Just a Normal Tuesday

by Kim Turrisi

  For a few hours last night, I forgot why I was here.

  Then I woke up.

  After a few bites of this Heinz-smothered sandwich, I rewrap it, open my journal and get down to jotting my thoughts. I did promise to try.

  Sitting by the lake in the stillness of the morning, it’s peaceful, so serene. I hope this is Jen’s new normal. Sure isn’t mine. It just seems so messed up if you really break it all down. Twenty-two years old. World traveler. Family that loves you. Good job. Kill yourself. It doesn’t add up no matter how much I need it to.

  That’s the hardest part.

  The guilt isn’t so peaceful. It’s so crushing at times I fear it will obliterate me completely. My brain is in a vise grip.

  Tightening.

  I just want to be me again. The Kai who loved life, who laughed at everything. That girl longs for normal. At least the kind of normal my dysfunctional family had when Jen was part of it.

  Every day, I hope it gets better than the day before. So far, the act of a new friend giving me a Kleenex and sharing my ache is progress that I’ll take.

  * * *

  Duke would love it up here, smells for days. Hiking up a trail near the lake, making my way to group, I take a deep breath of pine. I’d like to bottle this tranquillity to take with me. The reality of group has me desperate for some calm. The thing about the circle is that everybody participates even when they don’t want to. I don’t know if it actually makes it better or worse, but right now it only feels worse to me. I’m barely hanging on with Jen’s suicide so when you pile on the weight of everyone else’s feelings, it’s almost too much.

  But the suck is being spread around. Everyone is getting their fair share. I’m not alone and that helps. My mind wanders back to Dad’s stash of scotch and Mom’s bountiful supply of vodka. A little sip of either might help, since the Xanax are having no effect whatsoever, but that isn’t happening so I drink in the natural beauty around me instead. It is kind of nice to be away from home for a moment. Away from everything. Today, it’s enough.

  “Hey,” Graham says, walking toward me. “Didn’t see you at breakfast.”

  He moves closer, hands in his pockets.

  “Last night after the big Ping-Pong match I passed out before I could journal, so I took my breakfast to the lake and wrote. It was kinda chill.”

  “Really?”

  I shrug. “Well, let’s just say, I don’t mind the writing part, I’m just not crazy about putting my feelings on paper, where anyone could read my truth. But I’m at a point where I need to try anything. You know?”

  He kicks around the dirt. “Yeah, it’s hard.”

  Before we can continue, the others join us. We all gravitate to the same spots we sat in yesterday. Jack is upbeat, smiling with his straight, pearly white teeth. I’m thinking he’s purposely wearing tight T-shirts to taunt Cass and me. Truth be told, I think Cass is kind of into him. She was in full-tilt flirt mode during the Ping-Pong tournament last night, but I can’t let myself go there. The last thing I need is a guy in the equation.

  Sitting down next to Ben, I notice him scribbling in his journal.

  “I don’t really know what I’m doing with this. I’m more of a math and science guy,” he admits.

  “You’re a killer artist, Ben.”

  His cheeks turn pink.

  “It doesn’t matter what you write as long as you’re writing something,” I say, mimicking Marco.

  “Do you cry when you write in yours?” he asks so innocently. He’s not like any of the guys I know. So innocent for a fifteen-year-old.

  “Sometimes.”

  He fiddles with the silver chain he’s never without. I notice some kind of medallion. I try not to stare but I fail.

  “It’s a St. Christopher medal. Patron saint of safe travels. My parents gave them to my brother and me when we were confirmed. I was wearing mine on the day of the accident. He wasn’t.”

  Marco is a welcome sight after that. He’s got a basket in one hand and a bottle of smartwater in the other.

  “Morning, everyone.” I suppose it’s easy to be cheery when you’re not forced to bare your soul to people you hardly know.

  “He’s got a basket. Christ,” Graham says, all gloom and doom.

  We greet him in unison, though we’re not nearly as chipper. We’re focused on the basket of terror.

  Marco doesn’t waste any time getting started. “Here’s the plan. There are random questions folded in the basket. Each about an emotion associated with your loved one. All our group therapy sessions are designed to help you confront the tough things you’re going through as well as happy memories.”

  I wouldn’t mind a happy thought falling into my brain.

  “When the basket makes its way around the circle, just reach in, pick a question. Answer it. If anyone else wants to make a remark about it, go for it. Then you’ll pass the basket to the person on your right.”

  He moves gingerly around the outside of the circle to his spot, but hands the damn thing off to me on his way.

  Reaching into the dark wicker basket is more than unnerving. Still, I do it. All eyes are on me. I’m the morning activity guinea pig. My shaky hand reaches in, drawing out a neatly folded piece of paper. I take my time unfolding it, nervous as all hell. Moving the paper from hand to hand. Fumbling until I open it and read it aloud.

  No happy memory for me.

  “‘Anger is a common response to grief and loss. Give a recent example of such anger with the loss of your loved one.’” My voice drags as I read the piece of lined paper. May as well divulge my epic meltdown.

