Everything Grows

by Aimee Herman

  “I wish James had asked for help. I wish he had waited. He never got to be himself.” I felt the heft of my tears push through my eyes and fall down my cheeks in a slow-motion spectacle.

  “Eleanor . . .”

  “I don’t want to put myself on hold,” I blurted. “I’m sixteen now. And I know there are things that I’m not saying. That I’m feeling but—”

  “Are you having thoughts of suicide, Eleanor?”

  “No, no. Not like that at all. If anything, I want to live even louder because I know I haven’t been doing it right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like . . . umm . . . I haven’t been feeling right. Ever since I . . . came out, you know? It got louder.”

  “What did?”

  “I guess I thought it would pass. But actually, it was the finger—”

  “The finger?”

  “I never told you guys, but a bunch of years ago, I was at the beach with Mom and I found a . . . finger. Actually, it probably sounds grosser than it actually was. I mean, I wasn’t scared or anything. Though I’m not sure why. But it did make me . . . well, maybe not then, but now . . . makes me wonder if maybe I lost something? Like you guys didn’t want to tell me because you didn’t want me to worry? Or, I don’t know—”

  Dad grabbed one of my hands and touched my fingers. “Yup, five. And . . . I see five on your right.”

  “Not a finger, Dad. Uh, this isn’t . . . this isn’t coming out right. Just forget it.”

  “Eleanor, I’m sorry. I’m trying to understand.”

  “No, no, it’s okay. You know what? I’m . . . I’m gonna grab some more food from the kitchen. Do you want?”

  Dad shook his head, and then said, “Well, if you’re having . . .”

  AGGIE CAME HOME AFTER SCHOOL WITH me on Monday and shared an idea she had about honoring Kurt.

  “I thought about gathering a whole bunch of flannel shirts, cutting them up, and making a quilt. Just like the AIDS quilt. Everyone can take a square and sew in a memory of Kurt.”

  “But none of us even knew him. How well do we know anyone?”

  “Hey, what’s going on with you?”

  Aggie put down her notebook, which was apparently full of notes about ways in which to memorialize Kurt, and put her hands on my knees. We were sitting on my bed. I hadn’t mentioned my complete failure to utter the right words to Dad this weekend.

  “I’m restless. Then I feel guilt about being restless. Then I feel guilt about feeling guilty.”

  “How was your dad’s house?”

  “Always good, you know? But I was trying to tell him about something that’s been on my mind. And I couldn’t even get it out.”

  “That doesn’t mean you never will.”

  “Yeah, but . . . I don’t know. It’s like having to sneeze but it won’t come out. You do everything to push it. Gulp a giant fistful of air and swallow it. Anything to not feel that lump of sneeze in my throat.”

  “I know that feeling. Have you tried writing it down? Remember you said you always felt better after writing to James.”

  “I’ve . . . I don’t know I could try, I guess. Also, I got my love letter back.”

  “From who? T’nea?”

  “What? No. The ones we wrote in Ms. Raimondo’s class. At the beginning. Don’t you remember?”

  “Oh wow, I forgot! What was it like to get it back?”

  “Weird. I forgot I even wrote any of it. I guess you haven’t gotten yours yet?”

  “No, but now I’m excited to.”

  I told Aggie that I needed to be free for an afternoon. Lose myself in something else. I made the suggestion to go to the open mic on Friday, the one I went to with Reigh.

  “And we can check out some of the thrift stores on Main Street,” I added. “I haven’t been in a while and I bet we can find some old flannels.”

  “El, I love that idea! I’ve been wanting to check out that open mic since you mentioned it. Have you been since?”

  “Actually, no. But it would be really nice to go back.”

  ON FRIDAY AFTER SCHOOL, SHIRLEY DROPPED us off on Main Street in Freehold. The Been to Bean Café open mic was at 7 pm, so we had plenty of time to shop and then grab some food beforehand.

  I had no idea what we were going to do with the quilt once it was done or even how we were going to piece everything together because I’m not very good at sewing, but I left these questions behind and hunted the racks.

