by Aimee Herman
Monday, October 25
Dear James,
It feels kind of weird to be writing to you like we are old friends or something and I’m just catching you up on what you’ve missed. It’s been a week. Just one week since you’ve . . . the ribbons people tied to their car antennas and backpacks are mostly gone. The wind took them away. Your picture will probably be in the yearbook under some kind of heading like: ‘In Memory Of’ or something like that. And then what? We move on? Nothing changes, and everything just keeps growing around us. I keep thinking about your mom. I hope she comes back to group. I hope your dad comes too.
Anyway, today Aggie and I sat together during lunch. It was incredible. I didn’t even realize we were in the same lunch period, and then I saw her. She actually motioned for me to sit next to her!
“Do you think your thoughts are strange?” I asked her.
“Yeah. Sometimes.”
“I feel like I’m thinking things I was trying not to think about and it’s . . . I don’t know . . .”
“Why don’t you want to think about them?” she asked.
“It’s like breathing. We can hold our breath and stop for a second or two, but eventually we have to go back and let the air in. Maybe I can try to not think for a second, but then my thoughts just come right back.”
Aggie smiled. Today, she had on some kind of shiny lip-gloss. I couldn’t stop staring.
“Maybe they keep coming back because they are still forming.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Anyway, let’s talk about something else, okay? Tell me about . . . tell me something that you haven’t told me yet.”
Aggie had just grabbed a large bite full of her tuna and capers sandwich, so she dragged her finger through the air as a symbol of hold on.
“Well, we haven’t been friends for very long, so there’s a lot on that list! I don’t know . . . umm . . . I pierced my own belly button last year, which was a painful mistake.”
“Bloody?”
“Infected.”
“Oh, well, my parents pierced my ears when I was a baby, never even asking me if I was cool with it. Once I was old enough, I unplugged my earlobes just as soon as I could. The hole is closed up now.” I grabbed my earlobe and twisted it toward her. “See?”
“Looks to be,” Aggie smiled. “Oh, I collect envelopes.”
“Like, new ones?”
“No,” she laughed. “The ones from junk mail or bills. It’s the insides that I like the best.”
“The letter?”
“No, the lining of the envelope. It’s always cool patterns and I used to dream of cutting them into tiny squares and gluing them together like a paper quilt. Can’t really say what I would have done with it. I imagine tiny, hidden stories inside the patterns. Like morse code. I’ve always wondered if other people notice how beautiful the inside of an envelope is. My dad knows about my collection, so he always saves them for me. Right now, I keep them in a giant envelope. Oh, my gosh, I just realized how funny that is.”
“Like those wooden Russian dolls that fit inside each other. A doll inside a doll. An envelope inside an—”
“What’s something that you collect?”
“I collect a bunch of stuff, but I used to collect . . .”
“What?” Aggie leaned in.
“Oh gosh, please don’t think I’m strange, but I used to collect my fingernails. Like baby half-moons. I kept them in a cigar box my dad gave me. Weird, I know.”
Aggie grabbed my hand and brought my fingers to her mouth. “How about I add to your collection?”
She pretended to bite my nails, and I laughed hard enough to feel my apple juice slosh around in my stomach.
“I’m glad you moved here,” I said. I could feel my entire face and body blushing. I only hoped Aggie hadn’t noticed.
“Yeah, me too. Hey,” she brought her hands to my cranberry fuzz and sloshed her fingers around. “You getting used to being hairless?”
I smiled. “I keep forgetting that. I don’t really have a habit of checking myself out. Yeah, it’s weird, but I feel more me like this.”
“What do you mean?”
James, I didn’t really know how to answer her. The thing is, there’s something else that’s been kind of growing inside me for a while now, but you know like when you don’t have a word for something, you kind of just twist your way out of that sentence? Am I making sense? Probably not. What I mean is, I feel something in me, something that feels incomplete. Something that feels unspoken. When Dara called me a lesbian, I thought that might be it, except that feeling remained. That feeling that something else is still there waiting to be found.
