by Kim Turrisi
The best thing about cemeteries is that no one questions guttural sobbing. The woman cleaning the headstone of her loved one several yards away simply glances down as she scrubs, leaving me to wallow privately. I wipe my runny nose and eyes with the bottom of my Beatles T-shirt. It’s pretty ripe.
A text from TJ interrupts me: Where are you?
Nowhere.
“Save me from this darkness. I just don’t want to feel anymore. It’s just too hard. Maybe this is how you felt? Was it? If it is, well … I want to be with you,” I say quietly.
Lucky me: when I toss my phone into my backpack, I find another bottle of beer plus a bonus stray pill rolling around the bottom along with some quarters. Looks similar to a Vicodin, maybe a Norco. Don’t really care what it is. After I pop it in my mouth and chug half the beer, I squish up my hoodie into a pillow. I position it next to the spot where Jen’s head is resting, then crawl up next to her.
“I miss you,” I manage before passing out.
* * *
Screaming voices and tugging on my sleeve jar me out of my slumber. I shield my face with my forearm but the sun’s in my eyes and everything is blurry, I can’t really focus. Someone holds something wet to my lips.
I manage a tiny sip. It’s water, I think, and the moisture on my cracked lips soothes them. I squint, opening and closing my swollen eyes.
“… get her cleaned up … we need to take her home … she’s a fucking mess.” It’s TJ’s voice. I attempt to tell him I’m okay but I sound garbled.
“What did you take? Kai!”
“Shhhhh. Not so loud. Dead people are sleeping.” Or at least that’s what I think I say. Things are starting to come into focus. It’s still blurry and my head is jumbled but that’s definitely TJ poking through my backpack. And it’s Emily holding the water bottle with her brow creased. I try to home in on what they’re saying to each other.
“… her backpack … empty beer bottles. Jesus Christ, warm beer for breakfast … This is really bad, TJ … do you think she took any pills … what’s happening here isn’t just beer … call 911.”
I can’t have that. I search to find my voice.
“No! I’m fine.”
“We have to sober her up, Em. She’s circling the drain.”
Through the haze I remember my parents have a dinner and won’t be home until at least ten. Plenty of time.
“My parents are gone until way late,” I manage. As my body is being hoisted up in the air, everything goes black.
* * *
The smell of spearmint and eucalyptus awakens me. TJ’s favorite body spray. Startled, I make every effort to gather my wits about me. I rustle around and am met by the sight of my two best friends, who are vacillating between supremely pissed off and joyful to see me alive.
Emily comes at me ready for battle. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I needed to talk to Jen, my parents don’t understand me,” I manage to whimper.
TJ sits on my bed next to me. I’ve never seen him look so helpless. He tugs on the leg of his board shorts.
“Kai, I was so worried. You were incoherent. Look at yourself. You haven’t showered in who the fuck knows how long. You’re on a slippery slope and falling down fast.”
“Hey! Who the hell are you to judge me? You don’t understand. No one understands,” I retort.
“Stop playing that fucking card. You’re right, we don’t understand what it’s like to lose someone we love, but you’re here and we’re here. Talk to us. Talk to somebody or you’re gonna end up on the side of the road or worse,” he shouts, pacing in front of me.
“TJ —” Emily starts. He rebuffs her.
Running his hands through his hair, his voice breaking, he mutters, “I can’t handle the thought of losing you.”
I know I sound weak but I muster up, “I really am sorry.”
This time no one says it’s okay.
“Don’t let this shit happen again or I’ll go to your parents myself,” he says, anger creeping back in.
He hands me a bottle of water and some Advil. “Take these. Emily will make you a sandwich.” Emily nods as she leaves my room.
Just the mention of food disgusts me and it’s written all over my face. Before I can say a word, TJ gives me the don’t try it look.
“It’s not a request. Either you eat it or I call your mother.”
“You sound like an asshole.”
“If loving you makes me an asshole, so the fuck be it.”