  “I love this one!” Aggie held up a red, yellow and black flannel that looked as if it had been worn up to its expiration date and perhaps several months past that.

  “Cool,” I said, trying to be encouraging. “I found these too.” I showed her the two I picked up which were slung over my shoulder, leaving the hangers behind.

  We paid for the shirts and walked outside with our bag full of Kurt. Aggie and I walked arm-in-arm to the next spot as we hunted for more flannels.

  After two more thrift stores and a few more purchases, we headed into a burger joint. I ordered a hamburger and she ordered a veggie burger. We decided to share a basket of fries.

  After the waiter brought our order, I eyed her plate. “Do you want your pickle?” I asked, knowing that she loves pickles but not as much as I do.

  “Yes . . . but . . . how about I give you half. Hey, listen, it means a lot to me that you want to help out with the Kurt quilt. Maybe it’s silly and maybe no one will ever see it but us, but I’m glad we are doing it together.”

  “People will see it!” I said. “I mean, you saw how everyone was at school. They were more bummed than when James . . .” My voice trailed off and I wanted to run along with it. Even though I stopped writing him letters, he has not left my thoughts even once.

  “El, it’s different. No one knew Kurt—”

  “No one knew James.”

  “No, I mean, no one knew Kurt so it’s easier to show sadness.”

  “Aggie . . . he was writing to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In his notebook. Helaine—his mom—let me have it. Once we met in group, she realized that I was the Eleanor in his letters.”

  “Wow. Why do you think he wrote to you? You said the only time he ever talked to you was to be mean and bully you.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know. Actually, I do know. He felt like I might understand some of the things he needed to say. Ms. Raimondo was right. Writing to someone else, even if you don’t give them your words, releases it. Makes space for more thoughts, makes space to understand things.”

  “What did he say?”

  “All sorts of things.” I didn’t feel right telling James’s secrets. They were his to tell. “But what I started to realize was he had so much inside him. He loved Nirvana. He loved music. He wanted to be an astronaut one day. He had emotions and felt pain, but also love. The hardest part about reading his notebook was recognizing that he’d never get to show these parts of himself to anyone. We all missed out.”

  “It’s so much easier on paper, I guess. I used to . . .” Aggie stopped and put down her burger. “I used to write letters to my mom after she died. More like Dear Mom instead of Dear Diary. I never reread them, but they were basically telling her about my day. Who annoyed me or what book I was reading. Probably really stupid stuff that I wouldn’t have told her if she were alive, but . . . yeah, it always felt better. Like she was still there.”

  Aggie took a deep breath and then put the other half of her pickle on my plate and smiled. I put it in my mouth and let the sour sting my tongue.

  WHEN MOM WENT TO THE HOSPITAL the first time, she told me that she stopped feeling things and tasting things. Maybe this is why she stopped eating much. Or doing things. All the pleasure had been sucked out. Even with all this sadness wrapped around me, I want to feel. I want to taste. I want to be able to enjoy things.

  Last year, when she tried again, it was hard in a different way. I knew what was happening. I understood, yet I didn’t. I was angrier. Because now we
’re older—Gret and I—and her trying to kill herself is like her saying, I don’t want to be around you anymore. I don’t want to be your mother.

  I’m sure everyone has wished they were dead if even for a moment. But I don’t. I don’t want to be dead. I’m too hopeful for the something else that exists out there for me. There’s more for me to explore. There’s so much for me to know. James lost out on his chances for that. We lost out on seeing him do more. I can’t let that happen for me.

  “Think our waitress would give us more pickles?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. But let’s ask.”

  WITH OUR BELLIES FULL ON BURGERS and fried potatoes, we headed to Been to Bean Café where I first went with Reigh. Where I met T’nea. Where I had my very first kiss. On the short walk there, Aggie told me a story about how her mom had fallen down a flight of stairs one day, while carrying laundry in her arms. No one else was home, so she just remained at the bottom of the stairs, in agony. Aggie was the first to get home. It was after school, so it had been several hours that her mom had just remained on the floor. By that time, her mom had fallen asleep and when Aggie walked through the door, she thought her mom had died. She screamed, which woke her mom and Aggie just laughed. She laughed out of confusion and discomfort and relief. Her mom explained what happened and Aggie carefully helped her up to the couch. After a few hours, her mom asked why Aggie screamed, but she was too afraid to say why. She didn’t want to say it out loud. Then, just a few months later, her mom was diagnosed with cancer.

