Copyright Alex Douglas 2009
Author's note: This is a revised version of a previous unfinished story. It's taken me 6 years to finish it, so finally here it is. All feedback greatly appreciated. Email me at alex_d0uglas@yahoo.co.uk and I'll do my best to reply.
The day of the funeral was sunny and bright, with a cloudless sky. Megan picked Sean up and they drove to the funeral home in silence. Sean's muscles were aching after the night before. Owen had called at the house and before they'd even finished their first beer, Sean pounced on him and fucked him senseless. It seemed obscene to be so horny at such a time, but he couldn't help it.
The funeral home was packed with people, the mourners spilling out onto the lawn. Despite what Cal had said, quite a few people were dressed in black. Sean fingered his tie, feeling uncomfortable. It had been so long since he'd worn one. The knot was tight and he pulled at it, staring around at the crowd. There were some journalists hovering around under a clump of trees, cameras in hand. Quite fitting for the funeral of a photographer.
"Sean, hi!" A familiar voice. Sean squinted at the approaching figure. Tall, with hair like flame. Almost forty years old and a body to die for, smooth inside the Armani suit he was wearing.
"Gary!" he said, shaking the outstretched hand, forcing a smile. He noticed the other man's eyes travelling over his body, pausing at his belly, his leg.
"How's the leg?" Without waiting for a reply, he continued. "You should come back. At least do some work on the upper body, and that gut!" He slapped Sean's stomach, laughing. "Seriously, we miss having you around. There are some disappointed housewives out there, missing their personal trainer."
Irritated, Sean sucked in his stomach. "I've gained six kilos, Gary. I'm hardly a candidate for the Fat Club yet."
There was a pause. Sean tried not to notice Megan smirking into her handkerchief. Gary shrugged. "It's a terrible thing."
"It's only a bit of fat, for Christ's sake."
Gary raised an eyebrow. "I meant Jeff. You remember him from the photo shoots, don't you?" He shook his head. "A terrible waste. He was an excellent photographer. He really did us proud on that brochure. He even had Dave looking like a god and that..." he laughed. "That takes talent. Anyway," he slapped Sean on the back, "I'd better get back to the wife. Take care of yourself, mate. There's always a job waiting for you if you're ever up to it." He winked and walked off.
Sean sighed. "I hate that guy," he said to Megan out of the corner of his mouth.
Tears were edging out of her eyes. "Sorry," she said. "Funerals make me kind of hysterical. When you said that about it's only a bit of fat..." Her shoulders started to shake and she pressed the handkerchief against her mouth, wiping at her eyes. "His face!"
"Shut up and stop laughing," Sean snapped. "We're here for Cal, remember?"
Cal was standing by the door with an elderly couple. Jeff's parents. They were shaking the hands of the people entering the hall, accepting condolences, pats on the shoulder and murmured words. Jeff's mother looked gaunt in an ill-fitting black dress, his father peering at the world through milk-bottle glasses as if it was all a dream. Cal himself was dressed entirely in black. His normal clothes.
His face broke into a smile when he saw Sean and Megan. "Glad you made it," he said. He hugged Megan, then Sean. "Sit with me," he whispered, his breath warm on Sean's ear. He was sweating, pale and tense looking.
"Maureen Sullivan," the woman said, holding out a trembling hand. "This is my husband, Joe. Thank you for coming." The same words she had said all morning. Her face was blank. Sean's heart went out to her.
"Sean Rooney," he said. "This is Megan, my sister. We're...sorry for your loss." The platitude didn't come easily. There didn't seem to be anything else to say.
A man poked his head out of the door. "Better get inside," he said, looking at his watch. "It's starting."
With Megan's hand tight in his, Sean followed Cal to the front row, conscious of being watched. He spotted Jude a few rows back from the front, nodded a hello to her. There was a projector aimed at a screen ahead, which almost filled the whole wall. He took his seat, then had to reach under his arse to get the leaflet that outlined the brief programme. It was going to be a humanist funeral, according to the blurb beside the blurred photo of the hall. Jeff hadn't taken that one, for sure.
The same man who had summoned them inside was scanning the room, pulling at his badly knotted tie, smoothing at his thinning hair. He seemed to be satisfied that everyone was inside. Sean heard the doors being pulled shut. His eyes were drawn to Cal's hands. He was twisting his wedding ring, staring at the floor, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else in the world than where he was.