We sit glaring at each other for a few minutes, when Emily returns carrying a plate with a turkey-and-cheese sandwich and some potato chips. She hands it to me and sits at the foot of the bed with TJ, crossing her legs one over the other.
It takes a while but I swallow every morsel under their watchful eyes. So hard to chew when you’re a sobbing wreck.
* * *
When I wake up, Duke is snoring next to me. A quick look at my phone: it’s only seven o’clock. I have a slew of texts from my mom, TJ and Emily. I ignore all of them except for my mother.
We’ll finish our talk tomorrow. Ok?
Yeah, Mom, sure. Home studying, have fun tonight.
Not a total lie. I really do need to study for my Trig test tomorrow. Sitting up, I realize that my head is in no space for that. I reach under the mattress for my pill stash and take a Vicodin to dull my throbbing head.
My gap-year packet is staring at me. I grab it, then lean down nose to nose with the dog. He opens his eyes and starts to thump his tail on the bed.
“Hi, buddy. I need to feed you. Let’s get you some dinner.” He cocks his head to the right as his ears stand at attention. The D-word perks him up as usual. Duke hurdles the bunched-up covers and races me down the stairs barking the entire way.
While he mows through his food, I go to my mom’s office to leave her the packet from school about gap-year options. It’s never too early. I’m not letting go. In the middle of her desk, I see a stack of mail. The envelope on top says Jennifer Sheehan. I thumb through the stack. All have her name on them. None will be opened by the recipient.
Clutching her mail like it might bring her back, I grab a bottle of bourbon out of a gift basket on Mom’s floor. The baskets keep multiplying, and I could use a little shot to level me out. I know this would disappoint Em and TJ but WTF? They have no clue how hard this is.
“Bourbon?” I ask Duke, who is glued to me. I take his tail wag as a confirmation that this is a good idea, then proceed upstairs with the square bottle in hand.
The bourbon doesn’t calm my nerves. The two Xanax I take do nothing. I run a bath hoping to wash away the despair coursing through my veins. Listening to the running water, I take Jen’s last letter from the nightstand and skim it. I really don’t need to look at it. The truth is, I’ve memorized every word.
Don’t mourn me.
Like I can turn my heart on and off?
Celebrate the wonderful life you have ahead of you.
A life without you, Jen.
I can’t get it out of my head now. Every word flashes rapidly in front of me, pulsating in my brain with no relief. After another mouthful of bourbon and my last Vicodin, I feel a sense of rage slam into me like a twelve-foot wave. I rant at my absent sister. At my life.
“Celebrate? Celebrate what, Jen? Your death?”
I flip out, losing control. With each sentence I get louder and louder. Madder and madder.
“You want me to turn my heart off, big sister? No problem. I’ll turn my heart off, all right.”
Mad.
Sad.
Resentful.
All colliding.
I storm over to my bed, facing the imposing headboard. This place used to be my refuge, the one place in the McMansion where I could lose myself in Jen’s words and travels. I slash at a picture of me with Je
n at Epcot Center. Her arms holding me so tight, so safe.
“What happened to you?”
I rip the postcards down and break nearly every framed picture in my path. I feel nothing. Nothing about the photo where we have on matching Florida State baseball hats. I throw that at the wall. Nothing about the photo where we parasailed in tandem. I smash the glass frame on the desk. Nothing about how all I wanted to do was be more like my beautiful, brown-haired, big-eyed sister in her senior picture.
Nothing!
A pair of scissors catches my eye, and with one swipe, I snatch them up and cut off a fistful of my hair.
Then another.
And another.
Clumps of my thick dark hair lie at the foot of my bed, covering the postcards and then some. I mindlessly strip my clothes off and rush back into the bathroom. The water pouring from the spigot is like a waterfall. Jen’s waterfall — no! Nothing. I turn off the cascading water and lower my aching body into the warm bath. Resting my throbbing head on the back of the tub, I run my hand over my protruding ribs and try to push Jen’s letter from my mind.
“I’m not scared of death. The alternative is too painful.”
I get it, Jen. I get it.
Then I gently shut my eyes and the world out.
