Just a Normal Tuesday

by Kim Turrisi

  His voice shivers. We all watch his tough exterior shatter like a mirror hitting the pavement. The trickle of tears down his tanned face slashes at me. I raise my eyes at Marco, who gives me the okay signal with a slight nod of his head. I slowly get up and sidle next to Graham, offering what’s left of the Kleenex I’ve been wadding up since I sat down. He buries his face in his hands — right after he rolls the ball in my direction.

  Ugh.

  I think I hear my heart pounding against my chest. I cough, clear my throat and forge ahead. “My sister, Jen, died. Well, more like, she committed suicide. It was just a normal Tuesday. And then it wasn’t.”

  There it is, out in the open for everyone to hear. The S-word. I despise it but I can’t exactly leave it out. I lift my twitching right thumb, terrified to see the words that lie beneath.

  “‘Vacation memory,’” I gasp. There’s not enough Xanax in the world to make this okay.

  “I have so many,” I say, racking my brain for a stand-out moment. Finally one pops into my head. “We went to a dude ranch in Wyoming for a family trip when I was thirteen and Jen was nineteen. She was home from college for summer break. I was terrified of horses. Still am. I’m okay if they don’t move but it’s the whole moving thing that doesn’t work for me. When it came time for us to go on our first ride, I totally lost it. Everyone was saddled up, waiting to explore, while I just stood there crying. Jen didn’t miss a beat. She jumped down off her horse, coaxed me into mounting my horse, then put her foot in the stirrups and joined me, taking the reins as she closed her arms around me. She told me she’d always have my back.” Everyone nods encouragingly before I deliver the kicker. “She lied.”

  I can’t help the waterworks that follow. Graham offers me a knowing look and chucks the ball to Ben.

  Ben traps it between his chest and hand, yanking it down to his lap. “You already know both of my parents died,” he says, twitching. He picks up his thumb.

  “‘Best present.’” He breathes a noticeable sigh of relief. His chest heaves as he begins.

  “That’s easy. Every birthday starting from kindergarten on I asked for a kitten and got the same answer over and over, no. Then out of nowhere, I came home from school last year and there was a black-and-white ball of fur in my laundry basket staring up at me. Someone at my mom’s work found a box of kittens that were abandoned at the Laundromat so she took one home for me. As soon as I picked him up, he started purring and curled up under my chin. It was like he was destined to be mine. Toby is all I have left of them.”

  Jesus Christ.

  Ben heaves the soccer ball to Jack, who’s waiting with his arms spread wide.

  “My father was killed in a roadside explosion in Afghanistan.” He’s totally calm and composed. He lifts up his thumb. “‘Last time you were together.’”

  He swallows so hard that his Adam’s apple vibrates.

  “We were at a hangar in a remote section of our local airport before he deployed. Me, my dad and my mom. An enormous military transport plane sat in the middle of the tarmac. All of the soldiers’ families were inside saying their goodbyes. I remember thinking of how sterile and cold it was in there. Just a big old room filled with fear. So many little kids sending their fathers or mothers off to battle yet still waving glittery signs saying ‘I Love My Dad’ and stuff that I thought was ridiculous. I was so pissed off that he was fighting a stupid war I didn’t agree with that I acted like a total dick. I didn’t tell him that I would really miss having him cheer at my games. I finally landed the starting quarterback position at my high school but the guy who taught me to throw will never see me start. I didn’t tell him that I loved him or anything else.”

  A throaty sob creeps into his voice. “And I’ll never have that chance again.”

  So intense.

  Marco breaks the silence. “Okay, guys, I know how tough it is to talk about your loved ones in front of a group you’ve just met. Right now, your emotions are raw. But exercises like this are designed to help you get the words out,” he tells us. “It will be a little easier every time.”

  I rub my eyes, willing myself not to break down again. My eyes take a loop around my circle. So much pain.

  My group.

  I’m bracing myself for another exercise when Marco announces some good news. “I think this is enough for our morning session. How about a little extra free time before lunch?”

  A collective sigh of relief fills the air.

  “Did everyone write in their journals?” Marco asks.

