No one eats lunch during the meeting even though it’s our lunchtime. Some of us doodle with markers on the table, which is covered with brown paper. When Ms. D. asks us if we want to name our group, no one has any good ideas. The usual group names like The Tigers or The Hornets just don’t apply. The Death Group doesn’t sound so hot, either. Since no one has a good idea, we decide to go nameless.
As soon as I see Clare at her locker, I ask her, “Why weren’t you at the group today?”
“What group?”
“You didn’t know about it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The group for kids who had a parent die.”
“What is it?”
“It’s like a discussion group. We share our stories and it’s private, so I can’t tell you more, but you should come.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do? Maybe the counselor didn’t want me there.”
“That’s ridiculous. She probably just forgot. She seems kind of disorganized. Let’s go see her at lunch tomorrow and see if you can join. Unless you think you don’t need it.”
“Just because my dad died three years ago doesn’t mean I’m over it.”
“So let’s go see her. But I’m warning you, it’s hard to breathe in her office because she reeks of perfume.”
The next day, we head down to Ms. DuBoise’s office at lunch period. Without even saying hello, I blurt out, “Just because her dad died three years ago doesn’t mean she’s over it.”
Ms. D. stops writing whatever she’s writing and looks a little surprised. Then she turns to Clare and says, “Well, Clare, would you like to participate in the group?”
Clare nods yes and says, “Yeah, I think it would be good. I don’t think grief just ends on a certain date.”
“I agree. You’re right about that. I guess I didn’t think of you because your father didn’t die when you were a student here. I’m really sorry I didn’t include you. It was my mistake. Our next meeting is on January eleventh, and I hope you’ll be joining us then. We still have seven more meetings before I have to switch over to a kids-of-divorce group.”
Oh, how I like it when grown-ups admit their mistakes.
Stories
I can’t stand it any longer. Dad is out getting a haircut, and I go straight for the red, blue, and yellow notebook in the back of Mom’s closet. I flip through it, hoping to see it fully filled with juicy nuggets of info about my mom or me or something, but I’m disappointed to see that unlike my journal, hers is mostly blank pages. The air goes fizzing out of my big shiny balloon of hope. I decide to let myself read only one page at a time since there are so few and I want to make it last.
I haven’t written in a journal since I was a little girl, maybe age eight or nine? I would write in it when ever I got super-mad at my parents or Jennifer, and that was often! When a friend sent me this journal, I decided to try again as a twenty-six-year-old, to see if maybe it would help me find the words to express myself better. Contrary to stereotypes about men and women, Daniel, my wonderful husband, is actually more expressive than I am. He’s a man of words and historical analysis. I seem to use music to express myself. I wonder if all musicians are like that.
I can answer that one, Mom. No, not all musicians are like that. Then again, I’m not a real musician; I just happen to play the flute. I think writing about my feelings is much, much easier than making beautiful music.
On Thursday, we have our second grief group meeting. Clare is here this time, but Robert, the boy whose stepfather died in a car accident, isn’t. We all wonder what happened to Robert, because someone saw him in school today. Ms. DuBoise says she doesn’t know. We go around and tell our stories again. It’s kind of like starting all over, since Clare is new. She tells everyone that her dad died from heart disease three years ago.
Ms. D. asks Clare, “I wonder if you could share with everyone how the second and third years have been for you, compared to the first year after your dad died?”
Clare squirms around in her seat and stays silent for what seems like a very long time.
“Well . . . I guess in some ways it’s easier, but in other ways it’s not. It feels more real, like you realize he’s really not coming back.”
Everyone is quiet, waiting for her to say more.
“And another thing is, I can’t remember his voice anymore.”
After more silence, Ms. D. asks Clare if she wants to share more about that.
Then Clare stuns us all when she tells us, “I think forgetting is worse than remembering.”
In my head, I start listing all the ways I can try to remember Mom, especially her voice. I really hope I don’t forget Mom’s voice.
The room gets a little less heavy after Max offers to share his Doritos and the sound of crunching and the smell of Doritos dust fills the room. Ms. D. points out that even though everyone’s story is different, there’s a lot that’s kind of the same. I think people are more comfortable this time because they ask questions like:
“Did you ever wonder if they are really dead or if somebody made a mistake about that?”
“Don’t you hate it when people try to give you advice?”
Ms. D., who is having another perfume-overload day, asks if anyone else has been given unwanted advice. Every one of us has heard lots of “You should do this” or “You shouldn’t do that,” so there’s lots of nodding and even laughing. “Be strong” is another one we’ve all heard a million times.
I feel really sorry for Max, whose father killed himself. That must be the worst because, in a way, his dad chose to die. Maybe his dad didn’t think he had a choice, but if I were Max, I think I would see it as a choice. Max’s eyes seem to have this haunted look (a little bit like that look in Tweety Bird’s eyes). I can’t tell if they’re saying, “Stay away from me,” or “I don’t want to be here.” Maybe they’re saying, “I might snap if you get near me.” Maybe he saw something truly awful? I try not to look at him too much, but I can’t get his eyes out of my mind. I really want to know more, but I’m afraid to ask him. I wonder if he saw the dead body and if it was all bloody or what. He said that his mother still hasn’t told him that his dad killed himself. She thinks he thinks it was a heart attack, like she told his siblings. I wonder if she’ll ever tell him, or if he’ll ever tell her he knows, or if he’ll ever tell us what exactly happened. Maybe it’s just too hard.
