“Anyway, I was thinking, maybe you could reach out to them and participate too. Maybe that would be good for you. You know, to have something to focus on?” she continued.
I put down the sandwich. “Participate in what?”
Again, that strange look. “The march. It’s against gun violence. It’s pastime our elected officials do something to stop this madness.”
I tried to understand what she was saying; it was as if the words were hanging there in the air, out of order, waiting for me to decode them. Something was buzzing in my head, though, and I couldn’t quite figure out the word puzzle through that distraction.
“Why would I do that?”
“Nell! So that they can prevent this kind of tragedy in the future.”
The future? What future? Why would I care about the future, my own or anyone else’s? She was suggesting the earth would continue its journey around the sun without Charlie. Was that even possible?
“But Charlie’s already dead,” I finally said.
She was about to speak again, and I cut her off., “Sarah get out.” and I lay back down and turned my back to her.
She waited a moment then said quietly, “I’m sorry for upsetting you Nell, I just thought maybe having a purpose would make this easier somehow. I’m sorry.”
I lay silent as she left the room, desperate for the darkness and fragile peace of sleep to take me again.
14
I dreamt of Stoagie, my childhood dog. He was running down a trail, unleashed, and when he turned around a bend, I lost sight of him. I called his name and peered through the thick maple foliage for the telltale hint of his brown coat without success. Then I realized I’d somehow walked off the trail myself. For a moment, the forest was completely silent, and I stood still, trying to reorient myself. A crackling sound came from ahead, footsteps on dead leaves. I ran toward it, calling his name again when I saw him step out from behind a large tree. Except it wasn’t Stoagie, it was Charlie.
The sound of Narek’s voice stole the dream from me. He was yelling at someone, although I couldn’t understand the specifics of what he was saying. My door opened and my mother walked in. “Hi, honey,” she said softly. I tried to respond, but my throat was so tight and dry, I couldn’t get the words out. Seeing my distress, she handed me the water glass from the nightstand and explained, “You’ve been out for fourteen hours.”
Fourteen hours. My son had been dead for fourteen more hours. I wondered dully if parents of dead children counted deathdays, in the way we once counted birthdays. When you bring the baby home, you always start with days, then weeks, then months, and finally, at age two, years were the units of measurement but maybe with death you start with hours. Charlie was now 13 years old and 49 hours dead.
“Did I hear Narek?” I asked, struggling to push the thought of hours from my head.
She nodded, “Yes, he arrived this morning. A reporter just showed up at your front door and he was chasing him away.”
I rubbed my eyes and tried to focus in the darkness of Charlie’s room. I didn’t really want to go out. I didn’t want to have to interact with other humans at all. And then there was Narek. We hadn’t seen him in almost four years, not in person anyway. He’d all but left our lives completely, and yet here he was pretending to be the doting father. I felt none of the nerves or conflicting feelings that usually plagued me when I knew we’d have to interact. Our last tie had just been completely and irrevocably severed and I wished he hadn’t come at all. If I didn’t go out, though, he would come in here into this sacred space. I couldn’t stand the thought of him breathing Charlie’s air, so I forced myself out of bed.
When I walked into the living room, everyone turned to stare. I had been in bed for almost an entire day and night, the looks on their faces made it clear they would have preferred the lie of smoothly brushed hair and a washed face, but I didn’t really care if I made them feel uncomfortable in all my squalor. I saw Narek but barely registered his presence because something else had caught my eye. The television was on and a photo of a balding middle-aged man was displayed with the text “Hero of Cooper Middle School.” My father reached for the television remote, but I held up my hand and said, “Wait.”
Mr. Goldsby taught earth sciences at Cooper; he’d been in the classroom across the hall from the room where it had started. Upon hearing the first gunshot, he’d told his students to lock the door and ran out to confront the scene. He’d rushed in and tackled the gunman, easily wrestling the gun away from him. Gunman. The gunman wasn’t a man at all; he was a tall, skinny, 13-year-old boy with red hair and acne. A video clip showed him arriving at a courthouse for arraignment. As detectives and lawyers rushed him past the throngs of reporters, he kept his head low, refusing to meet their eyes.
I stared at the boy, willing his face to memory. I knew I should feel something now; rage, grief, compassion, something that normal human beings felt, but at that moment, I felt nothing. It was as if the living me had become one of Narek’s painted versions of myself. I looked like a version of a real person, but ultimately, I was just a two-dimensional facsimile of a human being.
Narek spoke finally, “John, the television, please?” and then he approached me. He looked older; a few silver hairs now flecked his tightly shorn beard. The lines at the corners of his eyes were deeper, and I could tell from the bags under them he hadn’t been sleeping much.
For a moment, we just stood there, staring at each other, two solitary sailors on passing boats adrift. Then he walked toward me, as if to embrace me. I recoiled before there was contact. I didn’t want to touch him and not feel anything, and worse yet was the possibility I might feel something after all. I wanted to remain alone and detached from all of them.
“Hello, Narek.” My voice sounded cold.
“Nell… I am so brokenheart.”
“Heartbroken,” I corrected automatically.