The man tapped a microphone, and there was a screech of feedback. He fiddled with it for a second and cleared his throat. "To all of you who don't know me," he said, "my name is Frank Sullivan and I'm Jeff's cousin. We're..." he pulled out a crumpled page from his pocket and tried to smooth it out against the lectern, "we're here today to remember the life of Jeff Sullivan, beloved son, husband and friend. Some of you will remember from my wedding that I'm not the best public speaker in the world..." There were a few chuckles, "So I'll keep it short. As you may know, Jeff was an atheist, so there'll be no religious ceremony, just as he wished. There's a video, which I won't start telling you about because...well, you'll see it...and..." he started to blush. "After that there'll be a chance for anyone who wishes to come to the front and share any...well, memories or thoughts. So...on with the er, show."
Purple in the face, he went to sit down. Sean heard him whispering to the woman beside him. "I can't believe I said 'show.'"
The lights were dimmed and the projector flicked on. The screen was lit up with a familiar room, the living room where Sean had met Jeff for the first time. Someone was tapping the camcorder, and then Jeff came into view, sitting down on the sofa and adjusting the camera again. He looked tired, but his eyes were bright. He took a gulp from a bottle of beer and cleared his throat.
"Well," he said. "As they say in the best of films, if you're watching this, then I must be dead." He smiled, but there was no humour in it. "Always a great career move for an artist, dying. I suppose plugging my exhibition would be in bad taste?" He took another swig of beer and laughed. "Shit, I can hardly believe it. Er...thanks for making it to my goodbye party. There'll be a big piss up afterwards so..." He paused. "I always express myself better in pictures, so I'll say goodbye and leave you with this. And Cal..." he held up his left hand and placed it on his heart, pointing at the ring, "I'm sorry it couldn't be forever like I promised. I love you. Cheers." He raised his beer and clicked off the camcorder.
Then the music started, along with a slide show. The first one read "My life in pictures". Images started to flash by, not of professionally taken pictures but the family snaps, blurred and imperfect, in no particular order. A blonde boy on a beach, knees purple with cold, holding up a crab. Jeff's parents, long haired and wearing bell bottoms, beaming at the baby in the pram in front of a pebble dashed wall. A drunken holiday shot of Jeff getting pushed into a swimming pool, still holding a glass of whiskey. Then Jeff and Cal, dusted with confetti, dancing the first dance of the night after their wedding. The photo had a thumb over the bottom left corner.
Cal made a strangled noise and whispered "Excuse me" to Jeff's parents, pushing past Sean and heading for the door.
Megan nudged Sean. "Go on," she urged, gesturing at the door. He looked helplessly at her. Jeff's mother was weeping silently into her handkerchief beside the empty chair. The images continued on the screen, Jeff in his studio staring at a blank canvas. Night time at a bar, Jeff singing karaoke with his arm around a drunken woman with raccoon eyes. A blurred picture of Cal and him posing with their new puppy outside their house just before he got sick. It was all so desperately sad. Sean got up and headed after Cal, glad to get away from the pictures.
Cal was sitting on a bench in the garden, his head in his hands. "I'm sorry," he said when Sean sat down beside him. "I couldn't stand it any more. Those pictures... I really miss him, Sean." He looked up, his eyes drifting over the lawn in front, over to the gates where some people were getting out of a car. "Shit is that...?"
Cal's mother, Valerie, and all three of his brothers. All dressed in black, squinting at a piece of paper then looking at the funeral home. Two spots of colour formed on Cal's cheeks as he stood up. "I don't believe it," he murmured. "They come today of all days?" He brushed the front of his suit down and walked over towards the gate.
Sean stayed on the bench, the sun warm on his face. He watched Cal stand stiffly by the gate, talking to his mother. He couldn't hear what they were saying, couldn't imagine. But it seemed there was no need for words as Valerie enveloped her youngest son in her arms, stroking his hair, her face twisted in tears of happiness. His brothers crowded around, hugging him tight as a scrum. But still no sign of Jack, Cal's father. Sean shook his head and made his way back inside to join Megan. Jeff's father was at the lectern, telling the story of Jeff's first photograph and forcing a smile in all the right places. This is hell. He thought about Jeff, dead at thirty five, remembered by so many people. It could so easily have been me, he thought. If those paramedics had been just a couple of minutes later. If the rain had been worse. Who'd have been here?
= = = = =
The funeral threw Sean into a black mood. He didn't want to visit Megan, or see Owen. He told them he was sick with the flu and locked his front door, hiding from the sunlight and watching mind numbing TV for what seemed like days, ordering pizza and finally curling up on the sofa with the bottle of tequila Cal had bought to replace the one he had guzzled the night after Jeff's death.