  “I have a quilted headboard my sister and I made. She sent me postcards and quotes when she went to Europe for a year. I tacked each of them up there so I could see them every night before I went to sleep. They reminded me of her adventures and that she thought of me while she was there. I was so pissed off at her for killing herself that I tore them all down in a blind rage.”

  I take a measured breath and go on. “Then I cut off my hair. I was pretty drunk at the time. Completely out of control.” God, I can’t believe I just shared that.

  “Why were you so angry?” Jack asks.

  “Nothing in particular.” Which is not really the truth.

  I pause, then try again. “Everything.”

  “I get that,” he says.

  Graham shakes his head in agreement. “Your hair is badass.”

  I feel my face getting all hot and tingly. But not from rage.

  “Are you angry at your sister?” Marco asks.

  “No,” I answer quickly. “You can’t be angry at a dead person.” Another lie.

  “Can you?” Jack directs his question to Marco.

  Marco explains. “Yes, it’s actually quite common to be mad at someone for leaving you, more than you might think,” he responds. “The important thing is to recognize it and let go of that and hang on to the love.”

  I’m done. I thrust the basket at Ben. He’s hesitant at best as he reaches his hand in to draw out his question.

  “It’s a fill-in-the-blank. ‘Before the death my biggest fear was …’” He stammers.

  “Take your time, Ben,” Marco reassures him.

  “My biggest fear before my parents died was … I didn’t really fear anything. They made me feel so safe. Today things are so much different. I fear, well, pretty much everything. I wake up every night with the same thoughts. I’m scared that my brother will die, I’m scared to be in a car on a freeway, I’m scared to be alone.”

  I see Jack press his hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Every time I hear a car backfire or any loud noise, it scares the crap out of me. All I can think about is the sound my dad must have heard.”

  Incomprehensible.

  “A big part of healing is to work through your fears until they no longer rule your life. R
ight now, that’s easier said than done, I know. I get it. Communicating your feelings is a big part of it. Keeping them locked inside is toxic.” Marco emphasizes this with such passion, I totally believe him.

  Makes sense.

  Still, not so easy.

  Ben hands the basket to Jack. As he reads his note, the content demeanor disappears from his face along with the soft pink in his cheeks.

  “‘What was the most difficult thing for you to handle about the funeral?’”

  That would be easy for me. I’ve got a top-ten list, at least. I flash back to the margarita machine, and getting hit on. Wonder what they’d think about that.

  Not so easy for Jack. I cross my fingers and toes in hopes that Marco gives him a pass.

  He doesn’t. Jack wiggles around so much that I ache right along with him, but to his credit he presses on. “I never got to see him again, even dead. The bomb …” His voice is muffled, trailing off into nowhere. We all cringe, knowing about roadside bombings from the nightly news.

  Except not this close to home.

  “I just can’t go there right now.” Cass was right. Jack’s a hider.

  “It’s okay, Jack. Before we move on,” Marco continues, “did any of you have an experience with something similar?”

  I can’t believe my lips engage. No hesitation. Just blabbering.

  “Well, I got to see my sister and that didn’t help. I found my sister in her apartment so I saw her dead right in front of me. Then I made my parents let me see her again before her funeral. It just wasn’t sinking in that I would never lay eyes on her again once they closed her coffin. Even with that, I keep thinking she’ll just show up. So far, no luck.”

  “Jack, do you think it would have mattered? You know, seeing an actual body?” Cass asks.

  “I’ll never know.”

  Jack bows his head to prevent us from seeing him cry even though it’s impossible not to, and slides the basket to Graham, who’s surrendered his brooding, bad-boy self and seems to be giving in to this like the rest of us. His expression now is more anxiety ridden, not like he’s about to growl or bite.

  He begins, “‘Describe what it’s like for you to visit the cemetery.’”

  I straighten up, all my attention on Graham. I know a bit about this, too.

  He swallows hard. “At first, I didn’t want to go with my parents. Seeing them suffering made it harder for me. I felt like every time they looked at me, they saw him. So I started going by myself to talk to Justin like I used to do when he was alive. Only now he doesn’t answer. No one knows I go as much as I do. Somehow sitting there with him helps me keep him close.”

  I think about lying next to Jen at the cemetery. “I feel like that when I visit my sister,” I let slip out. Man, I can’t stop talking.

  “I haven’t been to the cemetery since the funeral. I was in a daze that day. I’m just not prepared to see my parents’ names together on some brass plaques on top of them,” admits Ben.

  Jack shifts around, shaking his head. “Me neither, Ben. I mean, there’s nothing there but a headstone.”

  When I go to the cemetery, I see my sister. She’s there under all that dirt. Inside a casket that keeps rain and bugs away. At least I have that. Who would ever have thought I’d be saying I’m grateful for that?

  But I am.

  Cass reaches into the basket as Graham passes it her way.

  “‘If you could say one more thing to your loved one, what would it be?’” she reads.

  Cass, usually so poised, loses it. “I would thank her. I don’t think I ever really thanked her for saving my siblings and me when my mother picked getting high over us. I hope she knew.” I suspect this breakdown was a long time coming. Jack hands her the box of tissues.

  I wrap her pinkie in mine.

  There’s a cloud of heartache hovering over us this morning. Marco surveys all of us before standing.

