by Kim Turrisi
There it is. It’s back. That uncanny Sheehan ability to turn emotions on and off.
“I’m gonna go get something to drink. Do you want anything?” she asks.
“I’m okay,” I reply.
I’m lying.
We’re all lying.
Nothing is ever going to be okay again.
Chapter 7
I think I liked it better when we didn’t do family dinners every night. Mom’s been cooking, a first. She makes a ton of food like she’s feeding an army, and Dad pretends to love every bite while he washes it down with a vodka martini, straight up with two olives — never one, never three — and a twist. Tonight is our first Sunday back at the dining room table. That hits me in the gut while I’m setting the table. The torment is magnified when I stare across the table at the empty chair.
“Smells great,” I lie to my mom, watching her slice and dice cabbage and potatoes.
“Thanks, sweetie. Dad will be home in about an hour. He went to run an errand with Mr. Lancaster.”
“I’m gonna take the dog for a walk before dinner.”
As I put Duke’s leash on, he rubs up against me and almost purrs. “Let’s go, buddy.” His wagging tail slaps against my legs but I don’t mind, it reminds me I’m still alive.
Alive means it’s okay to go to the Calvin Harris show next week, or is it? Jen would know the answer but I can’t really ask her. She got tickets for us a few months ago. She was taking me and TJ. I took the tickets off her dresser when Mom and I went to her house to pick up the outfit she would be buried in.
“What do you think, Duke? Should I go? It is Calvin Harris. Is that shitty or okay?” He keeps walking and wagging.
“Not helping,” I say.
He cranes his neck back, like he’s smiling at me. I take that as a yes.
A few weeks ago, I could just pick up the phone and call my sister to get her opinion on anything. Now I’m relying on her dog.
The warm tropical breeze is a welcome relief. The humidity is low and there’s zero chance of rain in the forecast, according to my weather app. Passing by the matching houses in our cookie-cutter community, I pray no one is outside watering their expansive lawn or washing their car. Last night, half the neighborhood was outdoors for our walk and half of those people had to comment on the recent death of my sister. Weren’t their condolences at the funeral enough? Every time they ask how we’re all getting along, I want to scream, How the fuck do you think we are? But I refrain. My answer is always the same: We are all okay.
Sniffing every blade of grass and tree in sight, Duke finally selects the Hastingses’ sweeping front lawn to do his business. I’m half tempted to leave it there knowing I’d get a bye because of my circumstance, but I see Old Lady Hastings peering out the window over her glasses, dressed in her flowered housecoat, so I blue-bag it and we head home. About a block or so from the house, Duke suddenly yanks on his leash — and on me — nearly sending me sprawling in the Lancasters’ driveway. Barking relentlessly, he jerks on the leash like he’s been possessed by the devil.
“What’s the matter, buddy?” I almost expect him to answer. I make a feeble attempt at calming him down, cupping his head and scratching his back, but he is a dog on a mission.
“Crazy dog.” But he isn’t letting up one little bit. I look down the street to see what set him off.
Then I see it. Suddenly it’s hard to swallow; my eyes fill with familiar stinging. Smack in the middle of our driveway is Jen’s black Toyota 4Runner.
My dad’s errand.
As we get closer, Duke gets more and more excited, his tail whipping around a mile a minute, his bark filled with hope. He doesn’t understand what I know all too well. His favorite human in the world did not come home with the car.
Duke loves riding in the backseat to the beach, his oversize golden head hanging out the window, catching wind all the way down the A1A, making a mess on the windows with his drool and hot breath. I grab the door handle hoping my dad forgot to lock it. He’s been off his game since my sister died. The click of the lever and Duke’s joy confirm my suspicions. Even my dad can’t focus. I swing the back door open. “Okay, boy.”
He leaps in the back, sniffs around and lies down on top of one of the many stray sweatshirts that live in her truck. I join him, wadding one up to rest next to him. I stroke his ears and face as I explain the inexplicable.
