Timothy

That summer, on July 22, I got a call from my mom, who was crying. I barely caught was she was saying. My uncle Timothy had died of a sudden massive heart attack at age 48. On his way to his car in the morning, he collapsed in the driveway.

            I didn’t cry. I didn’t really feel anything but regret. A few days earlier, I had been in Selah where he lived to visit my dad at work. My dad mentioned that I should stop by Uncle Timothy’s video game store to say hi. Since I didn’t want to be talked into playing a bunch of video games I wasn’t good at and I didn’t like, I didn’t go. I still regret it.

For the following few days, I watched my extended family fall apart. My cousin Justin blamed himself because he hadn’t noticed that Timothy hadn’t left the driveway. Everyone was crying, frantically trying to comfort each other. My dad and his remaining brothers told stories and cried together. I just observed. I was sad, of course, but I wanted to be the strong one.

On the Saturday following his death, my family gathered at the place where Timothy’s viewing was. My heart raced as I entered the building. My parents told me that I shouldn’t go in and see him because of what happened with Jeff. I didn’t want to. I didn’t plan to.

But I headed to the bathroom with my cousin Katie, passing the open doors. I purposefully looked away. When we passed the door again, I caught a glimpse of Timothy lying on the table and it drew me in like a magnetic pull. Unlike Jeff, my uncle looked like he was sleeping. His skin was the same dark tan as it always was. His mouth was closed, his head was shaved, he wore a Seattle Mariner’s shirt like he always did. I looked to the left side of the room, where my dad stood. I noticed his hand against Timothy’s arm, rubbing it as he whispered to him. Not wanting to invade that private moment, I looked away.

I stared at Timothy’s belly, waiting for him to take a breath. I imagined him gasping, as if he were holding his breath, and laughing at the awful joke as he walked away from the table. The punch line never came.

Timothy just laid on the table, his arms folded across his chest, his face emotionless, his lungs breathless. It was weird to see him without emotion. He was always happy, always joking around, always had a smile on his face. As minutes went by, my dad asked if I was okay. I said yes, and it was the truth. Timothy didn’t look dead. Jeff did.