  “I think we’ll take a break for now. This afternoon we’re going kayaking.”

  I am ridiculously relieved to know there will be no sharing, just a little paddling. Perfect. Something light is exactly what the doctor of death ordered. We all stand, clasping our hands without being told. It just kind of happens, all our fingers just fall into place, hanging on to hope.

  Chapter 16

  Kayaking. I’m okay with this. No thinking, just doing. All the “feels” are getting to me and we’re only a few days in. At orientation they stressed the importance of exercising. Alison stood up in front of all the parents and kids and told everyone, “Physical activity will help release negative energy.”

  I’m all for that but not so sure I can pull it off. My negative energy is infinitely greater than my positive. And it’s been a while since I’ve exerted anything other than my heart.

  Some things are the same, wherever you are. I still feel lost. For now, I just have to worry about a little exercise. I can do that.

  “What are you wearing?” I ask Cass.

  “A bikini with some shorts, I guess.” She holds up a leopard-print bikini the size of a postage stamp and some cut-off jean shorts. “You?”

  “Board shorts and a bikini top.” I show her my black Hurley board shorts with bright green piping and a matching green halter top.

  Cass disappears into the bathroom to change, hollering out as she goes, “Can I admit something to you?”

  “Sure!” I yell back.

  She pops her head out. “I hope Jack and Graham don’t wear shirts.”

  Thinking about that puts a smirk on my face and fills my head with all kinds of wrong. As I’m contemplating that, a familiar wave of guilt washes over me. Cass runs gel through her hair as she pops out of the bathroom, checks the mirror. I scour my drawer for a T-shirt to wear. I see a navy tank top with a smiley emoji wearing sunglasses. TJ tucked it in my Christmas stocking last year.

  Score.

  Just what I needed.

  “How can I be thinking about guys when my sister is gone? What kind of person does that?” I ask.

  “A person who isn’t dead. You’re sixteen and allowed.”

  It’s not that I don’t believe Cass but I secretly hope Marco touches on this. I could use a little validation from the expert here.

  I shrug at her. “Let’s go or we’ll be late.”

  On our way to the lake, we pass by a picnic table of kids who look about six or so covered in paint and glitter. Alison, their leader for the day, waves at us.

  “Hey.”

  We stop and admire their arts-and-crafts projects.

  “What are they doing?” I ask.

  “Making grief masks. Expressing their feelings with art.”

  It always circles back to that. All the raw feelings.

  “We’re on our way to kayak,” Cass offers, though Alison didn’t ask. We make our way down the path through the enormous trees to our group meet-up.

  “I wouldn’t mind one of those masks to hide behind.” I surprise myself by uttering those words out loud.

  “It’s hard to imagine how tough it is for them. I know how much this stinks and we’ve got about ten years on them,” she remarks.

  I think about that for a minute.

  “Some of them lost their parents like Ben and Jack. And others have parents who lost a child, one of their siblings, like Graham and me. Maybe a grandparent.”

  Yeah, that would suck.

  “How are your parents dealing with it?” Cass wonders aloud.

  “Oh man,” I say. “I could write a book. Some days it’s like nothing ever happened. We never talk about it. My dad is back to work at his law office, my mom is brokering houses. I just spiraled out of control with no one noticing until I cut my hair off.”

  “That must have been so hard,” she says, touching my forearm as we get to our afternoon destination. I am so grateful I could cry
, but I try to be cool.

  “Cass, thanks for … just hanging out.”

  The first thing that strikes me at the lake is that there are only three kayaks: one a dark blue, one fire-engine red and a pastel yellow one resting on the bank. Each one is built to hold two people.

  “We’re gonna be paired up,” I whisper to Cass.

  “Please let me be stuck with Jack.” She cackles so loudly, I elbow her in the side.

  “I hope you are, too.”

  Passing the kayaks on our way to the lake’s edge, I take off my Nikes and toss them aside to test the water. It’s cool, refreshing as it snakes through my toes. The pebbles underfoot are smooth, massaging my feet with each step I take. This is infinitely better than group.

  Then I sense that I have company and turn quickly to see Graham standing a few inches from my face.

  “Hey, thanks for the Kleenex. Wanted to tell you earlier but I’m not much of a talker and that morning wore me out. That was kind of embarrassing. You know?” he says with a lopsided grin. His upper incisor is a little bit crooked.

  “Nothing to be embarrassed about. It was honest,” I reassure him.

  “The crying thing is totally new for me, especially in front of people. Like, I’ve never done it. Until Justin.” He’s as hot as Jack in his own way, I decide.

  Even with the sun beating down on us, Graham has that beanie on. He’s not even sweating. How’s that possible? I already feel a little damp under my armpits and I’m so not the girl who sweats.

  Like the Xanax being zapped, the timing of this couldn’t be worse.

  Marco calls out to us, breaking the mood. “Everyone, over here.”

  The five of us comply. I edge close to Jack, who’s filling out his knee-length pin-striped board shorts and dark green tank top. The green brings out the hazel of his eyes and accentuates his close-cut blond hair rather nicely. He’s Jen’s type, for sure. She had a weak spot for green eyes and bulging muscles.