You Found Me Page 4

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  Morning finally came. I don't remember going to sleep, but I guess I must have. The last thing I remember was looking at my clock at 3am, thinking about something random, I'm sure. Next thing I knew, I opened my eyes to see daylight. The sunlight hurt. My achy eyes. I was disoriented at the time. I knew there was something I was missing. Not really sure what, but there was something. Suddenly it all dawned on me. The terrible truth.

  Today was the funeral...

  I wanted to go back to bed. Why did it have to be today? Why did it have to happen at all? I know Mom didn't want to have a funeral. She wanted a party and be cremated. At the moment, it didn't look like any of that was going to happen. I just wanted to stay in bed and wish the day would go away.

  Today would be hard. I would watch people go by, people I hadn't seen in a long time, some I'd never met before. I was an outgoing person, but today...today I couldn't be. It would be too hard.

  I stayed in bed for a few minutes and just waited. I knew I'd beat my alarm up, so I had a few minutes to collect my thoughts. For some reason they wouldn't come together. My head was pounding.

  I remembered everything that happened. The way she looked, what she wore, what we said, how angry I was when I left. I was so upset. I doubt I would take any of what I said back, but I know I would've done things a lot differently. I doubt I would've stormed off like I did. Probably wouldn't have. If I could do something else, I would ha-

  My alarm went off, interrupting my thoughts. I reached over and turned it off. With my phone being my alarm, I couldn't tell you the last time I turned it off. I try to leave it on all the time that way I won't miss any messages or phone calls.

  It rarely works though. I've gotten so used to text messages that sometimes I feel my phone vibrate and reach for my pocket even with my phone already in my hand.

  I forced myself out of bed. My suit was pressed and hanging on the door. Dad must've put it there while I slept. It was all black, which I know is unusual. It's the same suit I wore to my cousin's wedding when I sang in it a few months back. My parents weren't very enthusiastic about it, but they let it slide. After I put it on, they decided I could wear it anytime I wanted.

  “Man, I hate suits,” I said aloud to myself. It felt like wearing a plastic bag to cover up who I really was. My parents didn't make me wear suits to church or family get togethers. Working in retail, I see lots of people who come in wearing suits and ties. Some of them are there working, others are there for business meetings, and I'm sure there are others on their way to work or something along those lines. I've never understood the ones that wear suits and ties for job interviews there. I wore jeans for my interview. I saw no point in faking who I really was, and I was hired. Of all the suits I've been forced into, this was the only one I halfway liked.

  I didn't want to wear it to my own mother's funeral though. I didn't even want to go to her funeral, but that was already out of my hands. I just stared at it for a minute. I wanted to burn it. To throw it away and pray I'd never see it again. But I didn't. I couldn't. I got up and made my way to the shower.

  I walked into the bathroom and looked at my face. It was terrible, just terrible. I looked as if I was hungover, stoned, and shot all in the same night. I still had my glasses on, which I probably would wear to the funeral. If I put my contacts in I would look even worse, assuming I could get them in.

  I was so tired, so diluted. I felt like I wasn't whole, like something was gone. Someone. I wanted to die, but I couldn't. I just couldn't. I didn't want to miss out on anything that might happen. I just wanted to wake up from this nightmare that was consuming me; eating me alive.

  I got in the shower and just let the water run. It was burning. I didn't want it to stop. I hurt so much. Everything inside of me hurt.

  Everything inside me was screaming. I just wanted the pain to go away. Why wouldn't it go away? The racing thoughts had returned and were consuming me once again. The burning helped. I didn't hurt as much. The water took the pain away. The pain inside. The pain from what had happened.

  I felt like I was coming undone. I couldn't concentrate on anything. It was all so blurred. Somehow, not right. The earth was falling fast and I was barely holding on.

  The water started getting colder. I turned it all the way. My skin was screaming. Screaming for help, begging for mercy. My soul screamed for the pain and begged and begged for more.