“Heartbroken. I cannot believe our Charlie is gone.”
I turned to the others, still seated awkwardly on the sofa and chairs. I heard my mother attempt to muffle a sob as she wiped at her eyes. My father’s face was bright red with the exertion of holding his own tears back. Sarah was the only one with the grace to look uncomfortable instead of just sad. Locking eyes with her, I said, “Can you take Mom and Dad somewhere, please. Go get lunch maybe.”
She corrected, “Dinner, but yes that’s a good idea. We’ll text before heading back.”
When we were finally alone, I sank into one of the dining chairs and refused to look at him. He paced behind me. It was as if he’d absorbed every bit of energy that had drained from my pores and now, he didn’t know what to do with it.
“Nell…” he began, and I put my hand up to stop him.
He finally stopped moving and said, “You need to eat.”
I shrugged but didn’t protest as I heard him opening cupboard doors. Something hit the countertop, and then there was the sound of pots and pans clanging as he dug through their cabinet. I turned finally, to see him opening a can of soup.
We didn’t speak as he prepared and served a simple meal of soup and slices of days old crusty bread. Through the blessed silence, I felt my stomach unclench enough to swallow a few bites. If we had failed at so much else, Narek and I had at least always been very good at silence.
When I was sure the soup would stay down, I drew a breath and finally spoke. “My parents, I’m not sure how much longer I can handle them being here. They mean well but their grief… it’s exhausting me.”
He nodded. “I can see that in just the shorter time I was here. I think it is ideal if you can help each other but maybe now is not the good time for that.”
“Where are you staying?” I asked, making an obvious point with the question.
“Marriott on Broad Street,” he replied, not seeming to take offense.
“And you are… alone?” I asked hesitantly. I didn’t think I could handle it if he’d brought his family, Charlie had never met his half-siblings w
hen he was alive, it would have been ridiculous to bring them here now.
“Yes, of course.” His eyebrows furrowed, and a small part of me felt a spark of satisfaction at his obvious disapproval of the question. I could still feel something after all. “Look I know he was your only son, you were the best mother too. I have other children and I was not a good father, not good enough anyway for Charlie, I know this too. But I am truly brokenheart over this. I would not hurt you by bringing the other children here; you should know this about me.”
I sighed, my head was pounding again, and I remembered the Percocet, it was time for another pill. After taking it, I returned to him and said, “I don’t know what’s happened since...”
He nodded at my unfinished words, he understood. “John and Nancy talked a little of it. They said Ben Hamilton has introduced them to the person who arranges the ceremony, but they need our input.”
He looked away and when he turned back, I was surprised to see the tears rolling down his cheeks. “I would do this all for you, anything to make this easier, but I do not know how to bury my son.”
His raw emotion bothered me. I resented that he felt entitled to it. I hadn’t cried since the previous afternoon; the pain had been replaced by the numb reality that some part of me had also died yet here he sat crying. Narek had not earned the right to grieve. It was a relief when I heard the text alert interrupt, from the phone on the counter. I replied with a brief acknowledgement to my sister’s warning they were returning soon and then scrolled through a seemingly endless list of unread messages from friends and coworkers. Glancing up at Narek and seeing his still stricken face, I turned back to my phone screen, hoping to lose myself in it. “I have to answer some messages,” I explained without looking back up.
I couldn’t find a single person I actually wanted to reply to. Any reply I sent would surely be met with one back, an expectation of conversation. I knew what society was expecting from me at the moment, and I was nowhere near ready for that kind of dialogue. I didn’t want to hear about prayers I didn’t even believe in or to reassure people I was okay (I wasn’t okay.) I knew they meant well; they wanted to offer me some comfort, some confirmation I wasn’t forgotten, but I didn’t need that. What I needed was peace.
As I scrolled down, I suddenly happened upon the last text from Charlie. My hand froze for a moment, and then I opened it.
Love you.
You too…
I sheltered the screen with my hand and glanced around. Narek was at the sink, tidying the dishes. Looking back at the phone, I typed.
I feel as if someone reached into my chest and tore my literal heart out. Undo this.
I can’t go on without you.
Everyone misses you, but they will be whole again. I won’t ever be.
Your father is here, you know how crazy that makes me. His grief makes me feel so unreasonably angry.
Grandpa and Grandma are trying to help, Aunt Sarah’s here too.
They’re all making me a little crazy.
Missing you makes me the craziest of all, though. Please undo this. Just hit refresh. Make it all go back to the way it’s supposed to be.
I heard the front door open and quickly closed the screen. My mother spoke too cheerfully, too brightly. “Well, that was such a nice meal!”
I looked at her and said truthfully, “I’m really tired. I need to go lay down for a while.” I ignored the look on her face, the one that made her worry and disappointment quite obvious. I’d had exactly as much human interaction as I could handle for the day and I craved the encompassing forgetful comfort of sleep.
15
Try as I might, I couldn’t get that old rhyme out of my head. April showers bring May flowers. The flowers were early; there were still 13 days left in April. The funeral hall overflowed with sickly-sweet smelling displays and bouquets. There seemed every imaginable floral combination arrangement of cross and wreath lining the entrance, the hallway, and the actual viewing room. When we arrived, the two men in suits with somber faces had shaken my hand and then led me to see him, although “seeing him” wasn’t really a fair way to describe what I was actually offered.
