He's Gone

Damion

I had grown up on a farm. I had a tan that started in spring and carried over until late fall from all my time outside. I had worked hard on the farm, helping feed the horses and chickens. When I had gotten older, I used to ride alongside my grandpa in the front seat of his old beat-up truck to fix fences. The fences always needed fixing, it seemed.

“I want to go to the museum,” he answered after carefully thinking it over.

“Sounds like a plan. We’ll do the museum, have lunch, and then go to the park for some playtime.”

“Okay,” he said, turning to look back out the window.

I drove to our apartment, tucked the car into the cramped parking area, and headed inside. We lived in a nice building with a doorman. I felt relatively safe on the eighth floor. Our two-bedroom was modest, but a lot bigger than most.

“I’m going to get dinner started. You can watch TV for a bit if you’d like.”

“I’m going to play on my iPad,” he answered.

I put his backpack next to the door and went into the small kitchen to start dinner. I had never imagined myself living the life I had. When I was young and on the farm, I’d always pictured myself coming in from a hard day’s work to a hot dinner and a hotter wife. I had known I wanted children from an early age. I loved kids. It just turned out the woman I had fallen in love with wasn’t meant to bear children.

There was still a little pang of guilt that assaulted my thoughts time and again when I thought about Ann’s death. She had died in childbirth. Technically, she’d been gone when Oliver was delivered. One day, she’d been fine, a little swollen but nothing to worry about. So we had been told. A week later, she had a stroke.

If she hadn’t gotten pregnant, she would still be with me. I loved Oliver with all my heart and soul and knew Ann would have willingly given her life for our son, but some days, I just felt guilty. I felt guilty Oliver didn’t have a mom. I felt guilty Ann was dead and I was alive and well.

Was I doing enough for our son? After my grandfather’s visit, I had been questioning my parenting technique. I’d been questioning everything. Was the city the right place to raise him?

I worked too much. That, I knew for sure, but it wasn’t like I was independently wealthy. I had to work for my money. My job required long hours sometimes. It was part of life. I wasn’t the only single parent working long hours.

I dumped spaghetti noodles in the pot of boiling water and opened the jar of sauce. It was a quick and easy dinner. I opened the freezer to grab the frozen bread when I heard my phone ringing. It was likely someone from work. I was able to leave early enough to pick up Oliver from school, but I still had to be on standby for my staff that remained at the office.

I didn’t recognize the number right away but recognized the area code. It was from Montana. “Hello?” I answered, expecting to hear my grandfather’s voice.

“Hello, is this Damion Whittle?” a woman asked.

“It is. Who’s calling?”

“Mr. Whittle, my name is Denise. I work at Missouri River Medical Center. I’m calling about your grandfather, Oliver Whittle. He’s listed you as his next of kin.”

I nodded. She couldn’t see me, but I was struggling to think straight. Was it a heart attack? I had seen him a few days ago and knew he didn’t look well. “What happened? Is he okay?”

There was a brief pause. “I’m sorry to tell you this, especially over the phone, but he’s passed away.”

My mouth fell open about the same time my knees gave out. I was fortunate to be standing next to the couch when I answered the phone. I sank into the old, worn leather cushions and processed the words. “Passed away?” I repeated. “He died?” 

“I’m afraid so,” she answered. “I understand you are in New York. He’s made arrangements already and we will follow through with his wishes.”

“He made arrangements?” I asked, my mind befuddled by the information.

“Yes, sir. He’ll be picked up by a funeral home.”

“He made arrangements?” I repeated. “He knew he was going to die? How does that work?”

She cleared her throat. “He had end-stage pancreatic cancer. Yes, he knew he was going to die.”

My heart felt like a knife had been stabbed through it. My throat felt raw. “Cancer?”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said again.

That was it. That was the extent of her phone call. “That’s it?” I whispered. “He’s just gone?”

“I’m sorry. Is there someone you can talk to? You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

I scoffed, suddenly furious. “Yeah, there’s someone I can talk to. Unfortunately, you just told me he was dead!”

I ended the call, throwing my phone across the room. I squeezed my eyes closed, refusing to cry. He wouldn’t want me to cry. I couldn’t believe he was gone. My mind simply refused to accept it. It just wasn’t possible. He was my last remaining relative. Could I really be alone in the world? I had Oliver, I reminded myself. I wasn’t completely alone.

My heart hurt. It physically hurt in my chest. Images of my grandfather on the farm flashed through my brain. His smile and those eyes that had a way of seeing through any lie. I couldn’t believe I would never see those eyes again.

It hurt. The pain was almost unbearable until Oliver came into the room. He picked up my phone and brought it to me. “You dropped your phone, Daddy,” he said.

I smiled, refusing to let him see my pain. “Oops,” I choked out the only word I could get out.

He sat beside me on the couch, completely silent. I wrapped my arm around him and hugged him close. I was sick of losing people.

I refused to lose another person in my life.