  All of us nod though I’m not sure if everyone’s telling the truth.

  “After lunch we’ll meet at the arts-and-crafts zone. It’s an outdoor area behind the dining room.

  “Arts and crafts?” grumbles Graham.

  “That sounds fun,” Cass snipes at him, trying to return to her spunky self.

  Arts and crafts were my thing with Jen. I’m so with Graham on this. His eyes catch mine, blinking in total agreement.

  We all rise to get the hell out of there. Fast.

  “Hold up, everyone,” says Marco. “Before we go, I need you all to join hands. This is called the squeeze. At the end of every session, we’ll do this as a reminder that you are not alone.”

  Okay, this is a little much. I take Graham’s shaking hand in one of mine and Jack’s gigantic hand in the other. The squeeze sounds so cheese ball it makes me roll my eyes.

  “Okay, squeeze it out. You’re gonna be okay,” Marco says with such calm in his voice. Then it happens. The simple act of another hand squeezing mine lightens my burden.

  For the first time since Jen left me.

  Chapter 14

  They sure stretch the meaning of the word lunch here. All the sandwich choices come with a massive all-you-can-eat salad bar. Not a chip in sight. I’m sorry, but grief and health food are so not a match. I’m going to need to raid the vending machine and stockpile snacks to survive the next twenty-eight days in this hell. An entire bag of Sour Patch Kids, maybe a chaser of dark chocolate. Milk chocolate would be more for Jen.

  I should probably find my group but I’m all talked out. I find a table in the back, opting to eat alone. I get a few bites in and realize it’s futile. I have zero appetite. All I can think of is: Twenty. Eight. Days.

  Our designated “crafting” area is actually an extra-long picnic table draped with a drop cloth and crammed with supplies. There’s a canvas on a mini-easel for each one of us. Containers of tempera paint in every color under the rainbow and brushes of any size you could possibly want are in the center of the table within our reach. It’s like preschool on steroids.

  “Have a seat at the canvas with your name on it, then you can take the Post-it off. This afternoon we’re going to address guilt.”

  “Oh, good.” I sigh to Cass wryly. If Marco heard me, he ignores me.

  “With grief and the loss of a loved one sometimes comes guilt about things that are out of our control. There’s no shame attached to it. While you paint, we’ll work through anything you might be grappling with.”

  “What does painting have to do with grief?” I ask.

  “Sometimes it’s easier to talk about hard things when you’re doing something else,” he answers. “This exercise isn’t about how artistic you are. It’s more about diverting your attention. You can paint whatever you like. While you do that, we’ll talk.”

  Marco smiles, but my gut says they’re loading us up with a fun activity so they can shoot us with reality.

  Shifting around in my seat, I select a fan brush to make bigger strokes, figuring this will mask my glaring lack of talent. I decide on midnight blue and a beautiful violet as the colors to coat my canvas. Seated next to me, Graham reluctantly chooses a mop-like brush that’s almost as thick as his hair. He dips it in crimson paint then takes a thinner brush to add baby-blue shading. Cass is way ahead of us. She’s using an u
ltra-thin brush and several different colors, well on her way to outlining what looks like musical notes. Momentarily Ben hesitates, but with each stroke of his brush, it’s clear he knows a little something about how to do this. His fluid movement and attention to detail on the faces stun me. He’s a natural. Did not see that coming.

  “When your loved one died, did you feel like there was something you could have done to prevent it? Was there something you wish you could have said? Let’s talk about it,” Marco encourages us.

  Crap. I knew it. I’ve spent countless hours riddled with the guilt over what I might have been able to do to make a difference for Jen.

  I swallow hard, eyes on my canvas, and I open my mouth voluntarily. “There hasn’t been a day that’s gone by since Jen took her life that I haven’t felt that I could have done something. Should I have seen it coming? I mean, she was sitting next to me at dinner, then went home and killed herself. There had to have been a sign. And … I missed it.”

  I’m so grateful that Marco cuts in with a response.