  “It all happened very quickly,” she said. “When my mom fell, I remember feeling such relief that it was just a stupid fall. Clumsiness runs in our family, you know. But then . . . when it was real, I feared that moment would happen again. That I’d find her. But my scream wouldn’t wake her and . . . .El, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t expect to be so . . .”

  “I wish I could have met her. I’m sure she was just as beautiful as you.”

  Aggie turned toward me and touched my hair, which was growing out and curling a little. I’ve been so caught up in everything happening at school, that I haven’t even thought about cutting it.

  “You’re really beautiful, you know that?”

  “Thank you. But I’m not really looking to be . . .”

  “And just . . . really amazing,” Aggie added.

  “Well, I really don’t know about all that, but . . . hey, let’s go inside. It looks busy; I want to make sure we get a seat.”

  I held the door open for Aggie and then, we walked arm-in-arm, searching for a spot to sit, taking in the large crowd, which had already gathered. The microphone was set up on the stage with the list on a clipboard beside it on a small table. I pointed at a small table by the window and felt a tap on my back. When I turned around, I saw T’nea.

  “Hey, you,” she said.

  “T’nea, hi!” I said, completely caught off guard. We hadn’t seen each other since our third date, which was our last date, which was sometime in January.

  “And who is this?” she said, referring to Aggie.

  “Oh, this is just my friend, Aggie.” Just my friend?

  T’nea laughed and put her arms around me. “I thought she was your date or something.”

  “Hi,” Aggie said to T’nea.

  “Hey. I’m T’nea. Cool to meet ya.”

  “Want to sit with us?” Aggie graciously asked.

  “I came with a bunch of my friends, but . . .” She turned toward me and whispered in my ear, “Kiss me like the first time by the bathrooms. Looks like there’s a line.”

  I felt my entire body turn red like an over-boiled lobster. “Uh, I . . . I don’t want to be rude and leave Aggie a—”

  “El, go right ahead. I’ll grab us some drinks. London fogs. I don’t mind.” She winked at me.

  As we walked to the bathroom, T’nea said, “I’ve missed you. I know you said you weren’t looking for anything serious or anything, I’m not either. But you’re totally the coolest person I’ve ever met. Definitely unique.”

  I blushed. “Thank you. I like you too, T’nea. I’ve just . . . I’ve never done this before. And I’m really just trying to figure out . . . who I am.”

  “Who you are? Shit, Eler, you’re fifteen.”

  “Sixteen now,” I corrected her.

  “Anyway, you don’t figure it out until you’re old, like at least thirty. Now is the time to just be crazy and kiss lots of people and you know, be impulsive.”

  “Yeah, maybe. I really just . . . I’m unsure of so much these days.”

  “Ugh. I always pick the complicated ones,” T’nea said. She put her long, painted fingernails into my short hair and twirled the little length I had. “Can I still kiss you? I’ve been daydreaming about your mouth for months.”

  I smiled, grateful that she didn’t press me to explain any further. Grateful that she still wanted to kiss me.

  “Definitely,” I said, leaning into her, feeling the warmth stored up in her mouth meet mine.

  T’nea and I went back to our separate tables, winking, sending flirty glances toward each other. I sipped my London fog and reveled in the excitement in Aggie’s face.

  “I signed up!” Aggie said.

  “Great! What number are you on the list?”

  “One.”

  “Yikes,” I said. “Boldly bold. Hey, thanks for getting the teas.”

  “Thanks for bringing us here. And you were right about T’nea. She is gorgeous.”

  “Yeah, and a really good kisser,” I softly added.

  “Eleanor!” Aggie laughed. “That must be the host.”

