Chapter 8: Public Weather
The segment replayed on the morning show with a softer lead and the same screenshots. Online commentary did what online commentary does—some of it vicious toward my family, some of it accusing me of performing grief, most of it noise. I did not read the comment threads. I read the funeral home’s final invoice from overseas and paid it. I read the hospital’s discharge summary and filed it. I read a message from James’s former colleague offering to collect a box of his office things so I would not have to walk into that building yet. I accepted.
My mother’s sister called Mrs. Keller’s landline, which Mrs. Keller reported with an arched eyebrow and a refusal to mediate. An old family friend texted the new email address I had not given him; I still do not know how he obtained it. He wrote that families make mistakes under stress and that television was a harsh judge. I wrote back a single sentence: James died. I asked for a ride. They said no. The rest is weather. He did not reply.
I slept in fragmented stretches, waking to the phantom sound of a suitcase wheel jamming on terminal tile. The concussion protocol preferred rest. Rest preferred a version of the last week that did not exist. I compromised by sitting upright in the chair with a blanket and letting the day move around me without demanding participation.
