Shout // Tears For Fears

Standing in the back of the chapel in a suit is not how I want to spend a Wednesday morning. I pull on the collar of the starched shirt, feeling choked by the tie. I've had to put on a suit for football events before, but it's never felt as suffocating as it does right now. Tight, like its squeezing the breath right out of me.

"It's hot," Mark mumbles. He's just as miserable as I am. My mom is destroying a tissue, twisting it in her hands while her eyes dart across the room. The remnants falling like demented snowflakes on her black dress. We're in hiding back here, not speaking to any of the people that have come to pay their respects, yet. So many fucking people. My parents don't have friends, not really. My mom wasn't the type to go to lunch with a group of wives from the north side of Fallbrook like so many of the other women in our neighborhood. She hung out at home, waiting for my dad's eventual return and slowly losing herself in the process.

That's not exactly accurate. She lost herself a long time ago. I just didn't realize it until right this fucking second, watching people I don't recognize mingle with the few that I do. My family is more fucked up than I thought.

I clear my throat. "I think it's time." I grab my mom by the elbow and guide her toward the door leading to the sanctuary. Everyone's seated, a quiet hum of voices as people whisper to each other. There's a dread building in my stomach, anticipating a total shit show to occur. My mom follows my lead, Mark trailing behind, as we enter the room and make our way down the center aisle. On display.

I feel the eyes on us, but I keep my gaze directed forward. I don't smile or reassure any of the guests--if that's what you call all these gawkers at a funeral--that we're okay. We're not fucking okay. We haven't been okay for years. Maybe ever.

I don't even dare to hope that we can start to be okay now. Not after this week. Not after the way it was so easy for me to slip back into that role I've played for too long. The asshole. I learned my place so early in life that I don't think I'll ever truly be free of it. It's too deep. Too many years not seeing the truth and getting caught up in the lie we told the world.

I push the thoughts away as we settle into the front pew. Right next to the casket. I fought to keep the damn thing closed. My mom wanted it open, but I don't think I'd be able to handle seeing the fucker's face, dead or not. I feel a burning in my gut, down deep where I can't reach it yet, that would for sure come to the surface if that casket was open. It's crawling under my skin. Familiar in some ways. Hannah gets under my skin in the same way, except it's as different as night and day with her.

With Hannah, this feeling is one I ache to capture, to hold on to. With Dad, I want it gone. As far from me as it can get. But sitting here, glaring at the oak coffin, knowing who's inside and what he's put me through, I feel it growing. Getting stronger. Chasing me.

I look down at my black leather loafers, shined to perfection, and shove the feeling away. Stuffing it as deep as I can. I close my eyes and run a hand down my face. I'm hanging on by a thread. I can't do this. Mark is on my left, my mom on my right, and I'm about to lose my shit.

Then I feel a hand on my shoulder, gripping gently in support. I don't have to turn and look to know who it is. I'd know her touch anywhere. She's the only person on the planet who has this hold on me. I lean back against the hard pew, getting closer to her, desperate for relief.

"It's so nice that so many people came to pay their respects."

My mom's whisper cuts through any peace I was feeling, reminding me exactly who we're here to respect. Bringing back the darkness I'm trying like an addict in rehab to turn away from. If only this were a drug I could purge from my system, detox. But it's not and I can't let it get anywhere near Hannah. I lean forward, pulling from her touch, feeling her absence immediately but not willing to take comfort from her right now.

The man we met with, a Reverend who works at the funeral home, steps up to a podium in front of us.

"I want to start by thanking everyone for coming to honor Michael McKinley, loving husband, devoted father and dedicated family man."

I want to puke.

As soon as the guy starts talking, I zone out. Remembering Pop Warner games my dad did attend, telling me the ways I'd screwed up even though I scored the most touchdowns and my team won. He wasn't there often, though, usually away on business. That's probably the only reason I continued to play. If he'd been around more, I would have lost the desire to even try.

I remember the times he'd come home after being gone for weeks, stepping into the house and immediately criticizing everything in his path: the dinner my mom made, the grades I got, Mark's haircut. Nothing measured up. Nothing was good enough.

He was never happy to see us. He was never glad to be home. His mood wouldn't improve until he was packing his bags to leave again.

I bring my head back up, still not listening to the Reverend speak lies about my dad and our family. I turn my head, looking across the sea of unfamiliar faces...hunting. There has to be someone out here truly sad that he's gone. I have a feeling, have for a while now, that there was someone he was always happy to return to when he left us. There has to be. I need there to be someone else. I need it to be a mistress that he wanted to be with instead of us because the alternative is worse. The alternative screams that he hated his family just because.

I look at every woman I can see. I watch for tears, for a quivering lip, for shame. But I don't see it. I want to get up and walk down each row, looking into the eyes of every woman in the room and find her.

That has to be it, right? It has to be another woman that he'd leave us for only to return angry that he'd had to leave her behind even for a few days. I know his job really did force him to stay on site for weeks at a time. That wasn't the lie. I can't believe that work was better than his family, though.

When I don't see the grieving mistress I'd hoped to see, I turn back and face the coffin.

Why the fuck did you hate us so much?

And that's the million-dollar question. The one I will never have the answer for. If only...