  He says, “Often when people commit suicide, no one sees it coming. People hide their depression because they don’t think anyone will understand what they’re going through.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, because I really don’t. “I keep going back to the last time I saw her alive. We had spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread, her favorite. She had two helpings. That should have tipped me off. She never had seconds on Sunday. Saturday, yes. Sunday, no. Like, never. She said Sunday seconds made you bloated Monday morning.”

  “Trust me, Kai. She was on a path that no one could have prevented. Suicide fills families with a whole lot of what-ifs,” Marco adds.

  I paint purple pillows under a dark blue sky as I listen to him and take it all in.

  “You can’t allow guilt to take over your life,” Marco continues.

  Graham drops his brush. “I should have been with Justin. Any other day, I would have been sitting in the car next to him.”

  “What purpose would that have served?” Marco questions him.

  Graham shakes his head. “I wouldn’t have to feel like this.” He picks up his brush and turns his attention back to what looks like some kind of logo he’s designing.

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Ben interrupts. “I was in the car with my parents and my little brother. Coming home from my science fair. Cory didn’t even want to go but my parents made him. Now they’re dead and he’s fighting for his life. I got out of it with a few stitches. How can I not feel guilty?”

  “The guilt that you all are expressing is very common in cases of suicide and being a survivor of a terrible accident. What’s important to take away is that you are the sufferer, you did not cause the suffering,” Marco says.

  I like the sound of that, but I’m not sure I believe it. I focus on my colorful canvas.

  Cass breaks the silence. “I was writing a song for my grandmother to surprise her for her birthday. I should have worked on it instead of going down to the shore with my friend Amy for the weekend. I was thinking of myself. Now she’ll never hear it.”

  She points at the notes she’s illustrated. “This is the melody I’ve been working on.”

  “Is that what you keep humming?” asks Ben.

  Smiling, she nods.

  Jack hasn’t said anything. I’m not even sure he’s been listening. He’s razor focused on a camo-colored truck surrounded by pools of red.

  Marco paces around, checking out each of our canvases. He wrinkles his nose at the sight of Jack’s and moves behind Graham.

  “What’s that?” he asks.

  “I woke up this morning replaying our last game in my head. This is Justin’s lacrosse jersey with our school crest. He was so proud to be part of the team. He lit up whenever he put it on. We’re the West Hills Academy Bears, our team colors are crimson and light blue.”

  I can tell he’s moved at the sight of his brother’s number, thirty-five. The thick black line through the three and the five is so graphic.

  So final.

  My canvas is basically swirls of purple and blue with yellow stars and a crescent moon. Simple and clean. My take on Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

  I crane my neck toward Marco. “Jen’s favorite color was purple. When I found her in her bed, she was surrounded by puffy purple pillows.” I can’t tear my eyes away from the canvas. “I hope that there really is a heaven and my sister is there and has found the peace she so desperately craved.”

  The familiar flood returns. Thankfully, Marco doesn’t force me to keep sharing. Ben sees me tear up and takes the lead. “What do you think?” He tips his canvas in Marco’s direction.

  Ben’s canvas looks like it could be a long-lost page from Goodnight Moon — another one that Jen loved to read to me. The painting shows four expertly crafted armchairs in bright colors. Seated in the chairs are a mom, a dad and two young boys. There’s a kitten curled up next to a blazing fireplace. The windowsills covered in snowdrifts are to the right of the blazing fire. I want to be in that happy place right now.

  “It’s beautiful, Ben,” I gush.

  “It’s what used to be.” Suddenly the paint smears with his teardrops. It’s all too much, if you want to know the truth. I move my brushes around nervously, Graham grinds his teeth and Cass snaps her gum. Marco redirects himself to Jack. Taking in the canvas like the rest of us, Marco puts his hand on Jack’s shoulder. It’s hard to look at what he’s painted: a Humvee, a bloodbath, not much more that’s recognizable.

  Jack says, “I have nightmares about my dad being ambushed with the gunfire and the explosions that must have followed. The senseless murder of my dad along with everyone in his platoon. No one made it out alive. Not one person. I hate the war but I loved my dad. I should have made that clear before he got on that plane. Every single day, I regret not telling him. When you said guilt, this is what I thought.”

