Just a Normal Tuesday

by Kim Turrisi

  Graham returns to brooding while Marco goes over some of the stuff they already covered in the orientation.

  “Every day will be structured so that you have activities, group therapy and some free time. The lake is beautiful this time of year; take advantage of it. One quick thing before I let you go.”

  He passes out blank sheets of paper.

  “You’ll be keeping daily journals beginning today. The lake is a great place to write, at least it was for me. Still is.”

  The word journal lands like a thud with Graham. He’s clearly seething, tapping his forefinger on the wood table. Ben raises his hand.

  “Go ahead, Ben,” Marco says, “you don’t need to raise your hand. Jump in anytime. That goes for all of you.”

  “How do we journal? I’ve never done anything like this before. The only things I write are math problems I’m solving.”

  I’m so not journaling for anyone to read. No fucking way am I sharing my thoughts with anyone, let alone a bunch of people I’ve just met.

  “There’s no right or wrong way to journal. If you want, you can start every entry with ‘Today I …’ then take it from there. Write down your feelings, your memories of your loved one, pretty much anything you’d like.”

  Graham mutters something unintelligible.

  “Before you take off for the night, we’ll do a simple exercise to get you accustomed to it. Write down a few adjectives that describe how you feel now. Don’t overthink it. Just jot down whatever comes to mind.”

  So that’s what the paper is for.

  Marco notices how pissed off Graham is. He’s given his laces a rest but now he’s flicking his middle finger on the table so hard that it sounds like a drum.

  “Put your rage on the page.” Marco prods Graham.

  I stare at the words that I’m not sharing: Depressed. Tired. Scared. I turn the paper over. Not taking any chances.

  “Believe it or not, writing your feelings on paper will make it easier to say them out loud,” Marco professes.

  Then he passes out the books that he brought. Blank journals. Sneaky bastard.

  “So it’s cool if I write a song about my grandma or draw something?” asks Cass.

  “Absolutely. As long as it’s something. Every day for the next twenty-nine that you are here.”

  Christ.

  “What if we don’t want to do it?” I question him. I know it’s argumentative, but I didn’t know this was part of the deal. I mean, I don’t want to be forced to write my feelings down where anyone could find them. All eyes are on me.

  Marco spells it out for us. “The journaling is designed to help you deal with what you are going through by articulating yourself, so it’s not an option. What is optional is sharing what you write with anyone else. That’s up to you.”

  “Definitely not doing that,” I confirm much louder than I would have liked.

  Marco pushes his chair back from the table, making an awful screeching sound like fingernails on a blackboard. “Okay, guys, you have about an hour before dinner. I’m in the counselors’ cabin, next to the dining hall, if you need anything. My door is always open.”

  As we all get up, Cass grabs my arm. “Want to go down to the lake?”

  “Why not?” I start to invite the guys but they all beat it out of here the second Marco moved his chair. We start walking toward the lake, leaves crunching underneath our feet. I’m not used to that sound.

  “I guess we’re roommates. That’s cool,” I offer up, trying to share more than the fact that I have a dog.

  “So my story,” she begins, like we’re old friends. “My grandmother died a few weeks ago and I completely lost it, I just couldn’t function. I was so depressed, I couldn’t pull myself out of the funk I was in. I couldn’t get past the finality of it all.” I nod and listen, completely understanding what she’s talking about. I resist the urge to yell, Same! I reserve that word for TJ, it’s our thing.

  “My grandma pretty much raised me and my brothers and sister. When I was eight, my dad left one day to buy beer and never came back. Mom loves meth more than us. It would be ridiculously cliché if I was watching some lame movie of the week, but it’s the ugly truth. Grandma took us all in. Now she’s gone.”

  “I’m so sorry. Where’s your mom now?”

  “With my siblings. She’s the one who sent me here. She went to rehab last year. So far, so good, but I don’t trust her. This is her third time. She’s not the strongest person in the world. She always has an excuse, ‘It was just a slip.’ Some crap like that. Each time she gets clean, she pours on all kinds of promises that she never keeps.”