* * *
Bleary-eyed, prone on my bed, I think I hear the faint sound of my bedroom door opening, then closing with a click. I’m sure that’s a dog barking nonstop. I slip the top sheet over my body against the slight breeze from my open window. It’s so cold I’m shivering. The door handle turns, then the door opens but closes again. This time, I hear voices, but I don’t see anyone through the impenetrable fog in my brain. The voices sound familiar. Mom? Dad? I catch every few sentences.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“Jesus Christ, look at this mess.”
A coffin appears before me. The lid opens, then closes. I try to check out what’s inside but all I see is a black void. I hear my mother whisper to my dad.
“Let’s calm down. Thank God TJ and Emily came to us.”
“I know. I know. It’s hard to be mad. She’s in real trouble. But look at her hair.”
“John, we have bigger problems than her hair.”
The coffin lid creaks open once more, then slams shut, jarring me. I lift my head off the pillow ever so slightly and shake the cobwebs out of my foggy mind. It takes a minute but my mom’s face slowly comes into focus.
I know better than to say anything. My life is stuck on pause.
It’s so bright it hurts.
“Kai?” I hear my dad. “Try to sit up.”
I see concern on their faces. I prop myself up on my elbow. “What time is it?”
“It’s eight o’clock,” Dad answers.
“Why is it so bright?” It’s not registering with me.
“In the morning,” he adds.
Doing the math, I know for sure I’m in a world of trouble. I’ve been asleep since some point yesterday. Shit.
Mom reaches for my hand. “Kai, when school is over next week, you’re going to a camp in Georgia.”
That gets my attention but quick.
“Georgia? To camp? I’m not going to camp. Ever. What am I, ten?” I sit straight up quickly but then wish I hadn’t. All the blood rushes to my skull and I feel like I might be sick. Dad is standing next to Mom, all business. A united front.
“It’s a grief camp for teens who have lost someone they love,” she explains.
“A grief camp?” I yelp.
They don’t flinch. Stone-cold resolve.
“One of my clients suggested it right after Jen died but we weren’t sure about it. Until now,” Mom explains.
“I’m not going anywhere to talk about Jen. I can handle it.”
My dad pulls a bag of pot out of his pocket and lays it in front of me like an offering at an altar. “No, you can’t.”
“You searched my room?”
“We lost one child, we aren’t about to lose another one. And it wasn’t a question, Kai. It was a statement. You leave the day after school lets out next week. Your mom and I will drive you up.”
I start to protest but I’m just too tired.
Tired of crying.
Tired of raging.
Tired of feeling alone.
Just so tired.
Chapter 11
When Dad wheels the Benz into a roadside restaurant in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, I raise my eyes. My earbuds have been pretty much jammed in my ears since we got in the car. Saying goodbye to TJ and Emily was a bitch but I squared things with them before I left. My first time away without any of my safety nets. No TJ. No Emily. No Jen.
“Let’s stretch and grab a burger. This place is supposed to have the best cheeseburgers in Georgia,” Dad throws out. He clocks my dubious look in the rearview mirror.
“It’s true. One of the guys at my firm has a son who goes to Georgia Tech. He stops here on his way every trip.”
Mom shakes her head but laughs. They’re both trying so hard to be positive about this. A glimmer of lightness has made its way into them. I’m hoping for the same miracle.
The sign, FLO’S BURGERS, blinks in lime green even when the sun is shining and it’s the middle of the day. Jen would love this place, I think. She lived for road trips to anything Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. I even know what she would order: cheeseburger, extra cheese, extra pickles, no onion. Extra-crispy fries. She loved the extras.
We find a red faux-leather booth way in the back. The chalkboard menu on the wall confirms it. It’s pretty much burgers or cheeseburgers. Dad orders for us, then comes the silence that has become the norm since Jen died. No one knows what to say when we’re all in one space. Here we are: no music, no work, just us.
Mom breaks the quiet. “Your dad and I really believe this is the right place for you to start the healing process, get rid of your anger.” She’s trying to sell me; it’s what she does. I don’t know.
