The Sun Was Bright That Day

The sun was bright that day. Wait, was it hot? It was mid-October, I don’t think it was hot, but it was sunny. I do remember it being sunny. Blinding, almost, the rays burning into my eyes, causing me to squint as I walked to the car.

It was a Monday and I had taken the day off from school because my mom was going to bring me to the doctor to get some blood work done and then we were going to head to the mall to pick out a homecoming dress for me, since the much-anticipated dance was that coming Saturday.

I was sixteen, really irritable, and ready to leave, to get the doctor shit over with so all the fun dress-picking-out excitement could begin. My mom had instructed me to get the kids in the car, while she stayed inside and talked (argued) with my stepdad, Michael. Liam had just turned seven and Micah was a few months over a year old at that point. I had rolled my eyes at my mother’s request because Michael was pissing me off lately. He was pissing everyone off lately. He was a nightmare. He and I hadn’t even been speaking since our huge fight the week before, but that was just fine with me. I had bigger issues to worry about, like trying to fit in at my new high school or what I could wear to make me look less chubby.

My mom finally huffed herself into the car and we were on our way.

I do not remember the doctor’s visit at all.

We stopped back at home before we went to the mall; mom had to change over the laundry and I think she was going to maybe ask Michael to join us. I think I probably also rolled my eyes at that.

Michael’s truck was in the driveway, but he wasn’t in the house anywhere that we could see. I think my mom mentioned something about how he had probably taken a walk. I shrugged and grabbed a handful of goldfish crackers. I didn’t care whether or not he took a million walks; I wanted to find a homecoming dress. I remember us walking about the house for a while, my mom going up and down the basement stairs to switch over the laundry. At long last, we were back in the car, seatbelts on, kids in their car seats, ready to go.

My mom sat still for a moment. I can’t remember her facial expression, I was probably staring in the mirror, out the window, or down at my lap. I didn’t have a cell phone at that point so I know I wasn’t playing with that.

“Stay in the car,” she said. She spoke firmly, but there was nothing notable about what she said or how she said it. Or perhaps I just didn’t notice. She exited through the driver’s side door and walked back into the house. I leaned my forehead against the cool glass of my window and sighed.

Maybe five minutes passed. Maybe it was ten. Maybe it was only a minute.

Time moved in all directions that day.

I heard movement from the backseat. Liam was undoing his seatbelt.

“Liam, mom said to stay in the car.” He ignored me and before I could say anything else, he was out the side door and in the house. I sighed again and rolled my eyes for like the tenth time that day.

I don’t know how much time passed, but it couldn’t have been much. Before long, Liam was climbing back into the car.

“Whoah, that was really weird.” He said. He didn’t sound upset, nor did he seem overly bothered. It was just a casual statement. I didn’t think a thing of it.

“What?” I asked noncommittally, hardly paying attention.

“Dad fell asleep on the basement floor.”

It’s odd, but years later that one sentence still reverberates through my head, banging against one side and striking the other, leaving resonating trembling vibrations in my brain. Looking back, that was the moment for me, I guess. That was my “Mam, there’s been an accident.” That was my “I’m so sorry, there is nothing more we can do.” That was my “You should probably sit down for this.”

I didn’t know exactly what had happened, but I knew it wasn’t good. The superficial part of my brain, the part that thinks thoughts that the deep-down part knows aren’t true, thought maybe my mom and Michael had gotten into a fight in the basement, and maybe my mom had pushed him and he fell. That’s what it seemed like I was thinking. But somewhere inside me knew it was much worse than that. The part of my brain that stays locked and closed, keeping the darkness inside, felt the horror and sent warning shocks all the way to the tips of my fingers.

I jumped out of the car and ran inside.

The next few hours exist within my memory as some sort of constantly changing, fluid, flexible entity, ready to jump out and attack me at any moment. I can’t recall the whole thing, I only see flashes.

Flash, I opened the screen door and let it bang against my calves as I ran inside.

Flash, I got to the basement door and ran halfway down the stairs, leaning over the side. I saw Michael’s legs on the ground. I heard my mom screaming and crying. “Kaitlyn, Michael hung himself.” I remember her telling me to call 911, but I’m not sure if I made up that memory because she was already on the phone with them at the time.