  “Third time’s the charm?” I try.

  “Maybe.”

  “Don’t give up on her.”

  Cass stops, cocking her head. She’s not sure about me, I can tell. Shaking it off, she takes that tidbit and files it somewhere, then conveniently changes the subject. Heavy feelings are hard.

  “I love your name,” she remarks, trying to keep the conversation going. Both of us treading water, or at least I am. Cass seems like more of an open book than I will ever be. Such a casual manner about the way she moves and speaks.

  “Thanks. Kai means ‘sea’ in Hawaiian. I was born in Honolulu.”

  “That’s so cool. I’ve never been outside of Trenton until now,” she confesses sheepishly.

  “My dad’s law firm moved our family out there for a year so he could run their satellite office for a big case they were trying when my mom was pregnant with me. My sister helped name me. She loved the ocean, we went to the beach almost every weekend growing up,” I share.

  “She sounds pretty great.”

  “Yeah, she really was.” Was. That word stings when I say it out loud for the first time to a person I met less than an hour ago.

  “Sorry,” she replies. She knows that my sister is the reason I’m here. She speaks my language.

  We stroll in silence to the water’s edge and sit down on a large, jagged rock in the shade. Birds seem to be singing to each other, back and forth. That doesn’t happen in Fort Lauderdale unless you own parakeets. Which we don’t.

  “Check it out!” Cass points to a fish jumping out of the middle of the water and plopping back in with a splash. “You don’t see that kind of thing in New Jersey.”

  “No fish there?”

  “Only frozen fish sticks. One of my grandmother’s favorite things to make for us. Every Friday. Always with Tater Tots.”

  “Sorry ...”

  “Don’t worry about it. What I have learned the past few weeks is that nearly everything reminds me of her.”

  I know how that feels. “Good to know it isn’t just me.”

  A cacophony of insects fills the air, creeping me out, but it doesn’t take away from the beauty of the sun shining on the lake, making each ripple from the swimming fish dance on top of the water.

  “Jack is like crazy hot, right?” Cass asks, chuckling, changing the subject.

  I know this is not the place to take applications for boyfriends, but it’s true that his hot factor is off the charts. It’s the first time in quite a while that no one is talking about death or feelings so I welcome it with open arms.

  “Yeah, I noticed. He seems to be in better spirits than the rest of us,” I say.

  “My money is on him being a hider. You know, together on the outside, disguising his hurt,” she theorizes.

  “Still, he’s so hot, it hurts.” I scare up a laugh.

  “Bad that we’re even checking him out at grief camp?” asks Cass.

  Maybe. Maybe not. I shrug. “It’s a nice change of pace.”

  Cass gets up, rummaging through the evergreen needles for something. “Ah, this is it.” She opens her hand, showing me a rock that’s kind of on the flat side, about five inches long. Staring down the lake like it’s the ene
my, she cocks her arm sideways and lets the rock rip across the top of the water, skipping at least four times.

  “Impressive.”

  “The one thing my dad taught me before he left.”

  Wow. This is the first time in weeks I’ve been completely sober. I think back to my dad. He would never leave me. I hope I can do this.

  Chapter 13

  When I hear Marco announce karaoke after dinner, I wince.

  “Just no,” I fume.

  Cass is delighted. “Come on. This will be so fun. We should sing a duet.” That will happen the day after never.

  Not sure how the guys feel about it, but when Graham wads up his napkin and throws it on his untouched meat loaf, I think I have at least one ally.

  Alison coaxes a few of the younger kids to get up when she starts the music to “Let It Go.” I’m stunned to see how many people join in and are singing along, including Cass. The boys and I are solid in our stonewalling of this activity, though maybe Ben is humming.

  Graham leans into me. “Great. Now this will be stuck on repeat in my head for the rest of the night.”

  “My ears are so mad right now,” I add, making him laugh.