“Sorry, buddy, she’s gone. Not like when she went to Europe. She isn’t coming back to us. Ever. But hey, you have me.”
If my tears on his back bother him, he doesn’t let on. He noses my hand. I cuddle closer, almost spooning him.
It’s where Mom finds us an hour later. When she goes to pick up the mail.
Chapter 8
Dread greets me when TJ and I get to school. My first day back. The moment we get into the quad, all eyes are on me. Or at least I think they are.
TJ takes my hand. “You’ll be okay. I’m right here with you.”
I kiss his cheek.
A group of football players walk by. “Hey, Kai. Sorry about your sister.” They nod and keep walking.
“They’ve barely said a word to me in the last year. God,” I groan.
We run into Bridget and Kate from yearbook. They stop to welcome me back. “Kai, we’re here if you need anything.” All four of us get weepy eyed. I tug on TJ’s hand to keep us moving. I can’t afford the meltdown that’s brewing. No one wants to see me break, especially me.
The whispering is even more unbearable than the silent staring. I guess no one really knows what to do.
The guidance counselor meets us in the office.
“Kai, you know we were all very sorry to hear about your sister.”
“It’s okay,” I say like I mean it.
TJ tightens his grip on my hand.
“I’ve talked to your teachers, they’re going to give you makeup tests to take at home when you’re ready.”
Now I’m a special case at school, too?
“It’s okay, Mr. Condon, if everyone else took them here, I’ll do the same.”
His eyes pity me. I’ve seen that glazed-over, poor-kid look about a hundred times. At least.
“Kai, no one expects you to catch up your first week back.”
“Really, I’m good.”
TJ side-eyes me. I know he’s thinking, Take this deal, it’s sweet. He doesn’t get it. No one does. I just want it to be the way it was before.
“If you need to leave early or anything, it’s okay.”
Nothing is going to be okay, Mr. Condon.
The rest of the day is pretty much the same. Even my teachers are walking on eggshells. No one calls on me. No one asks for my homework.
Two more classes, then I’m home free. TJ and I are going to McDonald’s. Ah, normal.
I ease into a desk halfway up the second aisle, the only empty one other than the three in the front row.
“Dude, her sister offed herself. Who does that?” John Lozano not-so whispers to Janie Dankins, one of the girls I played Pop Warner softball with when I was seven. High school put some distance between us. Her clique deems anyone who writes for the newspaper too geeky for them. She sucked at softball anyway.
“Her sister was weird,” Janie adds.
My head snaps back and I turn into someone I don’t know. My eyes rip her insides out.
“Why don’t you shut the fuck up about something you know nothing about?”
Stuttering, she attempts to backtrack. “I — I didn’t mean anything … I mean, it’s just really horrible.”
“Really? If you didn’t mean anything, why did you open your mouth?” I snarl at her. I’m pretty sure I’m showing teeth. I notice a few of my classmates cower a bit. AP English just got ugly.
“It’s just —”
I throw my fist in her direction, pr
actically coming out of my seat, pulling back just inches before actually punching her in the face, which she richly deserves. But it’s against school policy. So I don’t.
She shrieks just enough to get any attention that wasn’t already focused on our altercation. That idiot John Lozano is doing his best imitation of a statue ever. Motionless and ever so quiet.
“Look, you narcissistic bitch, if you say one more word about my sister, this fist will rearrange that phony face of yours and I’ll gladly get expelled for doing it.”
I slam my book closed, squeeze out of my desk and get the hell out of there as fast as my legs can move.
A few snickers along with a few flat-out gasps accompany my rapid departure before the bell. I rush to the first girls’ bathroom I can duck into. Kicking open the door of the last stall, I crawl up onto the toilet, tucking one foot under the other, turn the stainless steel lock on the door to the right and bawl for the entire period.
The shrill sound of the bell jars me. I try to collect myself before anyone comes in between classes but I’m not quick enough. The door swooshes open followed by the sound of footsteps. I recognize Janie’s snotty voice but not the other girl’s. Not that it matters.
