Day 2 – The day after and the wake before the wake

I wrote these entries on 12 March 2002 about looking back on the days that followed my brother’s death. Please read them in day order…

It was the morning after. I had sat up all night with my mother and watched the sun rise in near silence. I could palpably hear the tears streaming down her face. I noticed that my mother’s hair had gone completely white grey overnight.

I spent all of the day calling up our family and friends. I spoke in monotone. Same speech every time:

"[insert name], I’m just ringing to tell you that Marty’s dead. I don’t know where he has gone to but he is not coming back. I will put the funeral notice in the paper if you want to come." Then I would hang up. Just like that.

I wish I had a dollar for every time someone rang back and said, "That’s not funny" and that I replied, "It’s no joke".

Steph, my best friend at the time said, "Blue, you are a fucking bitch for saying that. You don’t ever joke about things like that".

I whispered, "Steph, this is no joke. He is dead. I don’t know where he’s gone to but he is definitely not coming back".

She said, "I am coming over right now, and when I see you, I am going to bash the living shit out of you. This is the sickest joke I have ever heard".

It would normally take her an hour and half by public transport to get there. Within twenty minutes she barged into the house. Despite the bleakness of the people in the room, she said, "What’s going on?"

I said, "He’s dead".

She said, "Fuck off".

She looked around the room at the people and she started to shake, I mean, uncontrollably shake.

She said again, smiling, "FUCK OFF!"

I just looked at her with my mouth twisted and she started to cry.

She sat behind me on the lounge cha

ir and held me from behind all day long.

She rocked and held me so hard, leaning her weeping head on my shoulder, initially muffling her wailing, which lingered into sobs. I sat there silent, in shock.

My mother was possessed. She went into my brother’s room and started to get rid of every, single, thing he owned.

I retrieved his battered old briefcase of poetry, his study bible and a tin lidded box that he used as an ashtray.

His friends all took one of his sports trophies. The cricket trophies were all missing the cricket ball. They had long ago been used and lost during lazy matches at the park.

She threw out:

A wardrobe with the doors hanging off the hinges;
Love letters written by his girlfriends;
A broken white laminated desk that my grandfather had crudely nailed together at the top;
Numerous broomstick handles that had been used for martial arts sparring;
A one eyed battered teddy bear;
Hundreds of cassette tapes some of which contained him and Jason singing and playing guitar together;
A Licking’ Lesbians video that was retrieved swiftly from the garbage by one of his mates;
A book called "Jesus the Truth"; and
Five plastic Orchy orange juice bottles filled with dirty bong water;
A jar of hair gel, an ashtray and a can of shaving cream [I retrieved these objects later, for what use, I don’t know].

His friends all came to reclaim their clothes, which they had lent to Marty. After this, I realised the only clothes that he owned were his underwear, the clothes and pair of work shoes I had bought him for an early Christmas present the weekend before, a red and black wool poncho and a red bonds singlet sewn onto a pair of bonds shorts.

My mum cleaned obsessively for three days. She cleaned the bath tub over and over again. At one point I walked into the bathroom and screamed at her, "The bath is fuckin’ clean mum!" She spat at me, "Leave….me… alone".

We had people stay with us night and day for three days straight. I wanted to be left alone. The front door swung open every five minutes with people coming in and out. Over fifty flower arrangements littered her two bedroom a

partment. When we ran out of space, I pulled the additional arrangements apart and took them for walks with me.

I threw the flower petals over the pavement outside her apartment block. Creating a garden seemed the right thing to do at the time. I used lilies to cover over the writing that had been etched years before in the concrete, "Ben and Marty, friends for ever".

We had a pre funeral wake that night at the local Rugby Union club. We sat in the basement, playing his music, all drinking, crying and talking. At the end of the night, emotion had overcome the boys and we were asked to leave by management. His friends trashed the top bar as they left, throwing bar stools across the room and swearing bloody murder.

It was the first time in three years I had not been anxious about going out. I was beyond anxiety. I just needed to drink. I stayed drunk night and day for three months. I bought a case of beer every morning at 10:00am and continued drinking until 10:00am the next morning. My mother drank a bottle of gin every day and took sleeping pills but did not sleep. My father drank red wine and ate up his Serepax pills.