Page 22 of The Dearly Departed

I cleared my throat and jammed my hands deep into my jeans pockets before saying, "I'm very sorry for your loss."

Travis's father nodded, blinking back his tears, as his mother gasped, wiping the tissue beneath her eyes.

"Th-thank you," she whispered, her voice quivering. "He fought so hard. His poor little body …"

"He couldn't take it anymore," his father agreed, his head still bobbing.

"I can only imagine," I replied, reciting the words I'd heard Leonard say many times before when talking to the families of lost loved ones.

"I just wish we’d had more time," his mother cried, her voice teetering on the edge of hysteria. "It's not fair."

"It's not," I agreed, dropping my gaze to the carpeted floor. "Honestly, I … I don't even know what to say. None of the BS I hear Uncle Leonard say feels right. This just sucks. It fucking sucks, and I … I'm just really sorry."

Travis's father's lips lifted into a smile despite the tremendous amount of pain I was sure he was in.

"You're right,” he replied. “It does fucking suck."

Somehow, unable to stop my dumb mouth from moving for maybe the first time in my life, I said, "But I can tell you one thing. I don't know you people, and I didn't know your kid, but I know for a fact that you love him. I know you'd do anything for him. And, to me, even though he was dealt with such a shitty hand, he's still so lucky to have parents like you. ‘Cause, believe me, a lot of kids …" I pressed my lips together, shaking my head. "Not so lucky."

His father tipped his head and asked, "What is your name?"

"Bram," I answered, itching now for that cigarette I hadn't gotten the chance to smoke.

"Bram," he repeated, swallowing. "Well … thank you, Bram. That … that means a lot."

"Yeah."

I startled when, from behind me, the door opened, and Leonard exited the room quietly. He looked at me first with a solemn nod of the head, silently telling me it was time, and then he addressed the parents of Travis McDonald.

"Some folks don't like to watch this part," he explained gently. "Would you like a minute to step out?"

The woman pulled her lips between her teeth, then quickly nodded before hurrying away and disappearing through a door at the other end of the hall. But the man remained, crossing his arms over his chest and choking back the tears as he shook his head.

"I made a promise," he muttered, as if Leonard or I knew what that meant, and we both nodded as if we did.

On a gurney, we rolled the tiny body of Travis McDonald through the hallway and out the front door, with his father trailing behind all the way. He stood at the bottom of the stoop, watching on as we loaded the hearse. I couldn't imagine watching. I couldn't imagine wanting to.

But then again, my personal experience with loss was much different from this. Much darker.

A young mother's life, taken by the contents of a needle in a dark, frigid, mean alley, and a small four-year-old boy's decision to hurry away with his crying baby brother in search of whatever help he could find in the dead of night.

I never looked back, afraid that if I did, I’d never be able to leave my mother’s cold body behind.

Travis's father couldn't stop looking.

Every few seconds, I glanced over my shoulder to find him slumping further and further against the mailbox at the bottom of the steps, his face crumpling and the tears streaming down his cheeks. I knew I was bearing witness to his heart crumbling, little by little, and I felt that weight against my chest again.

Empathy.

Leonard closed the back of the hearse and glanced into my eyes. Then he approached the broken man.

"Mr. McDonald, once again, my sincerest condolences."

"I would …" The man gasped, clutching a hand to his chest. "God, it hurts. This hurts so damn much.”

“I know,” Leonard replied, laying his hand on the man’s shoulder.

“I would give anything just to hear him laugh … one more time. Just one more time."