  The chorus starts, and no one but me and my boys are holding back. Everyone else is singing at the top of their lungs and some are even dancing.

  If I rolled my eyes any harder, I’d give myself a black eye.

  Jack scoots his chair closer to me. “The song. Really?”

  That gives me the giggles.

  “Think we can ditch outta here?” Please say yes.

  He bobs his head to the left. “There’s a back door.” I see the EXIT sign and slowly slip out of my seat. Jack taps Graham. The three of us slink out as the next song starts with Cass at the microphone. “Summer Lovin’.”

  Good God.

  * * *

  Curled up in the corner of the couch with my earbuds in, I reach for Jen’s throw to cover my feet. A card drops out of one of the folds. There’s a K scrawled on the envelope. The flap isn’t sealed. My fingers shake as I tug on the card, recalling the contents of the last envelope I opened. The front of the card brings a ray of light to my face. A golden retriever who could easily pass as Duke with three bright yellow tennis balls crammed in his mouth. Inside, the five words I read turn me to mush: You can do this. Dad.

  Brushing the happy from my eyes, I open the dreaded journal. Cass is fast asleep, or pretending to be. I start to scribble randomly as the beat of Keane keeps me company. I take Marco’s suggestion and start with something simple like my day. Ease into things.

  Today …

  Was my first day at grief camp and the name certainly does it justice. There’s grief everywhere. It comes in all shapes, sizes, colors and ages. It doesn’t discriminate. They need another name for this place. I doubt any other “camps” have a never-ending supply of Kleenex, let alone try to pass off therapy as an activity. I wonder how many kids are here because of suicide, like me. My guess is zero. My group seems all right, it was like the first day of class at a new school where everyone’s all shy and nervous. It’s unusual, though. When I think of my group, I think about Emily, TJ, Kate and Bridget. We all share the same interests. Here it’s a whole different animal. Guys like Ben at my school hang out together, not with jocks like Jack.

  There’s a lot of people here, just not the one person I want. And that person will never be here again.

  My sister wasn’t a liar yet she sat right across from me shoveling pasta into her mouth, laughing at my jokes, then went home and killed herself. That’s two-faced if you ask me.

  I can’t believe I just wrote that.

  I want the muffled whispering to stop. I want to stop seeing pity in people’s eyes when they glance in my direction. I am tired of casseroles and cupcakes. My life is split in two: the before and the after. Maybe my sister knew something I didn’t know.

  You can’t feel pain if you’re dead.

  * * *

  The next morning, I take a quarter of a Xanax just to take the edge off before texting Emily.

  Hey Em, my first real group therapy session is in, like, five minutes. I hope mediocre waffles and undercooked bacon don’t set the tone for the day or I’m screwed.

  I’m with you in spirit. I know it’s your first step to healing. E

  How do you know?

  I just do. Xo

  I muster up my courage as I slip the phone in my pocket and pray this won’t be a total disaster. Baring my soul to strangers isn’t really my thing. On the plus side, Marco picked a wooded, secluded spot for our group so we won’t be on display for the entire camp to witness our breakdowns. Cass and I traipse through the woods and find that we aren’t the first ones to arrive.

  Jack is already leaning against one of the endless pine trees with his hands folded neatly behind his head, showing off his biceps and hotness in a dark green tank top and mesh gym shorts, with black-and-red leather high-tops. Every move he makes causes a ripple effect on his muscular arms. I get a little flustered imagining the abs hidden underneath his shirt. Too bad TJ isn’t here, he’d have something to say about this. I start to text him a picture but then I remember rule number one: no phones during group. As I squelch that idea, Jack waves at us.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” I call in a high-pitched voice that comes out of nowhere. Cass just throws up her hand with some indifference. Exactly what I should have done instead of sounding moderately geeky. Who am I kidding? A lot geeky.

  Marco greets us. “Good morning.” He’s juggling a soccer ball that has phrases written in every section of the ball. Pretty sure I see the words Best memory in one of the marked boxes. This causes me to fidget and nervously scratch my chin.

