Growing Up Unconditional

Growing Up Unconditional

A Short Story by Vernon Gaskill

Copyright 2007 Spiritpencil Publishing & G. Vernon Gaskill, All Rights Reserved

My life has had its share of scary days, but none that compare to that Monday. I was nine years old and walking down the hallway of my new school holding my Mom’s hand. My short life up to that point had known only one school, one town, one house, and they were all over seventeen hundred miles away.

          It had been exactly two weeks since my Father’s funeral and the time since had been somewhat of a whirlwind. Mom and I had traveled back to South Carolina, where she and my Father had been raised and laid him to rest. Then we returned to New Mexico to pack the house and the car only to head back to South Carolina to stay with my Mother’s parents until we found a house of our own. My Father was in the Air Force and so Uncle Sam footed the bill for shipping our belongings to my Grandparent’s home, the house my Mom had lived in when she was my age. We had arrived on a Friday and had been showered with attention from every relative within driving distance.

          My Mom was holding it together well, though her pillow didn’t always muffle the sobs as much as she would have liked, and I fell asleep many nights listening to them from the next room. I knew somehow, even at that tender age that I had to be strong for her, and that included hiding my fear of the new town, the new house, and the new school that was starting soon.

          Lying in my bed that Monday morning, a pillow the size of Texas wouldn’t have helped me.

In the school hallway, I forced a smile as she knelt down to kiss me goodbye. To our credit, neither of us cried, at least not in front of the other. She handed me over to my teacher, Mrs. Long, and I walked into my new classroom. I remember it vividly.

          First I saw Johnny, then Jake, then Laura and Dave. They were the only faces that were smiling in the room and they happened to be surrounding my desk. They all greeted me and introduced themselves and as the day wore on, they soothed my fears with their kindness and acceptance. We became fast friends, and the most unusual of fast friends. The friendship started off strong and only grew, never fading.

From that point on, I never had a best friend. I had four.

          We went through nine years of school together and spent most of the time away from school in each other’s company. I didn’t have any way of knowing that this type of friendship was rare, that I was blessed to have them. At least not back then. We were absolutely inseparable. In addition to attending the same schools, we went to the same church, and grew up in the same youth groups, another blessing not fully appreciated till later. We took turns at each other’s houses for sleepovers and all of our parents had a hand in raising us all. We had girlfriends and boyfriends, but they never came between us, or if they did, they were short lived relationships. We got into trouble at times, as all kids do, but we also avoided a lot by being with each other and holding ourselves up to a standard that was a reflection of our parents.

          I had no idea back then what a glorious childhood I was living, and it passed by so quickly that before we knew it we were in high school. We had jobs. We had cars, at least most of us. Then, all of a sudden, we were seniors.

          I remember so fondly our excitement towards the end of our senior year. You see, in our little town it was a tradition, a right of passage if you will, that following graduation the seniors went to the beach. Myrtle Beach. And you all left the day after graduation, thereby creating a series of convoys heading face first into a week of fun we had only heard now legendary tales about up to that point. Our time was fast approaching and it was all we could do to contain ourselves. We were so anxious about the trip we even had shirts made up in anticipation of the trip. The five of us had gone to a sporting goods store where they made sports jerseys and purchased white t-shirts, and we had but two words imprinted across our chests.

          “The Beach”

          It was all that needed to be said.

          The Sunday before graduation, I was on the roof repairing some loose shingles when my Mom called to me crying. I hurried down the ladder as she explained that my Grandfather had suffered a heart attack and we had to rush to the hospital. I drove with my Mom beside me as fast as I could over to my Grandmother’s house and then we all three went to the hospital.

          My Grandmother and Mom went back while I stood in the waiting room. I couldn’t sit down because my world was spinning too fast. I paced back and forth for almost an hour before a nurse came to get me.

When I saw my Mom’s face, I knew. I had seen that same look nine years ago. I burst into tears and we all three held each other in the hallway outside the room where my Grandfather died.

It was later that afternoon when the timing of this tragedy actually hit me. It was when my Mom said the funeral couldn’t be on Wednesday, because that was my graduation. It would have to be Thursday.

Beach day. A day almost nine years in the making. I tried not to let myself believe that the trip still mattered, but it did. The loss I was feeling for my Grandfather was only compounded by the realization that I couldn’t go on my only chance ever for a senior beach trip. Though it was killing me inside, I never even raised the issue with my Mom or Grandmother, as I assumed they knew that I wouldn’t leave them.

My friends had rushed over to the house as soon as they heard and they all stayed with me till graduation night. They, along with their parents, cooked, cleaned, and took care of anything else they could. I truly pity those who haven’t known the bond of friendship our families had.