“What if I promise to try harder?” I know I sound pitiful but I have to pull out all the stops. I do not want to talk about my sister with people I don’t know.
My parents do what they do: side-eye each other hoping one of them will pick up the ball and run with it. It’s Mom.
“Honey, we’re afraid of what might happen to you if we don’t get you help. We couldn’t help Jen but we can help you.”
I have no comeback for that. I can’t keep lying. To them or to myself. Because it’s true: I wanted to be with my sister.
“Trust me, leaving you at this camp is the last thing I want to do. But I know it’s the only answer.”
The thing about my mom is she believes in everything she sells and I believe in her because, right now, I have to.
“This is all they do. Help kids cope with devastating situations. Kai, you need this. We need this for you,” Dad chimes in.
“I know,” I say, subdued. It’s what Jen would want me to do. In my head, I know she would want me to get my shit together and live my life, like she said in the letter. My heart is a whole different story. I can’t let her go.
“I won’t pretend to know why Jen thought that ending her life was her answer” — Dad’s voice falters — “but I have all the confidence in the world that these people can help you navigate the waters of acceptance.”
“Who are you?” I bust out, then cover with a giggle. But seriously, this is the kind of discussion I’d be having with my sister, certainly not with my father. At least the sister I thought I knew. Maybe my dad and sister had more in common than I realized.
I can tell my mom is trying not to cry. Finally she says what’s on her mind.
“I’m sorry we’ve been so wrapped up in our own pain that we’ve been oblivious to yours.”
The words almost get stuck in my throat. “It’s okay.” Th
is time I mean it. They can’t help themselves, let alone me. Maybe I do need to do this. I don’t know if grief camp is the answer, but I’ll try it.
For my mom, for my dad and for the sister I love the most.
* * *
As we cruise down the two-lane road in north Georgia that leads to grief camp, the only things I see are tractors, cows and horses. Then more cows. It’s a far cry from Fort Lauderdale, and it’s late afternoon by the time we arrive at The Tree House. Well named, it turns out. Trees as far as my eyes can see. Truly not much else.
Several families have beaten us here. Like robots, they appear to be going through the motions, unloading their cars, carrying duffel bags, like it’s any other summer camp, except no one is smiling. All the faces are consumed with pain and uncertainty. With my nose glued to the back window, I start to have a mini–anxiety attack. Maybe a major one. The knots in my stomach tense while beads of sweat drip down my back.
“I can’t do this,” I tell my parents. No way.
I hear the doors click open. My parents are blatantly ignoring me. Damn, damn, damn.
“You’ll be okay, Kai.” Mom says the words, but her voice sounds a lot like the freaked-out one in my head.
Before I can continue to protest, Dad opens my door and we’re greeted by a fresh-faced girl wearing a big smile and a canary-yellow T-shirt that says The Tree House Staff on the front over the upper-left pocket. This leaves me no choice but to climb out of buttery-soft seats into the unknown.
“Hi, I’m Alison. I’m one of the orientation leaders.”
My dad throws his hand out right away, ever the gentleman. “John Sheehan. This is my wife, Marie, and our daughter, Kai.”
“I’m so very sorry for your loss. I know this must be an extremely difficult time for all of you,” she says. It’s the millionth time I’ve heard it … but the first time I’ve heard it like this. Like it’s minus the usual underlying sorrow. Like there’s no pity. Like it’s … crap, I can’t overthink this. It’s ... just enough.
Alison rattles off information quickly and concisely. “You’ll be sharing a cabin with Cass, another girl your age. She hasn’t arrived yet. Orientation starts in a little less than an hour. There’s plenty of time to look around, maybe take a walk down to the lake once you drop your stuff and get settled.” The polka-dot bow on her ponytail distracts me. It bops up and down as she talks and leads us down a well-traveled path of dirt and leaves. We pad around the great outdoors surrounded by the tallest evergreens I’ve ever seen. Majestic statement makers, unlike the palm trees of South Florida. My dad in his starched chinos, my mom with her diamond earrings ... out of place is an understatement.