  I was torn. Torn between hatred and love. I hated my mother. I hated her. Hated, hated, HATED my mother. But I loved her. I loved her like no one else could have. I hated loving her and loved hating her. Why did she die? I hated her for dying!

  I was torn. Torn between missing her and wanting her gone. But she was gone. There was nothing I could do. I was finally rid of her. But she's gone. She'll never be here again. I'll never hear her voice again.

  When the water went cold, I got out. I didn't wash anything or even move. I got in, stood there, and got out. I'm sure it would have been a good idea to at least wash my hair or face, but I was hurting I didn't care. I didn't want to hurt anymore.

  I started drying off. I had to be really careful since I started the showers. If not, I would rub myself and hurt more than I wanted to. I didn't want to hurt, but I wanted to at the same time. I put my pants on and walked to the door, holding my shirt in my hand.

  I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. From the neck down I was red, almost crimson. I could see where my skin had started burning. I don't know how hot the water was, but it was hot enough to do some damage. I quickly put the shirt on and went into my room.

  My skin was hurting even more now. It was this weird burning sensation that, despite the immense pain, felt good. My heart wasn't hurting and my head was okay.

  I started putting my suit on as slowly as possible. It hurt so much. It was so wonderful. I was in pain. It didn't feel good, but at the same time it did. It was like medicine; it tasted nasty and makes you gag but, at the same time, you can feel it taking effect and making you feel better. It was exactly like that, only pain being the medication. Pain. Something I was already consumed with was proving to be the balm within itself.

  I walked downstairs. During the thirty some odd minutes it took to get my suit on, Dad had finished showering, griped about the hot water being gone, brushed his teeth, gotten dressed, fixed some coffee and sat down at the table debating about breakfast. I moved slowly, trying to keep things from hurting worse than needed.

  I stood there for a moment, giving him an awkward smile. “Morning.”

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Look,” he said, “I'm sorry about last night. This whole thing is so hard. I didn't mean to...” I waved it off.

  “Forget about it.” I wanted to return the favor. Oh, I so wanted to. He reached and gave me a hug. I almost screamed. In fact, it took everything inside of me not to. My skin was still tender from just a few seconds ago and here he was making it hurt. It wasn't the kind of pain I needed. It was too much. I wanted him to stop, so I quickly hugged him back and let go. I was crying now, and so was he. Both of us, grown men, crying over two different things. Him, for Mom. Me, for me.

  “You hungry?” he asked through the tears. I shook my head. “Me either.” Another moment. “Let's go ahead and head that way.” I nodded and walked with him to the car. The van wasn't there. We weren't sure what we were going to do with it, but at the moment it wasn't going anywhere. It was sitting at a mechanic shop in Rosetta Falls, waiting to be fixed. I think in passing conversation we decided to get rid of it, but nothing was really decided on.

  We both got in the car. I'd wanted to drive the truck. I wanted to be able to leave if I suddenly felt like it was necessary. I mainly wanted an excuse to leave; then I wouldn't have to be there during all the sappy tears at the end or to feel anything I didn't wanna feel.

  We pulled out of the driveway and made our way to Rosetta Falls. The funeral would be held at First Baptist Church with no graveside service. She was going to be cremat
ed and her ashes thrown in the ocean, just like she asked. I was happy about that, but I wasn't happy about the funeral. I knew that wasn't what she wanted, but I guess the family needed it.

  After the first few seconds of silence, I pulled out my iPod and started looking for something to listen to. I was going to hit random, but I was worried something she liked would come on. I finally put it on John Mayer. She didn't really hate him, but he wasn't one of her favorites. I don't really remember what song I put on, but that wasn't important. The important thing is that I wasn't thinking about her.