I realize I haven’t asked Miss Boppity Bop how her mom died, and she hasn’t told me. I guess some people share that information and some don’t.
Rags
Everyone is making progress on their projects in survival sewing, and Ms. Carey continues to entertain us with cute kid stories, which always puts me in a better mood. Today, while Ms. Carey is busy in the back of the room trying to fix someone’s machine, I get the first comment about my project.
“Why are you using that ugly fabric?”
I don’t even bother to look up to see who said it.
Then Billy Bradley, the class dork, chimes in, “Well, what are you doing with those rags?”
I look up at his pale face, staring straight at him, and I say, “What does it look like?”
“Like ugly scraps. Can’t you afford any new material?”
I remain silent.
“Why aren’t you making a locker organizer or an apron like everyone else?”
I’m ready to kill him. In my mind, I rehearsed what I would say if someone made fun of my project. I want them to know how important it is to me, but if I tell them, maybe it would feel like they know too much of my personal life. I could say, “I doubt anyone would ever make a quilt out of your clothes because no one would want to remember you after you died,” but that would be cruel and probably start a war. I don’t have the energy for that, so I say, “Get a life,” and get back to work.
I hang back after class ends, waiting until everyone is gone. Everyone but Ms. Carey. It’s time to tell her why I’m making Sophie’s Quilt.
“
Did you know that my mom died this summer?”
“No, I didn’t. Oh, Corinna, I’m so, so sorry. What a great idea to make a memory quilt.”
Then she gives me the most wonderful hug. In that moment, I don’t care if anyone sees me with my quivering face hugging my sewing teacher, spiky hair, crazy hem, and all.
On Thursday, our group meets for the third time. Robert still hasn’t come back. No one knows why he dropped out, and Ms. DuBoise doesn’t have a very clear explanation, either. Either she doesn’t know or she can’t reveal it to us. Maybe it’s one of those confidential situations.
The best thing about the group is that people want to hear your story. They listen in a different way than most kids. Even though our stories aren’t all exactly the same, everyone seems to get it and even asks questions. Chris, who is usually pretty quiet, tells us that his mother still cries all the time and he doesn’t know what he is supposed to do or say to her.
“I just go in my room and leave her alone.”
Yasmine says she has had trouble sleeping ever since the day the military man came to their door to tell them about her dad dying when he was serving our country.
“What are some strategies you have used when you can’t fall asleep?” Ms. D. asks us.
“Listen to music.”
“Read a boring book.”
“Pray.”
“I don’t have any. I just lie there.”
“Take a bath.”
Then she tries to teach us some breathing and relaxing exercises, but we end up in giggles. Clare snorts, which makes us laugh even more.
We also play Jeopardy! Death Jeopardy. Sounds fun, right? Actually, the questions are pretty good and lead to some pretty funny stories about some of the things that happened at funerals and hospitals. We all agree it was weird having people we didn’t know at the funerals. One of the Jeopardy! questions is about using the word “died” versus “passed away.” Most everyone’s families say “passed” or “passed away.” That leads to a discussion about whether “passing” is about passing gas or about death and we all laugh again. Plenty of our answers aren’t funny, though.
Another question is, “Share a fear or worry you’ve had since the death.” Every single one of us is scared our other parent might die. I also say that I’m scared that either my dad or I might get cancer some day.
Max reads the next question. “How do you feel when someone says ‘I know what you’re going through’ or ‘I know how you feel’?”
“I hate that.”
“Ditto.”
“It drives me crazy.”
“How can they possibly know?”
“Yup.”
Ms. D. speaks up. “Having people listen instead of telling feels much better, doesn’t it?”
I jump in and explain to them about the random earwax removal calls we got last year. “The people who aren’t good listeners should get their ears professionally cleaned!”
The kids laugh, even if they don’t really get what I’m talking about. I wonder if that kind of thing happens to Alex, with people telling him they know how he feels about his parents’ divorce.
For the next meeting, Ms. D. tells us to bring in photos or other things that remind us of the person who died. I know right away which picture I want to bring. The one of me and Mom and the Japanese decorations at my last birthday party, and the teddy bear I gave to her when she was sick, who sits on my bed along with the rest of my stuffed animal collection.
As soon as I walk into social studies, Joci comes rushing over and asks, “Where were you and Clare at lunch today?”
“We had a meeting.”
“A meeting? What kind of meeting?”
“Tell you later.”
I don’t really want to, though.
Four days later, I wake up to a huge snowstorm. Dad’s still in bed. He must have gotten the early morning teacher call saying school is closed. Joci texts me to see if I want to go sledding. After a bunch of texts to coordinate times and places, Clare, Joci, and I go sledding on the golf course. I’m hoping we’ll run into Alex and his friends, but luck is not on my side. When we’re done sledding, we trudge back to my house for hot chocolate. I’m relieved that we bought milk recently and have enough cocoa powder.