And so my graduation night was, to say the least, bittersweet. I couldn’t even look in the crowd for my Mom and Grandmother because I knew that Grandpa wasn’t going to be there. But as we did that first Monday nine years ago, we held it together pretty well. My friends offered to come back to my house and forego the graduation parties but I insisted that they not miss out on anything on Grandpa’s account. He wouldn’t have wanted it that way, I told them.

We had planned to go to the parties and leave in enough time to be able to hit the beach soon after sunrise and I told them that was exactly what they were going to do. I helped them pack Jake’s car and then saw them off as they headed to the parties I wouldn’t attend. They hugged me and told me they loved me and that they would be thinking about me. I told them not to. I told them to make the trip everything we had dreamed it would be and to come back with stories better than any we had ever heard.

          I waved to them as they drove off and I watched them disappear over the horizon.

That night was supposed to be the happiest night of my life. The night I had dreamed of leading to the trip I had dreamed of for what seemed like forever. For the first time, on the way home I allowed myself to break down. The sorrow, the self-pity, the anger all came out as I took a series of miscellaneous turns to prolong the trip home.

          I had calmed myself by the time I arrived at my Grandparent’s house and tried my best not to show any ill effects of my collapse. In the kitchen I found my Grandmother with her friends from church. I leaned down and kissed her cheek and put my arm around her.

          “You need anything, Grandma?”, I asked.

          She looked up and smiled, then buried her head in my side as she hugged my waist.

          “No, Sweetheart, I’m fine”, she said, then she looked back up at me. I’ve got all the help I need right here.”

          She patted my back and hugged me again before rising from her chair.“But you have got to be starved. Let me get you someth..”

          A chorus of “no” and “uh-uh” and “you sit down, Mary” bombarded her and though she tried to ignore them, they forced her back to her seat. Two of her friends tried to lead me to the counter filled with food as another grabbed a plate, but I waved them off.

          “I really couldn’t eat a bite, but thank you”, I said.           “Where’s Mom?”

          “She went to lay down, Sweetheart. You want to go check on her?”

          “Yeah, I think I will”, I said, and I kissed her forehead and hugged her again. She was so strong, I thought, and I admired her as much as I adored her.

          I knocked lightly on the door to the room Mom and I shared for the first two years after my Father had died and opened it slowly.

          Mom raised her head up and smiled through her puffy, red eyes.

          I went and laid down beside her, and pulled her close. After a minute, she started to cry again and I held her tighter.

          “Now I know how you felt, Matt”, she said. “I know what it’s like to lose your Dad”.

          I searched for the words, but none would come. I simply held her till she fell asleep, and then quietly left the room. I slept on the living room sofa in the clothes I wore to my graduation, and drifted off to sleep dreading the day I had looked forward to more than any other day in my life.

          I was awakened by the sound of pots and pans and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. After showering and eating a couple of pieces of toast and bacon made by my Grandmother’s friends from church, I went out to the front porch, where Grandpa had loved to sit in the evenings and on weekends. Even though he was gone, I still went to the chair beside his, and sat down wallowing in a sea of self-pity.

          My friends were at the beach. Where I was supposed to be. They were probably on the beach by now. Like I was supposed to be. For the first time, I felt jealousy towards my friends, envied them almost to the point of resentment. They were in bathing suits and sunglasses and I was dressed for my Grandfather’s funeral.

          It just wasn’t fair. What had I possibly done to deserve this? I actually looked up and silently asked this of God. I knew I had always been taught that God has a purpose for everything, but for the life of me I couldn’t imagine what that might be, and I would have welcomed the opportunity at that very moment to debate that point with the Almighty himself.

          Before long, we were in the car, driving to the funeral home for one last family viewing of Grandpa before the service. Standing by the casket, I kept my arms around my Mother as she sobbed and hugged all of my relatives, aunts, uncles and cousins. For me, there were no tears, however. I was too angry. I tried with all my might to suppress the rage, but it had taken over my very being. I was angry that this had happened and as a result my Mother and Grandmother were so devastated. I was angry that my other relatives were crying, angry that my Grandfather was dead. I was angry that I wasn’t at the beach.

          My temperament was not soothed with the enlightenment that the pall bearers, of whom I was one, sat separately from the rest of the family. Not being able to hold my Mother’s hand or put my arm around her during this service only added to my rage.

          Then the service started. Two close friends of my Grandfather spoke and gave wonderful tributes to him. Hearing storied about Grandpa, both funny and sentimental, seemed to calm me. By the time Pastor Blake stood to speak, my anger had subsided, and was slowly being replaced by shame. All three men spoke of my Grandfather’s selflessness and how he was always quick to lend a helping hand, whether it was asked for or not. They spoke of the love he had for his Lord, and how it was so important to him that his family share that love. At one point, Pastor Blake told a story about how my Grandfather had lost one of his best friends and that he had come to the Pastor’s office one day to talk to him about it.