“Did you see the way she flipped out right in the middle of class? She’s straight-up crazy,” says Janie.
“Jesus. Cut her some slack, her sister just died,” the other voice argues.
“Killed herself. People who just die don’t want to. She did.”
I hate to give the bitch any credit but she’s right on the money. Still, it hurts. A lot. I will the tears to stop running down my face as I slowly open the stall. When they see me in the mirror, they both turn varying shades of red and start fumbling with the faucets. I stride past them with my head held high, directly out the swinging door.
I think I’ll take Mr. Condon up on his offer. I make my way down the hallowed halls of Parkland High. Just keep putting one sandal in front of the other, I tell myself. Do not look up. For when I do glance in any direction, all I see looking back at me is judgment. Emily races down the hall, moving pretty fast for a girl in such a short skirt and heels.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. I’m starting to get good at this. Yeah, folks, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?
“Just getting used to being back.”
She bear-hugs me.
“I have to get to class,” I say, eyeballing the flickering red EXIT sign at the far end of the History hallway, estimating the number of times I will need to put one foot in front of the other before I press that door’s metal bar and free myself from this hell.
“See you later?” Em asks.
“Yeah, sure.” Getting really good. I wave, and as soon as she’s out of my sight line, I stride straight out of school. I keep going until I can no longer see the building or any of those faces riddled with pity.
When I make my way a few blocks down the main road to the local park, it’s nearly desolate, only a few people congregating at this early hour. Stay-at-home moms swinging their children on a red swing set close to the winding slide, never imagining that one day one of them might take their own life. Just innocently enjoying the glorious Florida sunshine. I sneak behind the bathrooms with my backpack and remove the last of the airplane bottles of Smirnoff that TJ smuggled over to me. The clear liquid tingles as it goes down but it’s a welcome breather. I use it to wash down a Xanax because I need to quiet my brain. Then I wrap the empty bottle in a piece of notebook paper, toss it in the chipped green trash can and scan the park for a place to clear my head.
The sound of a text jars me.
I just heard. She’s an asshole. Ignore her. See you after school. Xo Em
Earbuds jammed in my ears, I make myself at home under a palm tree. The soothing sound of Bon Iver, one of Jen’s favorites, is precisely what I need.
Drifting off, I’m seven years old on a swing in my backyard yelling at the top of my lungs, “Higher, higher!” My dad built us one of those monster cedar playsets with a slide, a deck with a ladder and a swing. I was the envy of everyone in the neighborhood. As my size-six, midnight-blue Chuck Taylors point straight up in the air, I’m flying. Pure, unadulterated joy. The kind of bliss that only comes when you don’t have a care in the world. I look back and see my thirteen-year-old sister smiling that smile, pushing me, cheering me on.
A firm hand shakes my shoulder. The panic jars me back momentarily.
“Are you okay? You were crying so loudly,” the tousled-blond- haired mom from the swing set asks.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Bad dream,” I fib, gathering my things.
“Can I call someone? Your mother?” There’s such sincerity in her eyes, I think about my mom. I feel blue all over. I hear her cry at night downstairs when she thinks no one hears her. Her own private hell.
“No, thanks. I’m meeting a friend. I must have dozed off. Late night studying.”
“Take care,” she says as leaves.
No longer able to ignore the dozen frantic calls, I pick up my phone.
“Jesus Christ, where the hell are you? You were supposed to meet me at the Jeep,” screeches TJ before I can even say hello. Drama queen.
“I took a walk.”
“I heard about Janie.”
Of course he did.
“She’s a troll, we already knew that. I’m coming to get you. Just tell me where you are.”
I start to tell him I’ll be fine but I don’t. Because I’m not sure that I will be.
“Bixby Park.”
We hang up just as a text from my mom appears on my phone.
How’s the day, sweetie?
I don’t miss a beat.
Fine.