“You know like when we’re really young and our parents dress us and maybe it’s something we like, but then you look back on pictures taken and you’re like, ‘I would never have picked that!’”
“Definitely,” Aggie laughed.
“Maybe I’m just still figuring out to dress myself. How to look. Even though this haircut was definitely not thought out, I am starting to recognize myself a little more.”
“Hey, do you want to have a sleepover this weekend? If you’re not busy, I mean?”
Oh my gosh oh my gosh act cool, Eleanor.
“Sure, okay.” Inside, every single organ in my body grew teeth and lips just so a smile could form. My lungs, my intestines, my liver were all beaming!
James, have you ever met someone who made you feel like you wanted to understand everything about yourself?
Wednesday, October 27
Dear James,
Today in class, Ms. Raimondo said that there is a book out there for everyone. She said it because when we were discussing a poem by James Baldwin, Greg blurted out—he never raises his hand—that it was just too hard to understand, and poems are only meant for too smart people. Too smart people, James? Ugh, anyway, I’ve never heard of James Baldwin before, but Ms. Raimondo said that we’ll be reading some more of him later in the year and I kind of got excited about that. The poem was called “The Giver”. It felt like a riddle and maybe I still don’t quite get it, but Ms. Raimondo said it’s less about the gifts we give, but rather the action of it. And that the feelings we have when giving the gift aren’t always fully received. Giving gifts don’t always solve the problem, she said. James, I’m not sure why but I felt such relief in this.
This past weekend, I thought about what would have happened if you weren’t my bully and we somehow made our way to friends. We’d share jokes and maybe even read the same books and talk about them and who knows, maybe even study together. And if we had been friends, maybe you wouldn’t have . . . but then when we read this poem, I realized that we can gift-wrap all sorts of things and it doesn’t mean it will bring happiness or even cure madness (Ms. Raimondo mentioned that part). We can give, but it may never be enough. We will always run out of food, out of houses, out of . . . hope.
Yeah, I guess this poem is pretty sad too.
Thursday, October 28
Dear James,
I have two small closets in my bedroom. When my parents were still together, and life seemed defined by rules, one was designated for my warmer-month clothes and the other for winter. Nowadays, I fit all my clothes into one closet and use the other as my hiding space. I kind of see it as my tunnel toward being whoever I want to be.
In it, I’ve hung a Whitney Houston poster where her hair looks so beautiful and curly, placed my favorite pillow and my small, battery-operated radio/tape player. My closet is just big enough to sit inside, with my knees semi-comfortably pressed into my chest. I guess it’s not much of a hiding space since my whole family knows I go in there sometimes when I don’t want to be bothered.
I often close the door when I’m in there and the only light coming in comes from the gap between the door and the floorboards. I imagine my body as though it hides its own trap door. Sometimes I take off all my clothes, so the darkness becomes like a fifth wall, and then just feel around. I pretend everything is as it should be. I knead
my small breasts in a way that pushes them down like that time Dad and I made challah together and I could feel the tough dough get more elastic and even with each push of my palm. I imagine planting seeds in my vagina, waiting for something different to grow. James, good thing you’re paper now, because you’d probably stop reading this, but this is how I feel. I’d watch the roots slowly pour out, twist and turn. My vagina would be replaced by a fern or banana tree. Or, maybe just a giant hand would emerge and scoop out all the woman in me.
It’s like I’m a meal on a menu with the wrong name. My ingredients make it seem like I’m one dish when really, I swear I’m another.
Saturday, October 30
Dear James,
Today, Aggie comes over for the first time and I just can’t wait. But James, I want to tell you about group this week. Flor didn’t come because she had a date—which she seemed super excited about—so Shirley dropped me off. You probably want to know if your mom was there.
