Page 1 of Fight For Me

Wyatt

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

I nod for what feels like the hundredth time, sure that my face still holds the same carefully constructed neutral expression I’ve been wearing all day. A strange numbness has settled over me, everything around me taking on that not-quite-real tinge I’ve gotten used to over the last week or so.

“Thank you,” I say, the same thing I’ve said to everyone else who came before this middle-aged woman in a black dress who I’ve never met before. “We’ll all miss her so much.”

The stranger’s eyes fill with moisture, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming. A few people have succumbed to their grief right in front of me, forcing me to comfort them. If this woman begins to sob, I really don’t know if I can handle it.

To my immense relief, she merely pats my arm and murmurs, “she was so proud of you,” before walking away.

“Why don’t you take a break, kid?” my dad says, his voice low in my ear. “Go get some food. Talk to Will or something.”

I cast a glance around the somber room, at the people who still hover nearby, waiting for their chance to give their condolences. The possibility of escape sounds too good to be true. My younger brother Will is just as tall as I am, but he’s also burly and broad with a beard and a bunch of tattoos, some visible at the edges of his dark suit. He intimidates just about everyone who doesn’t know him well. Not many people will approach me if I go sit with Will for a few minutes.

But this is your responsibility,a voice in my head reminds me.You’re her closest family. And you owe her, for everything.

My mom eyes me from Dad’s other side, her expression even more concerned than his. “You can take a break, Wyatt,” she murmurs. “Alice wouldn’t want—” Her voice chokes off at my grandmother’s name, and my stomach clenches, nausea running through me. My mom is clearly struggling today. I can’t just walk away and leave the job to her.

But my dad must have wordlessly communicated something with Will from across the room, because a large hand curls around my shoulder. “Come grab a plate with me,” he says, his gruff voice softer than usual, more gentle. Everyone is acting like this with me—like I’m fragile, about to break. I wish I could tell them they don’t need to bother, wish I could explain to them how numb I am without sounding like an unfeeling asshole.

“Come on,” he says, tugging on me a little harder. “You’re pale as a ghost, man. Last thing you want to do is get dizzy or something.”

The idea of passing out at my grandmother’s wake is enough to get my feet moving. I refuse to make this day about me. So I allow Will to steer me over to a secluded alcove. He pushes me down into the ugliest flowered chair I’ve ever seen, rock-hard with faded velvet cushions. He takes the couch across from me. A moment later, our cousin Rose appears at my side, setting a plate carefully on my knee. She doesn’t say anything, just kisses the top of my head before walking away. A stab of emotion pierces the ever-present numbness but I manage to swallow it back.

“Not too much longer,” Will says, glancing at his watch. “Then you can get some rest.”

I don’t tell him that there’s a part of me dreading the end of this day. Yes, standing here talking to all these people is draining and difficult, just as the funeral was earlier. And the viewing yesterday—God, the viewing may have been the worst part of this hellish week, knowing my grandmother was laying there in that box, all the warmth and energy I loved about her gone forever.

But as hard as all this has been, the ending scares me more than I want to admit. When my grandfather succumbed to cancer three months ago, I learned that the funeral week seems to exist in a weird gap of space, where time is frozen. Your only task is to get through each day, each part of this weird death ritual we humans practice. It was after his wake, after the last of the mourners had gone home, that it all truly feltreal. That was the true start of my life without him, without the numbing distraction of the funeral, and there was nothing I could do except begin it.

I have a feeling that the end of this day—the end of the last act of duty I’ll carry out for either of my grandparents—will be even worse. The hole he left in my life is bigger now because it contains her, too.

“Wyatt,” Will says, his voice a little sharp, and I jerk my head up, realizing that I’ve been staring into space for the past few minutes, my food untouched. God knows what my face looks like.

“Eat, man,” he urges. Robotically, I pick up a tiny, crustless sandwich and shove it in my mouth. It feels like sawdust as I chew, the taste barely registering.

Will lets me eat in silence for a few minutes, not pressing me. But I can see him watching me out of the corner of his eye, like he’s scared I’m about to lose it or something. “I’m fine, man,” I finally say.

He sighs. “No, you’re not.”

I don’t really have a response for that. There may be ten years in age between us, but my younger brother and I have always been close. He knows me better than just about anyone and there’s not really a point lying to him.

“You know Dad is going to be on your case to come home,” he says, his eyes drifting over to our parents, standing in the spot I just vacated, shaking hands with yet another stranger. Mom’s eyes are glassy, and from the way my Dad’s other hand is clenched on her back, she’s not entirely steady on her feet.

I need to talk to her. Alice and Bruce Warner may not have been her blood relatives, but they were still her family. The only true parents she ever had. I know she’s struggling with this, know it’s hitting her hard that they’re both gone, the two deaths coming in such quick succession. My little sister CeCe told me Mom nearly collapsed when she got the call about Grandma, her grief overwhelming. If there’s anyone in this room who might be hurting as badly as I am, it’s my mother.

But every time I tell myself to go to her, to sit down and talk, to try to grieve with her, something stops me.

Maybe I’m just not ready to not be numb yet.

I realize that I’ve been staring at her too long. Time is doing that weird thing again. I’ve been losing huge gaps of it for the last five days. I tear my eyes back to my plate, trying to remember what my brother had said. Right, Dad.

“He already has,” I tell him. “He’s wanted me to have the surgery in LA from the beginning.” I flex my tight, aching hand, grateful that I’d refused when he first brought it up. I’d considered it—the idea of being stuck in my apartment in rainy Seattle without being allowed to play my piano sounded like torture. The complete opposite of recuperating in bright, sunny LA. God knows there’d be enough siblings and cousins running around there to distract me.

In the end, I decided I didn’t want to leave Grandma so soon after Grandpa died, and put off the surgery for a few months, as hard as it was to imagine not being able to play for so long. But thank God I did—I would have never forgiven myself if I hadn’t been here for her last weeks.

I miss whatever Will says and shake my head. “Sorry, man. I keep zoning out.”