Guilt

“I’m sorry, Jacob. I’m so sorry,” I whisper as they lower his body into the ground. His ears, cold, dead, gone, will never hear the words, but I’m saying them more for myself anyway. Maybe I’ll feel better knowing that I have apologized. I don’t think I will.

I stand, watching silently, as they fill in the hole. The dirt covers his casket, and I realize it’s just Dad and me now. We’re the only two left.

“Come on, honey. It’s time to go home.” Dad places his arm around me, and I turn. His chocolate brown eyes are filled with tears, and I know mine match them in more than color. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him cry, even at Mom’s funeral. But perhaps I wasn’t paying attention.

I follow Dad in silence towards the car, wishing he would say something to me. I wish he would acknowledge the fact that it’s my fault Jacob’s not sitting in the back seat, chattering away about a new video game he’s playing. It’s my fault we’re leaving him here, buried six feet under, right next to Mom. It’s my fault we’re dressed in all black.

Everyone else has noticed me. I have gotten dirty looks from family members, even the ones I haven’t seen since Christmas, the ones I haven’t been in touch with since Mom died, even the ones I wasn’t aware of. They all know it’s my fault.

The news did a story, too, and came around to the house  to get a quote out of me. Dad shut the door before I could come downstairs, but I could still hear them asking, “May we talk to her? May we talk to Annie?”

The police, of course, are all too involved. I have a court date in two weeks, and I’m terrified of the results. Drunk driving at seventeen would probably land me time in rehab or community service. Drunk driving and killing someone at seventeen will probably land me years in jail. But I can’t stay behind bars, not when I’m the only one Dad has left. I have to be here.

When Mom died, he stayed strong, although I know he died right along with her,  on the inside. He was heartbroken. Even now, seven years later, he hasn’t seen another woman. Mom was it for him.

And now his son is gone, too, without a chance of ever having another. He’s already dead inside. Maybe this time he won’t make it.

I wish he’d just yell at me. Just tell me what a screw-up I am, how I’ve made his life even worse in the last week than it already has been. I wish he’d notice how drunk I always was. I wish he’d ground me like any normal parent would.  I wish he’d just give me more than silence. Perhaps I don’t even deserve that.