Page 3 of Malaise
“What could you have done, Meg?” Dad asks. “There was no reason to alarm you at the supermarket. We thought it best to wait until you were at home to hear the news.”
Is anywhere really best when it’s this kind of news? Did it honestly matter? I rub my temples as I replay what Dad’s just said. An accident. Den was killed riding his dirt bike. His pride and joy. He rode that two-stroke to the shop he worked at every day, and more often than not, would detour past the river to have a bit of fun on the way home. “But he should have been at the river. There aren’t any buses at the river, Dad.”
He sighs. Disbelief—the second stage of grief. “They think he went up the main road to get something from the shops. There wasn’t anything on him, so it’s just speculation.”
“Well they’ve got to be wrong. Are they sure it’s him?” Denial—stage three.
Dad scrubs both hands over his face, blowing out a heavy breath. I’m not making it easier for the man by a long stretch. But he’s had time to process this—I’m still working it out. Den. He’s life personified. Everywhere he goes people perk up and respond to his happy-go-lucky nature and joker personality. How can you kill life itself?
“We still need to ID the body,” Dad murmurs, “but they know it’s him, Meg.”
“They could still be wrong.” I push off the stool, darting for my backpack. “Has anyone tried ringing him—”
“Meg….” Mum’s hand covers mine as I tug at the zipper. When did she come back out?
I jerk my hand from under hers and yell, “Well? Have you tried?”
She recoils, new tears breaking the dam. “What the fuck do you think?”
“Try again. He might not have heard it, he might be busy or something, I don’t know….” Dad appears at the door to the lounge. “Try it, Dad!”
“Megan, you need to breathe. Calm down.”
“Calm down?” I shove my backpack roughly away. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Watch your language, young lady.” My father’s face is pure anger; it’s the expression that would make me cry as a small child. But today—today it makes me want to punch him.
“Watch my language?” I snarl. “That’s rich coming from somebody who’s been dropping F-bombs the whole time I’ve been home.”
“I don’t need this right now,” Mum murmurs, hands knitted in her normally perfect bob. She shakes her head from side to side, then drops her hands away and pins me with the weight of her frustration. “Stop being so selfish. Think about how we feel.”
“I am.” I dive around her and grab my backpack. “And right now I’m wondering who the fuck you both are. You’re not even trying to find out if they could be wrong.” When did the tears start? “You’re both happy to just accept your son, my brother, is dead. It’s like you couldn’t care less.”
Dad reaches for me, softness in his eyes. “Honey—”
“No.” I wrench away, twisting out of his reach. “I need to get out of here. I need to….” I don’t even know. I just know I can’t be in this pressure cooker a second longer. “I’m going out.”
“Megan!”
“No, Sandra. Let her.” Dad places his arm over Mum as a barrier, stopping her from inhibiting my exit.
I don’t say a thing. What can I say? They watch me leave, neither saying a word as I do. It seems the lot of us are tongue-tied for a change. This isn’t how bad news is supposed to be dealt. There’s meant to be tears, sure, but isn’t everybody supposed to hug one another and find comfort in numbers? I can’t recall ever seeing this scene played out in the movies or on TV and having the family screaming at one another. It’s not normal. It’s all wrong.
The whole day is fucked.
Den’s dead.
Den’s dead.
My brother has died.
I could rephrase it a thousand ways and it wouldn’t make a lick of difference; I can’t bring myself to find resolution in that. I’m not even sure if seeing his body would convince me. I spoke to him just yesterday. We were going to have brunch tomorrow. He teased me about taking me to the noisiest café he could find because he knew I’d have a hangover after tonight.
We had plans.
Den doesn’t renege on plans.
He doesn’t quit on a person.