  Marco shakes his head. “Everyone makes mistakes and has regrets. This is an opportunity to let yourself off the hook. Be kind to you. Nothing that happened was your fault. You could never have prevented any of these tragic events.” I bet he’s said this before, but we’re all hearing it for the first time today.

  The moment of silence isn’t on purpose, it just happens. We’re feeling. And thinking. Maybe Marco is right. “You can keep the paintings to remember to forgive yourselves,” he says.

  It’s hard to be normal after that.

  “You guys want to play Ping-Pong or something before dinner?” Jack finally asks, attempting a lighter note.

  We all nod affirmatively except for Ben.

  “I need to call my uncle. I want to check in on my brother. Maybe he woke up,” he says, his voice so dog-tired.

  Not giving it a second thought, I move toward him, circling my arms around his shoulders and hugging him hard. He slowly puts his arms around my waist and holds on like he never wants to let go. I feel his tears soak my shirt.

  I don’t care if we just met, this guy needs it.

  Truth is that it feels pretty damn good to me, too.

  Two birds. One stone.

  Chapter 15

  This cafeteria sure could use a face-lift, but the truth is that no one is here for the food or ambience. I wander over to check out the breakfast bar, hoping a Top Chef runner-up magically appeared overnight. Nope, that didn’t happen. Still, I see pancakes and breakfast sandwiches, a slight improvement over yesterday’s pasty oatmeal and limp bacon.

  I turn away quickly and run right into Jack, in all his hotness.

  “Last night was fun,” he says, referring to the Ping-Pong extravaganza that raged on long after dinner.

  “For you. Big winner,” I tease. His toothy smile lights up his face.

  “I’m competitive,” he readily admits.

  “I could tell when you nearly knocked the Ping-Pong ball down my thr
oat in your quest for the match point in the last set.”

  “Sorry. No, I’m really not,” he jokes, flashing a hundred-watt grin.

  We each grab an egg sandwich to go. Hard to mess up eggs, sausage and cheese. I balance mine on my journal.

  “Thanks to you, I didn’t write in my journal last night. I was so drained I couldn’t string together two sentences that were even semi-literate. I’m off to do it now.”

  “I went for a run at five thirty. Couldn’t sleep.” Then he pauses, watching me grab several packets.

  “Ketchup? Really? On egg sandwiches?”

  “If you haven’t noticed, this place isn’t known for their cuisine. Ketchup makes everything better. Trust me. My sister’s refrigerator was stocked with every condiment you could imagine. Hot sauce, three different mustards. You name it, she had it and sometimes in duplicate.”

  “So, you’re a lot like her?” he asks with such tenderness.

  I blink back tears. “In some ways I guess I am.”

  “She must’ve been pretty kick-ass.” There’s no note of flirty, just kindness. He grabs a packet. “Okay, then. What the hell.”

  “You’re gonna love it. Trust me.”

  He’s iffy on the whole thing, I can tell by the way he’s shaking his head.

  “Okay, I’ll give it a go. Later.”

  “Later. I’m gonna find a secluded spot lakeside for me and my journal.”

  “Good plan, see you at group,” he says, heading off in the opposite direction.

  Yeah, I watch his butt as he walks away. I mean, it’s right there.

  * * *

  Leaning against the thick base of a majestic Fraser fir, I’m awestruck at the beauty before me. I look up to the morning sky, rays of sunshine peeking through the branches of the tree above the patch of ground I’ve claimed. A little patch of heaven.

  “I hope you’re okay, Jen,” I say, hushed, to my sister, who doesn’t answer back. But a squirrel crunches on an acorn nearby, giving me pause since it happens at the exact moment I look up. I’m not one to buy into the supernatural, but not gonna lie, this makes me wonder. TJ believes in reincarnation, and I wish I did, too. But that squirrel hasn’t taken his beady little eyes off me. Jen would be thinking I’ve lost it. But maybe, just maybe … Highly unlikely my sister is now a squirrel but I like the gentle reminder that she’s with me. That’s what I’m going with since I need a crumb of anything to hang on to.