After they leave, I lie down on the sofa. I’m exhausted, the kind of tired you feel after being in the snow for hours. Dad asks if I want to go with him and Maki for one last walk before bed, but it’s too cold and I’ve had enough snow for one day.
“No, thanks.”
The night walk is usually short, so I know I have to be quick. Without even stopping to lock the door, I go directly to Mom’s closet and pick out two sweaters since Dad still hasn’t taken me shopping. Then I decide to bring her striped notebook into my room, just in case he comes back even quicker than usual.
Daniel is always pushing me to tell him how I feel whenever he senses I’m mad or upset. It’s not easy! Maybe I’d know how if I’d grown up in a family that did that. One thing that’s clear is that we both worry about our finances, about whether he’s going to get a raise, and how we’re going to get by on a musician’s and a teacher’s salaries. He makes a lot of jokes about us both choosing low-paying professions and why couldn’t one of us have been a computer geek.
The front door squeaks open and I stuff the notebook down to the bottom of my bed, inside my sheets. It will have to wait.
My radio alarm comes on at six thirty A.M., blaring a commercial for a furniture store that’s having a blow-out sale. I rush downstairs to make my perfect winter breakfast of instant oatmeal with maple syrup before I remember the notebook at the bottom of my bed. It’s going to have to wait some more, though, because Dad and I are running late for school.
When I get there, I see Robert and Alex in the main lobby. I smile at Alex, but he doesn’t see me. Robert is walking toward me, but when he sees me, he looks away and starts fiddling with his pencil case. I’m about to look away, too, but then I decide it’s too weird not to ask him about why he disappeared from our group. I hesitate before asking him, in my best attempt at a joking voice, “Robert, what’s up with you not coming back to group?”
He turns and says, “Oh. Hey, Corinna. You know . . . I didn’t feel right in there. My situation is different.”
“How’s it different?”
“Well, the truth is . . . I hated my stepdad. I’m not going to pretend I miss him.”
“Oh, wow. Okay . . .” I focus on my sneakers, anything but his face. “Well . . . um . . . I guess I’ll see you later.”
I understand why Robert feels different from the rest of us in our group. He probably thinks we wouldn’t want to hear that he actually doesn’t miss his stepfather. I bet his mom doesn’t want to hear about that, either.
I come home from school with a fever and chills. Dad thinks it’s the flu. I go to bed and tell Maki to stay off the bed because I’m so hot and sweaty, and he’s like a little furry heater.
Dad does an okay job of taking care of me, but I miss Mom.
After a full week of the flu, the homework piles up. I go to see Miss Beatty to get the assignments I missed.
I ask her, “Does it get any easier?”
“What do you mean?”
Maybe she thinks I’m talking about school or sentence diagrams.
“Do you get used to not having your mom alive?”
“Yes and no. But you know what’s important to remember? Our mothers will always be a part of us and your mom’s love will always be inside of you. No one can take that away.”
Missing
I’m sitting at Dad’s huge desk, which is actually a wooden door on top of two filing cabinets. He has a couple little smooth boxes made out of different kinds of wood, and I’m fiddling around with them, spacing out, thinking about Mom instead of doing my homework.
Mom was so much fun before she got sick. (Although, there were certainly times when she was annoying, like when she kept bugging me to practice my flute or clean
my room or even to clean out the slimy disgusting spit buildup in my flute.) Sometimes I can only see her in my mind when she was quiet and thin and weak and kind of scary-looking. But other times, I can see how she used to be. Pictures are good in that way. I have one in my room of us holding hands at the beach. I’m in a purple turtleneck and diaper, and she looks really young and pretty. Pictures help me remember her when she felt good, when she could do things with me. I have so many good memories, too, of summer vacations at the beach, parties we had, crafts projects we did together, birthday cakes we baked and decorated, plants we grew in the garden together, bike rides to the park, cuddling up next to her when I felt sick or sad, playing soccer in the backyard. Soccer was better than any games using your hands, because as a musician, she was always worried about hurting her hands.
I can’t believe that she is really gone. Gone forever. That is just too much to believe. It’s comforting to think about what Miss Beatty said, that she’s not really gone, she’s a part of you forever. I get what she means. My mom is a part of me and I have my memories. And I do talk to her, sometimes in my head, sometimes out loud, but still, she’s not coming back to our house, to be my dad’s wife, to be my mom here and now. She won’t be there for all my graduations when everyone else’s mom will, or for my wedding.
I decide to IM Clare.
maki226: hey Clare. I’ve been thinking about weddings. not necessarily about Alex, but just about wedding days, yours and mine. do you ever think about who’s gonna walk u down the aisle at your wedding since your dad can’t? maybe my dad should walk u and your mom can do mom stuff with me. soccergrlc: wooh, that’s heavy, but yeah, sometimes I do.
Dad comes over and stands next to me with his nose buried in his calendar. I click on the weather icon so he can’t see my chat on the screen.
“I need to go to the Spy Museum and check it out for a possible field trip for my eleventh-grade classes’ biography unit. You haven’t been there yet, right?”
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