Flash, I turned around and ran up from the basement, choking back burning hot pain crawling up my throat from my stomach, discovering the phone was not in its place (because my mom was on it), I was dizzy, the floor was moving.

Flash, I’m almost falling up the stairs, and into my mom’s room to see where the other phone is. I’m vaguely aware of a damp warmth spreading down my legs as I lost control of my bladder. I remember thinking of my cousin Jake who had committed suicide the year before by way of the noose, as well. “Fuck guys, this is a fun thing to deal with every month, you fucking pieces of shit.” I wanted to scream. The floor wouldn’t stay still. I finally reached the phone.

Flash, I picked it up the phone just to hear my mother’s voice.

“Come on Mike, come on baby, stay with me,” she desperately sobbed, her voice almost becoming a scream. She kept saying the same things over and over again, begging him to be alive, calling him baby, saying she loved him, choking on her own sobs. Would this nightmare just end already?

“Hello!” I was basically screaming myself.

I just barely heard the forced-calm voice of the 911 operator over my mom’s desperate, horrified wails, telling me there was an ambulance on the way, asking me about my brother and sister, telling me to not go back into the basement, telling me to go out to the car with the little kids, asking me to tell the EMTs who arrived to get my mother off the phone so I wouldn’t hear her anymore.

Flash, flash, flash, flash.

When I stepped back outside, I remember the sun was still so bright. I was moving underwater. Each step was surreal, the feeling of the ground beneath my feet wasn’t really there. I looked out towards the street as the ambulance and police cars pulled up, they weren’t really there either. I found myself thinking, “When will I get my homecoming dress now?” as one of the police officers wrapped his arms around me and I swallowed the vomit that was forcing its way into my mouth. More flashes.

Flash, I walked around to the back of the house, where there was a window that looked into the basement. I saw him. Lying on the cold cement floor. He looked like he was sleeping. What the fuck was happening.

Flash, my mom came out to where my two siblings and I were by the car. There was blood on her shirt and tears in her eyes, but when she told us she didn’t think that he was going to make it, she smiled slightly like everything was going to be just fine anyway, almost shrugging as if to say “what can ya do?” People who have been thrown into hell on Earth and have locked eyes with the Devil himself sometimes act like that.

Flash, little Liam ran out through the backyard into the broken woods behind my house. I guess he didn’t know what else to do. A few police officers ran to grab him. I stood with the baby in my arms, staring.

Flash, my mom sat on our outdoor swing and screamed as loudly as she could into a pillow. An officer walked over and told her to stop. Why? For what reason? So as not to upset the children? Because THAT’S what was going to upset them that day; not that their father had killed himself inside their house, but that their mother was reacting appropriately. Life, man, sometimes it just kills me.

Flash, my mother was calling all our family members and telling them the news. “Hey, just letting you know that Michael killed himself today,” I heard over and over and over. And that’s all she needed to say. The explosive terror of the day was only just that sentence. Nothing more, nothing less. An event that changed all our lives was a statement consisting of ten words.

At some point we drove up to the middle school to let my little sister Brianna know the news. I watched her face crumble, I saw the panicked, desperate “No no no no come on no this isn’t real this isn’t happening no no come ON no” in her eyes. That look you get when “that will never happen to me” happens to you. I had to look away, up into the sky. Was Michael there yet? How long did that process take? Or was he simply no where. Gone. Dead. Nothing else. Did I even believe in heaven?

What kind of God would allow this to happen?

At some point later on, I sat alone in one of the rooms in my house, on the hardwood floor, behind a big chair, leaning my back against its back. I put my feet up on the wall. Someone had brought us over donuts and I had the entire box of them next to me on the floor. I mindlessly ate them as I thought about the last things I had said to Michael. I had told him I hated him, I had told him I wished he would die, I had told him I would never talk to him again. Turns out I was right about that.

I didn’t cry. I just stared. Stared and thought and stared, as I ate the powdery cinnamon bullshit, not tasting them, but needing to do something with my hands and mouth. Needing to distract my other senses as much as I could so I wouldn’t feel. I never thought that it was completely my fault, I’m relatively smart and able-minded so I knew that was impossible. But that didn’t matter because the guilt was still there. And it would stay there for a long, long time.

Hell, it’s still here, making guest appearances in my life at any moment,

staying for as long as it likes.