          “I just don’t understand it, Pastor”, he had said. “Why him? Why now? I just can’t see any good coming out of this”

          “We may never know the answer to that question”, Pastor Blake had told him. “But as hard as it is, we have to have faith that God knows what he’s doing and he won’t give us more than we can handle.”

          Pastor Blake said they sat in silence for a minute or so, and then Grandpa looked at him with tears in his eyes.

          “I’m just angry, I guess”, he said. “Angry that I lost my friend and that his family has to go through this.”

          There were another few moments of silence, and then Grandpa said “Well, I guess if I would just quit worrying about myself and concentrate on helping his family through this, maybe I wouldn’t have time to be so angry”

          Pastor Blake paused and then looked out at the overflowing crowd in the sanctuary and said “And he did. And they helped him through it too. And that pearl of wisdom from this man we pay our respects to today will serve us all well in the days to come. Let’s not think of ourselves, but honor his memory by taking care of each other.”

          The words hit me hard. All morning long, all I could think about was how this tragedy had affected me. I looked over at my Mother and the rest of my family and I was truly humbled and ashamed. I silently asked for forgiveness from God and from Grandpa if he could hear me. I vowed then and there to concentrate on taking care of my family and not worry about myself. Although at that point I honestly felt that I deserved no pity, none at all.

          The service reached an end and the other pall bearers and I took our places alongside the casket as we prepared to roll it out to the hearse. I looked over at my family and prayed they didn’t know how selfish I had been. My eyes stopped on my Mother and Grandmother.

          “I’m going to take care of you both”, I thought. “I’m going to worry about you and let God take care of the rest”

          But he already had.

          We started down the center of the church and as my eyes scanned over the crowd, through fresh tears welled up in my eyes I smiled.

          First I saw Johnny, then Jake, then Laura and Dave. They had made it halfway to Myrtle Beach when they decided they were needed elsewhere. I didn’t take my eyes off of them the entire way. Laura was sitting on the end of the pew and as I passed, I reached down and grabbed her hand. Right then, at that very moment, I knew everything was going to be alright.

We took the casket to the gravesite and listened to some more words of comfort from Pastor Blake, and then it was over. I went over and hugged my family and thanked everyone I saw for coming.

I was standing by Mom when my friends walked up. She had seen them as I had, leaving the church. Not even their own parents knew they were there till after the service. She grabbed and hugged every one of them. When she wrapped her arms around Jake, he asked how she was doing.

Oh, I’m fine, now, Jake”, she said. “All my kids are here”

For the rest of the day I tried to thank them but every time I started to, they would interrupt me and change the subject. They stayed with us that night and we camped out in the living room like we had done as kids, laughing and talking like only good friends can. I would make them to go back to the beach the next day, but that night I bathed in the glow of their friendship and all it meant to me. The next morning I awoke to find my bags were already packed and in Jake’s car and though I argued at first, my Mother and Grandmother insisted that I go, and Johnny and Laura dragged me to the car.

This is what your Grandfather would want”, they told me, and I kept that thought in my head to fight off the sorrow.

It was the greatest week of my life.

And we did make it through that very hard time, and, in retrospect, if there was a reason for it, maybe it was to remind me what friendship is. What it’s made of, and how valuable it is. And to never, ever, take it for granted.

That was twenty years ago and though we don’t all still live in our little town, we are still very close and have never lost touch. Last year, we lost Dave to cancer. He found out in January and survived till June, and we were all there at his side when he passed. The day after his funeral, I went to his mother’s house with food and to help out any way I could, as did Johnny, Jake, and Laura.

I pulled her aside that afternoon and told her that I wanted her to have something. I told her that whenever I spoke about Dave to those who didn’t know him, I had to show them a picture, and I handed it to her. It was a picture taken the night of my Grandfather’s funeral, after we had all come back to the house. It was a picture of the five of us, standing in the front yard, arms around each other. After they had decided to turn back, Dave, who was in the backseat with Laura, had taken off the shirt he was wearing. It was the beach shirt, and they all were all wearing theirs, the ones created especially for the trip they were on. Jake had made some signs for one of the graduation parties and there were still magic markers in his backseat floorboard, so Dave took one of the markers, and began scribbling on his cherished shirt. They all asked him what in the world he was doing, and then nodded in agreement when he put the shirt back on. Then they all followed suit. Jake took his shirt off while he was driving, and handed it to Johnny, and Laura pulled hers away from her body so Dave could take care of hers.

And so in the picture they all stood with me, their friend, wearing their shirts imprinted with “The Beach”, and underneath that on all of them, in black magic marker, was written “Can Wait”.