  We both noticed a tall redhead walk on stage. I recognized him from last time. His face, sprinkled with tiny hairs, like a beard made of furry freckles. I liked how weird and slightly uncomfortable he seemed on stage, but also really funny. Last time, he started with a poem about being lactose intolerant. I remember Reigh and I cracking up from it.

  “Yeah, he’s really funny.”

  “I wish I could have curly hair like that,” Aggie said.

  “We all want what we don’t have, and don’t want what we do have,” I said.

  Aggie smiled lightly. She lifted her hands in the air and shook them. “I’m so nervous!”

  “You’ll be great. Oh, hey, what are you reading?”

  “Well, I have my notebook in my bag. I wrote something the other day about Kurt. I guess it could be a poem. I don’t know. But I thought I could read that.”

  “Cool. I’m really excited to hear it.”

  “Welcome, welcome, all you poets,” the host spoke. “All you music makers. All you comedians. All you like-minded creative combustors. Welcome to our weekly open mic. Thanks to Been to Bean Café for housing us each week. I’m Isaac. I’m your host with the most. We got a packed list tonight, so do your best to keep it to under five minutes, if you can, please. Buy drinks. Eat up. All that jazz.”

  Aggie and I looked at each other and smiled.

  “Got an allergy haiku to start us off. Here goes. How’d those bumps get here? Seem to be allergic to everything these days.”

  Everyone clapped. Aggie grabbed my knee with her hand and squeezed. I looked at her, trying my best to say swarms of good luck words with just my eyes.

  “Alright, alright. Please welcome to the stage . . . .Aggie!”

  Aggie slowly pushed her chair out, clutching her notebook against her small hips, and walked toward the stage. The sound of hands smacking together filled the room. I hollered my best wooo and as she adjusted the microphone, everyone’s clapping ceased as we waited for her to speak.

  “Dear Kurt,” Aggie paused. “What does it feel like to be gone but still able to speak? Even in your death, you make music. We rip up old flannels to remember you, but all we really need to do is press play. Sew thread into each square and knit them together as you scream ‘Pennyroyal Tea.’ Watch as shirts turn into a blanket to remind us how to stay warm as you call out ‘Lithium’ and you came as you are. There is
no such thing as a separation of deaths. I believe we all head into the same place, floating and filling up the air with our memories. Say hello to my mother, please. Tell James he had more friends than he ever knew. I’ll keep playing your music to keep you down here as you sing along above me.”

  As Aggie spoke her last word, I felt something on my skin. A tear. It just fell out, effortlessly and without sound. I wiped it as I clapped for her. Mesmerized and blown away.

  Isaac, the host, came back on stage and introduced the next person. But I couldn’t hear anything but Aggie’s words still hovering. I didn’t want to hear anything else.

  “Let’s go,” I said to her in the loudest of whispers.

  “Huh? It just started. Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, no. The opposite. I don’t . . . I don’t want to hear anyone else. I just want your words to sit in me. I can’t believe . . . I can’t believe you wrote that.”

  “It’s just notes, really, but . . . thanks, Eleanor. I’m so glad you liked them.”

  “After this person is done, we can slip out while everyone is clapping.”

  “Oh,” Aggie said, disappointedly. “I really wanted to stay, though.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just that . . . you made me cry, Aggie. I’m not saying that to make you . . . I think I need to talk right now instead of listen. But if you really want to stay, I can just meet you—”

  “Sshhh . . .” Aggie put her fingers on my lips. “After this person, okay?”

  I WROTE A TINY NOTE AS the person on stage read a short story about being on a greyhound bus that broke down. On our way out, I handed it to T’nea.

  Dear T’nea,

  Feeling sad, but seeing you brightened my sight. Have to go, but I will call you soon. Really. I promise.

  Love, Eler

  Aggie and I held hands as we walked outside. The early spring air felt so cool on my skin. Tiny bumps of shiver raised the flesh on my arms. I felt them beneath my shirt.

  “You really think they’re just floating?” I asked, still thinking about Aggie’s beautiful letter to Kurt.

  “I mean, I want to believe that. I don’t want to believe that people get punished even in death. There’s got to be a time when we finally just get to rest, you know?”