  The drive didn't take as long as the drive to Huntsville does. We didn't make record time, but the seconds didn't turn into years as they once had. Traffic was easy, which I expected since it was almost 8:30. Around here, traffic is evil at two times: 7:30am and 5:30pm. Any other time it's tolerable. Strangely enough, the one time you DO NOT want to be on the road is between midnight and 2am. There are very few cars out on the streets, including the interstate. An accident (of any size) could very well leave you dead. Also, many guys like to floor it and see just how fast they can go. Many have died on I-565 long before the sun came up. Death seemed to be everywhere I turned.

  Mom had died the same way. From what they told me, she was hit by a “crazy teen” who couldn't take his foot off the gas. He lost control just before they got to the Tennessee River Bridge and totaled four cars. He was in ICU at the moment. Dad had mentioned suing, but I wasn't holding my breath on that one.

  This had affected Dad in the strangest way, whatever way it was. I couldn't tell. He seemed to be destroyed by it, driven to anger and remorse. But at the same time he seemed calm and collected. I didn't know if he was just putting up a strong face for me, or if this really hadn't had any effect on him. But maybe he was suffering, suffering so much he just didn't want the pain to continue. He just wanted it to pass.

  We pulled into the parking lot a few minutes before visitation, which was an hour before the service. People were waiting on us. We parked and walked to the front doors. Dad knew I'd have left as soon as possible if I'd driven, thus I was stuck with him.

  We were bombarded with hugs when we got to the door. The hearse had already brought the body which had yet to be cremated. The church was large, the largest in Rosetta Falls. It was like a series of squares all built together. As they added on, the church took up more and more room. It was confusing as could be. You'd have one building that had three floors, another that had four, two sanctuaries on opposite sides of the church and a large fellowship hall in the middle that connected all the squares together. Across the street, there was one building with a gymnasium, walking track, and a decent size lobby for group meetings and such. It was the only building that stood by itself.

  I didn't really have any objections to the way the funeral was being done anymore. Apart from me speaking, everything seemed good to me. People continued coming to me and giving their most sincere apologies. I gave my fake smiles and thanks to all of them. They just kept coming. People I don't remember and didn't know were coming up, hugging me, crying, and apologizing for something they didn't do.

  I felt nauseated. I started ignoring people and walked to the bathroom. My skin was throbbing so bad I could feel it deep down inside of me. I walked into a stall and vomited. I didn't know if it was from the pain or from the thoughts of the funeral, but I knew it was something. I wasn't sick. I never get sick.

  I wiped my mouth with toilet paper and flushed it all down the toilet. I put the seat cover down and sat down. My head, skin, and anything else was hurting. I just sighed and rubbed my head. I knew I was going to cry. I knew I was. Out there, beyond the doors of the bathroom stall, were dozens of people just waiting to hug me, ask me how I'm feeling, offer useless words of comfort and wisdom I would forget by the time I got home.

  I braced myself and left the stall. I washed my hands and left the bathroom. Sure enough, there they were. People running (almost literally) to give me hugs. I tried to avoid them as much as I could. A good friend of our family started rubbing my neck; I have no idea how I kept from screaming. He was a big man, so this was more like a waxing than a rubbing. I wanted to run. To get away from all these people and just think.

  We made our way to the new sanctuary. There was a platform, which everything would be done from, and the seats. We had designated seats for us. We slowly made our way to the pews that had been reserved for me and Dad. I sat down and gave more fake smiles and handshakes. I'd hoped that sitting down would save me from having my skin burn more than usual. Now, just about everyone came down the aisle and patted me on the back.

  I sat there, enduring all the pain from the people and my skin. It was a matter of time now. The organist had started playing, giving the cue it was time to start. The people began taking their seats. We were on the front row, sitting left of the platform. I'd no idea how the funeral was going to play out. I knew when I was supposed to get up, speak, and sit down again. The minister walked to the podium. It was the man who'd hugged me earlier, nearly taking my skin off. He was old, very much old. The organist stopped and the service began.

