my own.

  I’ve already been visited by the Army housing officer, explaining I have thirty days to vacate the property. I’ve known this, Scott isn’t the only person to die in action. They certainly take no time kicking the spouse out who has lost their forever. My forever was killed for this country and I’ll soon be homeless. Sure, I have a life insurance allotment, but it will be meant solely to get me through school and help with my immediate needs.

  Going home is my only option, for now, but Scott never wanted this for me, crawling back to my parents, to a home where their neglect made me the girl Scott had to rebuild. My hand is still on the casket.

  “We had so many dreams, baby. This was never part of our plan.”

  My fingers retract, I want to claw something, hurt someone. Hatred spurns through me for many reasons and I wonder if being pissed at my dead husband is right. Of course, my emotions are so raw—I’m in uncharted waters I’d never waded in before. I’m mad at Scott for leaving me.

  I’m not sure you can put a name on what my parents did. They never physically abused me. Neglect is what it was. Sure, I had three meals a day and clothes on my back. A roof over my head was never in question. But I was left to my own accords from an early age, to work as they commanded. We never talked. I was just there. I’d speculated that they never wanted children, yet, here I am. They’d never tucked me into bed or read me a story. My parents were absent for every basketball game I’d participated in, even when we’d made it to state. I could go weeks without talking to them. And through this, they made sure to pay for every activity I was in and bought me my most valued possession, my sewing machine. But that stuff really didn’t matter,
not when I was a ghost—and I still am. Even when Christine called them to tell them their son-in-law died, they sent me a text, telling me I had a place to come if I needed them.

  They’re six hours away and do not have the respect to attend my husband’s funeral. And of course, Christine offers her house, too, only because she loved Scott so much. She hates me and taking her up on her offer would be hell in itself. Both choices are awful.

  Though I’d have Scott’s SGLI from the service, it would only stretch so far, and it’s a lengthy process. His money will put me through school and will be the sole purpose of it.

  “Ah, Scott.”

  My hand slides down the casket as it had when it slipped down his body when we made love. He was a tender lover, putting my needs before his. But that’s what he did in our life. He wanted to get me out of the clutches of my parents. He didn’t want to disappoint his mom by moving to California to work with his father. He did the only other thing he could think of to prove to me he was always on my side—Team Holland all the way. It’s what he used to say. He had joined the Army so we could marry, with the ability to provide for me.

  I lower my head to the box containing his body, to where I believe his face is. “How do I do this on my own, Scott? Where do I even begin?”

  I’m not talking about a job or money. I’m resourceful, I’ll figure it out, but loneliness will consume me, without the anticipation of Scott walking in the door. Tears fall on the beauty of the wood that holds my best friend, or his remains, I should say, when I swear his large muscular arms surround me—and I break. Every fiber of my being holds onto him because now that I have him back, I’ll never let go. Then I turn, only to see it’s not my husband. It’s my father-in-law.

  Chapter 4