“I want to shape tonight a little bit, if that’s alright with everyone,” Peter said. Usually he takes a back seat to the discussion. He kind of just nods his head, but not in a way like he isn’t listening, more like knowing that it’s about us and not him.
“I’d like to encourage everyone to speak. Of course, if this feels uncomfortable or impossible, then of course you may pass. But I am going to place a question in the air for everyone and hopefully embolden some thoughts.” Peter twisted the end of his moustache. He did this a lot when he was listening. It’s like it turned his thoughts on or something.
“There is very often guilt involved with survivors. We’ve talked about this in here. A sense of ‘I should have said this’. What do you want to say in this moment? For some of us, we’ve had only weeks apart from the tragedy. Others, months, even years. But as we know, the questions and thoughts never stop. So, tonight, I want us to fully address our loved ones. Talk to them. Say what we didn’t. Speaking it out is a path—a long, windy one—toward healing.”
Maeve, who lost her sister, started to speak. “There were times I just wanted you to finally go. Our whole lives you kept trying and it became so painful. I stopped . . . I stopped trusting you. I could never get comfortable. And then, when you . . . when you finally . . . I was relieved.” She pressed her hand against her mouth.
James, I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this. I guess every letter to you is full of this doubt, this sense of why do I need to give these words to you? But Thursday’s group gave me this sense of understanding a little bit more about speaking out loud. Even when the words feel like they are too late.
“Maybe we were too hard on him,” your mom spoke.
“If it’s alright, I want to encourage you to speak directly to him,” Peter said.
“Yes, of course. Sorry. My husband . . . I tried to get him to come tonight . . . he . . . he’s not . . . he blames himself. He expected James to be a certain way. But we do that as parents, we want for our children what we didn’t have. We never want them to suffer. And yet . . . he was suffering the whole time.”
James, as your mom spoke, she held onto a handkerchief so tight, I watched her knuckles scream.
“I should have just let you be you,” she said. She pressed the handkerchief to her eyes and nose.
Like I said, I don’t usually talk, but I felt a pull.
“My mom just attempted, but it hurts just the same,” I said, “because it’s like even though she is still here, I’m still scared that she’ll . . . sorry, you . . . will try again. And also, it’s hard knowing how you tried so hard to leave us.” I looked at Peter and said, “Her being here is kind of like a consolation prize.”
“What do you mean by that, Eleanor?” Peter asked.
“I guess it’s like . . . well, I used to watch The Price is Right with my grandma. You know that show? People have to guess the price of things and then the winner gets to play something else. Sometimes they get to choose between door number 1, 2, or 3. You just know they’re all hoping for a car. Or like a dream vacation to Hawaii or something. Usually people are excited no matter what it is, even if it’s just a washing machine. But sometimes it’s like a suitcase made of broccoli and you can tell the person is excited to be on television, but pretty disappointed. My mom meant to die and when she didn’t, I’m sure there was a part of her that felt bummed, you know? She tells me she’s sorry and that she wants to be here, but it’s still hard to accept.”
James, I could just feel everyone stare at me. I got super self-conscious. And then your mom said something.
“You know Eleanor, sometimes we make a decision and moments right after, we wish, wish we could change our minds.”
After group, during cookie-hoarding time, as I like to call it, I spoke with your mom for a bit.
“How are you . . . how are you?” I asked her.
“Each day still feels empty, missing.”
I didn’t really know what to say to that.
“Eleanor, would you like to come over for supper sometime?”
“Yeah, I’d like that.”
“And your mother too. We’d love to have you both.”
When I got home, I talked to Shirley about Helaine and her invitation. I gave her Helaine’s phone number, and Shirley said she’d set something up.
Sunday, October 31 (HALLOWEEN!!!)