  Cass and I both turn when we hear a branch snap and rustling behind us. It’s not a wild animal, just Graham, looking as surly today as he did yesterday. I’m guessing that when he sees the word ball, his mood won’t improve. At least he nods to acknowledge our presence. His shorts show off athletic legs that were hiding under his jeans yesterday.

  Ben tags along, closely trailing him, hands buried so deep in his pockets I worry his fingers may rip through his shorts.

  Upbeat, Marco explains what we’re doing. “Okay, guys, we’re gonna sit in a circle over here. It’s called the circle of trust. While we are here, you can talk about anything with no judgment from the group. I won’t share anything with your families. This is a safe zone for you and your feelings.”

  Oh boy. I don’t know.

  “Jesus Christ, are you kidding?” Graham blurts. He turns beet red when he realizes he actually said the words out loud.

  Marco raises that ominous soccer ball above his head, causing my angst level to skyrocket. “We’re going to use this soccer ball for our first activity. It’s called Thumb Ball.”

  He twirls it around, revealing all the words. I catch a few as he twirls it. Favorite day. Best present. Favorite activity. Memorable moment. Characteristic you loved. Vacation memory. Nothing I want to tell him.

  “We’ll toss the ball around the circle. When you catch the ball, you’ll look under your right thumb to see which phrase is closest to your finger and discuss it. After you share, throw the ball to someone else in the circle. Today’s subject is your loved one who died.”

  I’m back to praying to the God I don’t believe in. Please do not let that sucker come flying my way first. That’s the crucial thing: not to me.

  Graham checks the soles of his Vans, flipping the laces around. Gnawing the loose skin on the knuckle of his right hand.

  Marco whips that sucker straight to Cass. I suspect he guesses she’s the least terrified in the group. And what do you know? She catches it like a champ. Cass lifts up her thumb. “‘Favorite activity.’”

  “Before you begin, tell the group who you lost,” Marco interrupts.

  I knot up so
tightly that my shoulder cracks from the tension. I’m pretty sure everyone hears it. Graham bristles and starts kicking around the evergreen needles. Ben just starts sniffling. Jack acts like he’s game for anything. Ever the cool one.

  For me, this is going to be a bitch. I have to say my sister died — killed herself — to people who don’t know me and who didn’t know her. They might judge her. Or me.

  Cass speaks up. “My grandmother died a few weeks ago.” Her voice gets a little shaky as she reads the phrase under her thumb again: “‘Favorite activity.’”

  Inhale. Exhale. I cross my arms to match my legs, which are twisted like a pretzel.

  “My grandma used to make chocolate-chip cookies with my siblings and me for special occasions. Only her idea of a special occasion was just about anything. Like, it was a sunny day, or it didn’t snow. She liked to make it a big deal and it was. Every single time.” She grins ever so slightly before the doldrums creep in. “I haven’t had a single cookie since she died.”

  No cookies and losing the person who’s been like a mother to her.

  She throws the ball across the circle at Graham. “My twin brother was killed by a drunk driver,” he mumbles.

  Oh, I think. That sucks.

  “‘Favorite food,’” he mutters. Graham moves his heel from side to side, digging in the dirt. He tugs on the neck of his T-shirt.

  Marco notices his overwhelming discomfort.“Just give it a shot.”

  Graham bends forward and grabs his foot like he’s talking to it, avoiding eye contact with the group. I don’t blame him.

  In a strained, quavering voice, he answers, “Pizza. It was the only thing Justin would eat when we were kids and it stayed his favorite right up until the crash. We went to Luigi’s right after our lacrosse game. Like always.”

  I notice his T-shirt says It takes balls to play Lacrosse. TJ would absolutely love that.

  “It was our ritual. He could eat an entire pepperoni pizza by himself. Afterward, a bunch of our friends decided to go to the beach for a bonfire. I told him to go ahead without me. I had homework to do. We did everything together. Just not that night.”