As the alcohol kicked in, he took stock of his life. Before the accident, he'd had a lot of friends, a job, a decent social life. Then after it, through all the pain of the rehabilitation, he'd pushed everyone away. Now his old friends from the skydiving centre only called occasionally, and the people he'd worked with at the gym seemed to have given up on him. He only had himself to blame. And the worst thing was, he didn't understand why he had done it, any of it.
"Fuck this shit," he said to himself, standing up, ignoring the pain in his leg and putting on some music. His head was spinning and he started dancing, whirling around the living room, sloshing the drink all over the floor. He was tired of thinking. But then his leg wobbled and he fell forward, crashing through the coffee table and landing in a heap.
Lying there, breathless, he thought of Cal. It sucked to be in love, he thought bitterly. It sucked worse than going to the physiotherapist, or listening to Gary commenting on his weight gain. The timing was so exquisitely wrong. He crawled over to the sofa and grabbed the bottle, dispensing with the glass. He had to face the awful truth that part of him, an evil, nasty part, was glad Jeff was no longer around. Because if he was still alive and healthy, there would be no hope of ever getting together with Cal. He might not even have kept in touch with his former friend at all, if that had been the case. He imagined going to their house for barbeques, the pretentious conversations with Jeff's arty farty friends who'd been at the funeral. Seeing Cal happy with another man. It would have driven him insane.
In another world, he and Jeff might even have been friends. The other man's snarky personality would have made him laugh. He liked that Jeff wasn't afraid to speak his mind. And it hadn't been lost on Sean, the music Jeff had chosen to accompany the slideshow of his life. Time is running out, by Muse. Anyone who was a Muse fan was OK in Sean's book. He gulped at the tequila. "Ah Jeff," he said, sniffing, tears welling up in his eyes. "I'm so sorry, mate."
His stomach lurched and he grabbed the sofa, holding on while the living room tumbled around him. The self pity was driving him mad. There had been no second chances for Jeff. And yet he, Sean, had been snatched back from death and was wasting his days being maudlin and lazy and doing fuck all.
The appointment at the hospital was ringed in red on his calendar for 3.30pm the next day. Visions of crumbled bones on an x-ray. The news that he'd never walk properly again, that he'd always be in pain. Maybe that was why he hadn't tried to get his life back to the way it had been. Maybe he had subconsciously known all along that his body would never let him, not after what he'd done to it. But...
His thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell. Squinting at the clock, he saw that it was only 8.30. "Fuck," he muttered. Oblivion was late coming. He thought about ignoring it, but it rang again and again. "Fuck," he said again, pulling himself to his feet. If it was the Mormons again, they were going to get an earful. Why were they always so damn good looking?
It took a minute to fumble open the door. But it wasn't the Mormons. "Jesus, Sean," Cal said, stepping into the hall, "you smell like a brewery. Are you ok?"
He leaned against the wall. "What are you doing here?" he said, hearing his words coming out all slurred. "I'm like...sick. Come back tomorrow."
"Sick?" Cal scoffed. "Wasted more like it." He went into the living room. "What the hell have you been doing?"
Sean pushed the door shut. It slammed a little too loudly. He stumbled in past Cal and crashed onto the sofa. "It was in the way," he said, gesturing at the general direction of the smashed table.
Cal stood over him, hands on his hips. "I was going to say thank you for what you did," he said. "Calling my mum, I mean. We're...well, getting there."
"Glad I could help," Sean mumbled. He couldn't look at Cal. He felt as if the evil thoughts he had been thinking were plastered all over his face. His stomach started to churn. The tequila was going to make a reappearance if he didn't..."Toilet," he said, his voice thick, and blundered out into the hall and up the stairs, falling on his knees beside the toilet just as the first wave of nausea forced the contents of his stomach into the porcelain bowl. He hugged it, gasping, heaving. Just for a few seconds, as his stomach almost turned itself inside out, he thought he would never breathe again. Then he felt a hand rubbing his back. The air rushed back into his lungs and he wiped tears away from his eyes.
"Drink this," Cal handed him a glass of water. "It makes the puking easier."
"...'s precious," Sean mumbled, taking a gulp. It didn't stay down long.
"What's precious?" Cal knelt beside him, rubbing his back, stroking his hair.