Dear James,
Aggie and I were up until 5 a.m., finally falling asleep against each other, her braid on my shoulder, her scent leaving footprints on my skin. Can you believe it? She read me stories from a Richard Brautigan book called Revenge of the Lawn. I told her that title made me think of what would happen if someone forgot to mow their grass and it became so wild it took over the world. She laughed, and when she smiles it makes my whole body feel like it’s glowing. I tried hard to listen while she read and not lose my concentration from the shape of her lips and wideness of her dimly lit hazel eyes.
In the morning, we ate pancakes smeared with organic peanut butter—the kind where the oil becomes the main ingredient, holding the good stuff hostage—and tons of maple syrup. My Aunt Renita gave it to us last Chanukah. That was before she divorced my Uncle Greg. I always liked her better, and now I never get to see her because my Uncle Greg is Shirley’s brother. Divorce sucks.
James, I feel like I really got to know Aggie last night. We shared so much with each other.
“I mean, I really liked Staten Island, but I think my dad needed a change. He’s a little better now since . . .” Aggie said.
“Since what?” I asked.
“My . . . my mom died two years ago.”
“Oh, Aggie, I am so sorry.”
“Yeah, it’s still so weird to say out loud. She . . .” Aggie looked down at the floor. I watched as she poked her fingers into the tiny holes created from her hair weaved into itself. “This may sound strange, but I’m grateful to have been left back. When she died, I just couldn’t handle things, I was so angry. It’s like our house just crumbled, you know? How was I supposed to still go to math class and do that stupid physical fitness test in gym? Ughh . . . why do we even do that every year? Anyway, my grades just tanked and I was left back.”
“What . . . happened to her? To your mom? I mean, if you are okay talking about it. I don’t want to—”
“Breast cancer. She had it for awhile. We really thought it would just go away. And it did. I mean, it vanished for a few months, but it was always there, like wind, you know? Wind is just really angry air. And cancer is just really angry cells, I guess. She used to brush my hair every night. Every single night. She’d sit behind me and I could feel every hair on my head being touched by her. Pulled at, but never hurting, you know? And she’d just listen as I told her about my day. Who I crushed on. Who I was mad at. What I was learning in school or having trouble with. Obviously, I could brush my own hair, but it soothed her to do it, even before she was sick. For that reason alone, I don’t think I could ever cut my hair. It has memorized her brushstrokes.”
&n
bsp; “Oh, Aggie,” I dripped out.
She grabbed her braid, resting on her shoulder, and swung it toward her back.
“So, I just stopped going to school. My dad was grieving pretty hard then too, so for weeks we just sat on the couch together watching old episodes of Murder She Wrote and Cagney and Lacey, my mom’s favorite television shows. She recorded almost all the episodes. But then the school finally called my dad. I guess that’s some kind of felony. They said I was in danger of failing my classes and that I went over the limit of absences. My dad . . . he’s pretty tough. I mean, my mom’s death definitely softened him. But when they called him, he didn’t even argue. He just cried. My dad cried on the phone to the principal.”
For a while, we sat in silence. I just wanted to glue myself to her, so she could feel bigger or stronger.
“Sorry,” Aggie looked up at me with damp lashes. “I didn’t mean to get all dark. It brought my dad and I closer and I’m glad we’re here. We needed to leave Staten Island behind. And I got to meet you.”
This made me smile so big, I thought my cheeks would crumble.
“So, you still haven’t told me who you’re writing to.”
“I’ve been writing to James.”
“James? The kid who—”
“Yeah.”
“Were you friends? I didn’t realize . . .”
“No, I mean, not at all. Actually, he bullied me. I guess writing to him helps me understand a little bit more. Actually, it’s helping me to understand myself more. Shirley . . . my mom . . . she tried to kill herself earlier this year.”
“Eleanor.” I watched Aggie’s eyes grow larger.
“Yeah. Speaking of it getting dark.” I tried to smile, which was easy to do around Aggie. “Anyway, I’m still working on forgiving her and understanding all that. I go to a suicide survivor support group once a week. Actually, I met James’s mom there.”