  “We are here this morning to honor the life and times of Renee Marie Thompson. She was a wonderful person with a kind heart, a beautiful soul, and giving spirit. Today, we come together to honor that life, to honor this wonderful person, to honor Renee.” He had a deep voice, obviously built “strong” from years and years of smoking. His southern drawl was strong. There are two kinds of southern accents. There's the stereotype one, the “You Might Be A Redneck” kind of one Jeff Foxworthy has made famous. Then there was the more realistic one, a long drawl. Things barely moved in the South. In major cities such as Nashville, Birmingham, and Atlanta, time can fly by so fast you'd no idea it was ever there. The drawl showed the true aspects of the South.

  The man continued. He expressed his sorrow for the loss, having been a long-time friend of our family and been there through many of our hardest times. I couldn't place him, this longtime friend of our family. We probably had his picture buried somewhere.

  “Now,” he said after his long, drawn out and insincere monologue, “we will hear from the church choir, singing one of Renee's favorite songs.” The choir stood together, folders in their hands, and began to sing. I didn't recognize the song. As terrible as that may sound, I don't think Mom ever had a favorite song.

  The room was, like I said, full of people. People were tearing up. Handkerchiefs were dabbing eyes and men were blinking rapidly. There were a few I recognized, such as my grandparents and closest family members. There was my Sunday School teacher, Youth Minister, and Music Minister. That was it. Everyone else was a total mystery.

  The music stopped and I knew what was coming. My turn. I was going to be called to the front to give my “speech” I'd prepared. I couldn't really call it a speech. It wasn't a speech. It was more or less a poem I'd written. A pathetic attempt at a poem. I was given an awkward introduction.

  “Robert Thompson is the son of Renee. He will now come and speak.” Yes, that was about it. I swallowed passed the lump in my throat.

  “My...um...My name is Rob...Robert.” I was stuttering. I finally just took a deep breath. “I'm not that good at speaking, so I'll just read my poem.” This was and was not the truth. I just didn't want to be up there. I wanted to speak and leave. How hard was that? I just wanted to speak and leave. I pulled the piece of paper out of my coat pocket and laid it before me.

  “My mind is filled with many a memory,

  Each hurting, begging for forgiveness.

  What is it inside of me that aches for another sunrise?

  What is it inside of me that makes me

  want to scream and scream,

  Asking you to free me.

  I wish there was something something

  I could do to make all we go through so

  much better. But I know

  I know all that was is and is was.”

  The church was quiet. Not a sound. I knew it wasn't that
good. I didn't know what to do though. I folded the piece of paper back together, put in my pocket, and walked back to my seat. Dad put his arm around me and my insides screamed.

  The service continued on, with Dad giving a eulogy, a “dear friend” of Mom's praising her. And I sat there, watching it all happen. Everything passed by me. I was out of sync with everything. Next thing I knew, we all had our heads bowed. Dad pulled on my shirt and we stood at the front. When the prayer was over, people began to form a line to give us their condolences.

  That night, after all I went through, I was crying. I cried and cried. I was crying more from the pain. I was crying more from her death. I was crying. Everything hurt. Everything hurt.

  Chapter Six

  Rob and his mother were reading at Books-a-Million late one night. They watched as different girls walked by. Some looked at him.

  “Ooo, Rob!” she whispered. “Go get her number.”

  “Haha, I don't think so,” he said. “I'm only 16. She could be 20 or 21. I don't wanna embarrass myself. Besides...” His voice trailed off. His mother looked at him with a raised eyebrow and knowing smile.

  “Yes?” she said in a sheepish and fiendish manner. Rob turned red and tried looking away. He could keep a straight face with everyone but his mother. When moments like this came, he did everything he could to avoid looking at her.

  “Well, there's this girl at school.”

  “Oh, really?” She put her book down. Rob had her full attention now. One of her favorite hobbies was her son. They would go people watching, each checking out girls or guys for the other. Once, she even went so far as to ask a guy if he was gay and single. Rob nearly fainted. This time, however, it was a girl.

  “Yeah, really. We've only talked once. Just deciding about where we would meet and when we were available and what we would do. Nothing much.”

  “What do you guys have planned?”