Struggling to walk through the veritable… jungle… I approached the awaiting casket on shaking legs. It was closed, although I couldn’t bear to remember why we had to leave it that way. His likeness was there, though, captured perfectly on canvas that rested on an easel. It was fresh enough; I could still smell the paint and the slightest hint of turpentine. Ben had worked tirelessly on it, and I could not bear looking at it after my first glimpse.
My parents and sister had stopped at the back of the room, giving Narek and I a private moment. I glanced at him, his eyes so disturbingly mirrored Charlie’s eyes in the painting. He reached over and took one of my hands and we each placed our free hands on the stained oak surface of the box that now held our boy. I tried to imagine him sleeping inside, his eyes shut peacefully, his mouth making that tiny smile he always had when he slept. I knew that wasn’t what he looked like anymore; the carnage had been absolute. The damage so severe even makeup couldn’t make him presentable enough for an open casket. The irony was the nature of his injury meant that he hadn’t known. He hadn’t felt it. We’d learned he was indeed Victim Number One. When the first shot was fired, it had gone directly into the back of his head. He hadn’t had time to be afraid. That was the single fact I clung to in my darkest hours. He hadn’t been afraid.
I found a seat in the front row of chairs and soon the public doors opened. We were not prepared for the crowds that lined up and wove their way through the facility. Some faces were familiar, coworkers and friends, a few of Charlie’s closest friends and their parents, some of his former teachers, a few old college friends of both Narek and I. Many of the visitors were complete strangers though, they’d stop to offer me a personal condolence and I felt awkward giving a perfunctory nod. The children were the hardest of all. Hundreds of children, mostly of middle and high school ages. They’d been casual friends of Charlies through various organizations and events, classmates at some time, and sometimes seemed to have no connection at all.
At one point, a woman and her little girl paused in front of me and I stared up at the crying woman through uncomprehending eyes. It didn’t click until I glanced again at the child. It was Becca, the child I’d had glued to me during the lockdown.
“I just wanted to say I am so sorry this happened to your son and also to say… thank you. Becca told me how you kept her safe that day,” she said in a rush of tears.
I looked back at Becca and opened my arms, inviting her in for a hug she eagerly accepted. Her hair smelled like strawberry suave shampoo, and for just a moment I allowed myself to inhale her essence, the freshness of it so much better than the cloying scent of a thousand dying flowers. Grasping her tiny frame to me, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to pretend for a moment, it was Charlie at that age. He’d been all knobby knees and chubby cheeks, obsessed with trains and hot air balloons. For months, every drawing he did featured one or the other. Then I felt the child jerk back. I’d held on too tightly and she was suddenly scared. I let go and watched her grasp her mother’s hand. They said an uncomfortable goodbye and then disappeared into the crowd.
The service and burial were the following day. I’d toyed with attending unmedicated, allowing myself to drown in the pain of the living, but in the end, I’d taken a pill and chased it with vodka. My mother said nothing, but I saw the look on her face. She was worried, and she didn’t approve, but she didn’t dare say so out loud. I sat through the service, once again numb. I had only one inappropriate moment, when the 70-year-old minister said, “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the sun.”
I couldn’t stop the loud “ha!” from escaping my lips. I heard a few soft gasps and my mother grabbed my hand, but I wasn’t sorry. What did that old man know of my Charlie? What purpose would God have had for allowing his brilliant little mind to explode all over a cheap, s
hitty tile floor? I remembered then that I still had to pretend, so I sat mute for the rest of the service.
At the cemetery, the medication seemed to be wearing off. I could feel the pain in my feet from the new pumps my mother had foisted upon me, and soon I could feel the pain in my soul as I watched the box containing my only child being lowered into the ground. In a panic, I grabbed at the figure next to me. I somehow thought it was my father, but it was Narek. I looked at him, desperate for help. We had to stop them from doing this; we couldn’t let him be buried. Once he was buried, that was it. It couldn’t be undone. He put his arm around me and pulled me tightly against him and rested his chin on top of my head. With the solid wall of Narek supporting me, I stayed upright, and I stifled the screams building in my chest.
Afterwards, at my house, I made my way into the bathroom and locked the door. I turned on the shower and the overhead fan, and then I finally did scream. When they banged on the door, asking if I was all right, I shouted back through the wood I was fine, and then I screamed again.
My family finally left four days after the funeral. They’d been in town for nine days already, and it was time. My mother had suggested she stay behind, she thought my father could get my sister back to Michigan so they could both return to work and she could take care of me, but I told her with as much self-serving kindness as I could muster that wasn’t a good idea. I needed to be alone for a while. As they were leaving, I allowed myself to be hugged for far too long by both of my parents and promised to visit soon and then I turned to my sister. I had been pretty chilly toward her for the entire visit and now I regretted it. I might never see her again and I didn’t want her carrying those feelings. “I’m glad you came Sarah… I haven’t been myself I know.”
Ellipsis Page 10
