Jack never made a big deal about it.
He’d just say, “Mom, Theo’s staying.”
Not asking.
Informing.
I always said yes.
When Jack got sick, Theo returned the favor in a way I still don’t know how to describe.
He came over after school.
Did homework on Jack’s bedroom floor.
Watched bad movies with him.
Hair loss.
Steroids.
The days Jack didn’t want to speak.
The days he couldn’t stop speaking because he was terrified that if he went quiet, everyone else would get scared.
There were weeks Theo saw more of my son than I did because Daniel and I were working opposite shifts trying to keep our jobs while living at the hospital.
Theo never complained.
So when he walked into the funeral wearing a red dress, I didn’t understand.
It was bright red. Knee-length.
Simple, but impossible to miss in a room full of black, navy, and gray.
People turned.
Some openly stared.
One of Daniel’s brothers whispered, “What the hell?”
My first thought embarrasses me now.
I thought Theo was trying to make the funeral about himself.
Then I thought maybe he and Jack had fought before Jack died.
Something secret.
Something ugly.
I leaned toward two of Jack’s school friends.
“Did something happen between them?”
Both shook their heads.
One whispered, “No, Mrs. Harris.”
Theo sat alone near the aisle.
His hands were clenched together so tightly.
Daniel saw him a few minutes later.
“What is he doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“This is Jack’s funeral.”
“I know.”
He started to stand.
I grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t.”
“He’s wearing a dress.”
“I can see that.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Daniel’s face was raw from 17 days of barely sleeping.
Mine probably looked the same.
Grief makes you less patient with mystery.
Everything feels like one more insult you don’t have room to absorb.