There's music playing, some hymn my mom took hours to choose. Flowers are set on either side of the casket, white Calla Lilies that also took hours for my mom to decide on. A large photo of my dad is on a stand, a picture from a few years back when we'd had a family photo shoot. I must have been eight and Mark was a toddler. We aren't in the picture, but I remember having them taken. My dad was a shit the entire time, criticizing my mom for wasting his precious time at home to have the pictures done. That was the last time we ever bothered him for something like that. Family time. This photo was probably the only part of the service that didn't take my mom hours to pick out. It was her only option.

In the haze of my fucked up family memories, the service concludes. It's time for the sympathy parade. Our family stands up while all of the guests stream past us with their somber faces and whispers of false support. Being sorry for our loss does nothing. They go home after noshing on the spread we have laid out for them and return to their happy lives. We go home to the same shit show we've had all week.

All our lives, more accurately.

Same shit, different day. Story of my entire life. I tune out the mumblings of the people walking past us. I don't understand why my mom decided to end the service this way. I'd rather walk out and follow a hearse to the cemetery. I could be the first to dump dirt on him after they lower him into the ground. That's a thing, right? A symbol that we've let him go.

Freedom from his iron fist.

Why don't I feel free?

***

The party has moved into a social hall next to the chapel. It's weird to have food after talking about a dead guy, but that's the norm. Feed those people here mourning with us. Although, glancing around, no one seems to be really mourning. I'm numb, my brother is playing a game on his phone and my mom has a phony look on her face. Peaceful. You'd think being released from the prison my dad kept her in would actually bring her peace. But I know better. She's lost. A total mess. What wife wouldn't be, I guess.

I'm standing next to a table, holding a cup of juice—funeral fruit punch—when a guy approaches me.

"Matt, right?" He reaches a hand out to shake mine.

I hesitate a half second, then remember myself and take his hand in mine, giving a strong pump. Feigning strength at this point.

"I worked with Mike. We spent hours on job sites together over the years."

I nod.

"Good man. Sorry for your loss."

I want to scoff, to laugh in the guy's face. Good man? Not that I ever saw. I hold my tongue thinking the guy will bug off, but he keeps going.

"He talked about you all the time. What you were up to, you and your brother, and how good of an athlete you were. Proud dad, that's for sure."

What.the.fuck.

It takes all of my effort to hold my jaw in place. It takes all of my concentration to not start raging at the guy, innocent remarks on his part but damning to me.

"He was always glad to be going home when his two weeks were up."

I take a step back. Two weeks? Two fucking weeks? My dad was gone for six weeks at a time, minimum.

"Uh, yeah. I never understood how the schedule worked with him. Seemed like he was always gone." I'm fishing for more. For some dumb ass reason, I don't want to call out the fact that my dad had been a lying sack of shit. Not yet. This dude might shut up if I do.

"Oh, well," the guy cupped the back of his neck, "we had a two-week shift when jobs were remote, which was pretty much always." He chuckled. "Two weeks on, one week off until the job was finished. Then we'd have a break in between site assignments."

"Hmmm." Do I ask? My dad never came home after just two weeks. "I don't remember my dad being home that often, to be honest. I think he just stayed on site the whole time."

The guy cleared his throat and glanced around the room. "Maybe. Not sure about that. Anyway, your dad will be missed." This time the guy did bug off.

A realization settled on me, so strong I had to take a seat. He fucking lied to everyone. About everything. He lied to the world about the kind of guy he was and how he felt about us. I'm not stupid enough to believe my dad thought highly of us deep down but treated us like shit on the surface. He talked a good game to his work buddies because it sounded better than his real thoughts. He showed us who he really was when he was at home. I should have believed him so much sooner than I did. But I wanted the dad he was when he wasn't with us, the one this random guy thought he was.

I got the asshole instead.

What shocks me the most is the fact that I've been doing the same thing this week. Putting on a front. Showing everyone else who I wish I was instead of who I really am. I've been the real guy when I'm with my mom, though.

Impatient.

Short.

Cruel.

Just like my dad.

I turn to see Hannah on the other side of the room, watching me. She's got sad eyes. Not sympathetic eyes, those I'd now recognize anywhere. Her sadness comes from a different place. Loneliness. Pain. Disappointment.

I did that.

I know what I have to do. It will kill me. I don't want to do it, not here. But keeping Hannah away from me for a while isn't enough anymore. I can't do this to her anymore. It's just like what I did with Amber. Keeping up a front that everything in my world was great when deep down, my life was crumbling apart.

I have to walk away. I have to let her go, save her from this kind of life. I can't be the selfish bastard I grew up watching. I don't want to lie anymore.

Fuck.

How ya doing? These feels were pretty intense so I hope you're okay. Hannah's thoughts will be revealed next Friday. As I'm writing and continuing to develop the plot details, I'm finding that not only Jeff's story but also Pete's story are swirling in the background. Jeff's will be a full length novel set at Fulton U. Pete's story will be a novella set in the Salt Creek universe, that mountain resort that everyone went to early in the story.

So... I hope you'll join me for the rest of these books! ❤️ AND LET ME KNOW IF YOU WOULD LIKE AN ADVANCED READER COPY OF BROKEN LULLABY!! We have more available if you are willing to write a goodreads and Amazon review. The sign up link is in my bio.

Shout is a song that brings back so many memories. I felt like Matt's inner voice was shouting these lyrics.

[There should be a GIF or video here. Update the app now to see it.]