When he could breathe again and there was nothing left to throw up, he slumped down the side of the toilet onto the floor, exhausted. The carpet was very comfortable. "Air," he mumbled, ignoring Cal's attempts to get him back into a sitting position. Since when had the carpet felt so soft? And the spare toilet roll made a nice pillow. "Sweet," he said, and fell asleep. There would be no dreams tonight.
= = = = =
Another sunny day. It seemed obscene, somehow. The light burned his eyes. He looked around. How had he got to bed? There was a bucket on the floor, a glass of water and a packet of Nurofen on the bedside table. And the time! It was already 12:30. The appointment was at 3:30pm, it would take half an hour to get there...
He swung himself into a sitting position and groaned, reaching for the medicine and swallowing a few pills. The headache wasn't there yet, but it was definitely in the post. His throat ached. He could taste acid and tequila in the back of his throat, in his nostrils. Never again, he vowed, pulling on his bath robe and scratching his balls.
A long, cool shower cleared his head. There was a bruise on his arm. When did that happen? Then he remembered the coffee table and groaned again. Wandering downstairs, he saw a note on the hall table.
"Had to go and sort out the dog," it read. "Hope you're feeling better. Will call later. Cal xx"
Cal had been here? He scratched his head. The night before was pretty hazy. Then he remembered someone rubbing his back. Of course, he had called round to thank him for getting in touch with Valerie. At least something good had come out of the whole situation. He fixed himself some toast, but didn't have enough saliva to eat it. Chugging a can of coke, he tried to think trivial thoughts, anything than think about what was going to happen at the hospital.
Somehow he managed to occupy himself with tidying up until Megan arrived to pick him up. He was silent all the way to the hospital, listening to the latest updates on Jack's sleeping and eating habits. The sun was pouring out through a gap in the clouds and his eyes were drawn to it. The hospital was a grim seventies era structure, which a paint job had failed to cheer up. Getting out of the car, he felt the familiar bolt of pain travel down his leg and paused to rest his palms against the roof of the car, breathing deeply.
"Give me a ring when you're done," Megan said, pulling the door shut. "I'm going to pop over to the shops to get some more nappies."
Miraculously, he didn't have to wait long between the x-ray and the follow up. The consultant was a bespectacled man in his mid-fifties with a thin, pinched face and almost no lips. Sean watched the mole on his chin moving as he frowned and sucked the tip of his pen, poring over Sean's fat medical file and comparing the new x-ray to the previous ones. Everywhere, the all-pervading smell of disinfectant.
"Hmm, as I suspected," he said, looking at Sean over the top of his glasses. "See here..." he put the x-rays onto a board to illuminate them, "here and here, the bones haven't healed properly, just where the pins were, see?" He put the x-rays down and folded his hands. " Basically, you have a choice. You can do nothing, in which case your mobility will be permanently affected. Or we take a chance and re-break the bone here...and here...put new pins in, and well, basically start again. With the extent of the original breaks, it's quite possible that some small fractures were missed on the x-ray, but of course now we have a much clearer picture. Anyway, you'd be in a full leg cast for at least six months, probably a wheelchair in the beginning." He smiled. "Still, it's nothing you haven't done before. And there's an excellent chance you'll be fine. It's just taking a little longer than we expected."
Sean stared at the x-ray, his mouth dry. Re-break. Wheelchair. Pins. Cast. The words reeled in his head. Not again. The consultant was telling him how lucky he was to be alive. He nodded and then rested his head in his hands. He felt the headache starting to build behind the tears in his eyes. He hadn't cried since he was a teenager, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. It had all been for nothing, all that pain and effort. He slumped over the desk, overwhelmed with a sense of despair as the tears kept coming. His body shook and he tried to breathe as his nose clogged up with snot. Then he felt a prod on his back, and the doctor handed him a box of tissues.
"Thanks," he said, wiping his face. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm like this. I know I should feel lucky to be alive, but I don't. Feel lucky." Getting control of himself, he blew his nose and crumpled the tissue into a ball, annoyed that the doctor had got to witness such a display.
"Sean," the consultant's voice was gentle. "I know how much you put in to the physio. And now you're faced with going back to square one, doing it again. Of course you're going to feel low. Just think about what I've said. You might need to make arrangements before you come in, so go home, sleep on it and let me know what you decide."
Numbly, Sean stood up. "Thanks," he said, shaking the doctor's hand. He pulled out his phone and texted Megan, to come and pick him up and went to get a coffee. Its bitter taste matched his mood. He watched a little girl skipping round the room, around the bored and miserable people and wished he could throw the coffee down and just join her. The next year stretched ahead like an empty desert.