Dinner at 7. Dad’s grilling salmon, ok?
Just a regular Monday.
K.
TJ wheels his Jeep into the parking space closest to the stucco-sided bathrooms. He’s in such a rush that he takes up two spots. Parking fail. Emily leaps out of the passenger side like a superhero, races over and flings herself onto the grass next to me.
“Oh my God, you’re okay,” she says hysterically.
“You, too?”
“We were worried about you, Kai. It’s your first day back after everything and you get into it with Janie. She’s such a loser.” I give her a peck on the cheek. She pauses. “You smell like alcohol.”
“I just needed to chill, Em.” She nods. I know she gets it.
TJ is cradling a cardboard carrier from Ozzy’s, one of our favorite food spots. I eyeball the three bowls of frozen yogurt that match his Billabong shirt.
“Peach. Today’s special. I even got fresh peaches mixed in.”
“Really?”
“It’s blazing hot and it seemed refreshing.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve never sounded gayer.”
He flips me off as he hands us each our bowls. TJ raises his spoon to toast us.
“To a sucky Monday.”
The thing about best friends is you don’t have to say anything and they know what you need. They also know when to keep quiet. All you need is their presence to drive away all the madness in your life.
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I miss her so much.” My friends reach out for me at the same time and twenty fingers pull me into the safety zone.
Just not the fingers I miss the most.
Chapter 9
Staring into my bathroom mirror, caking concealer over the dark circles under my eyes, I still can’t believe I got talked into going to this stupid dance. If you look up last thing Kai Sheehan wants to do ever, it would scream in bright white blinking lights, GO TO THIS HIGH SCHOOL PROM.
I hear my bedroom door open and duck out to find Emily in a form-fitting orange tank dress looking all perky and stunning. Two things I am not.
“You
know I hate everything about going to this dance, right?” I say emphatically, adjusting my sleeveless polka-dot dress, then slipping into my soft-pink wedge sandals. I’m fairly certain that my best friends and my parents have been conspiring to get me to the prom since Jen died. Frankly, they wore me down until I acquiesced.
“I know this is messed up and ridiculously hard, but you know how much fun we had at the last dance you didn’t want to go to.”
She makes a good point. We snuck a six-pack in for that one.
“Come on, Kai. We can just let loose,” Emily suggests. “And we have to go for yearbook, so …”
Damn, she’s right. I pop a Xanax into my mouth and let it dissolve under my tongue. I don’t even mind the chalky aftertaste. It takes effect much quicker this way. Emily just watches, brow slightly raised, lips zipped.
“Letting loose sounds fine. Fun? I don’t know how to do that anymore.”
She grabs my hand. “I’m really worried about you, Kai. You seem so … I don’t know … unengaged. You’ve missed the last two yearbook meetings, you barely respond to our group texts, you didn’t even mention the new music from The 1975.”
“Em, please, don’t psychobabble me. You sound like my mom.”
TJ walks in, saving Emily from any further wrath. He opens his arms wide to show off his powder-blue tuxedo.
“Rad, right?”
“Hot as ever,” Emily compliments him.
“This bitch is going to glow in the dark on the dance floor underneath the lights. I can’t wait.” He’s bubbling over like this is some epic event.
Clearly I’m the only one not happy about this. Make lemonade from the lemons. A Jen favorite. I dig into my overflowing laundry basket and hoist a bottle of Tito’s Handmade Vodka in the air like the trophy it is. “Surprise!”
TJ slow-claps me. “Nicely done. But how did you get that?”
“Got it out of one of the condolence baskets. Thank you, Jen.”
Emily cringes.
Both my parents have been off their game and tiptoeing around me. I suspect I’ve got some leeway here and I plan to take every inch of it. I hear the whispers late at night when they think I’m sleeping. Oddly, they never talked this much when Jen was alive, both too busy with their careers to remember we were a family. Truth: it didn’t really bother me because I had Jen. Now they’re both lost in their worlds like I am in mine.
