by Kim Turrisi
I fall into step with him. Walking without talking is just what I need at this moment. Getting the opportunity to absorb the quiet, endless beauty around me one last time. To give thanks for all that the past four weeks have afforded me. For bringing love into my life at the worst time imaginable. I look at Graham and when he catches me — and grins back — my knees feel like they might buckle.
Stealth, I am not. To be fair, I’m new to this whole boyfriend thing.
The sound of snapping branches and crunchy leaves beneath our shoes is a constant reminder of how fragile we all are. At any moment, life can snap you in half, crumbling you in pieces, sending you and your world reeling.
“The stream is just up ahead,” Marco announces.
As we near our destination, I can hear the babbling sound of water and the breeze in the leaves. A symphony of nature.
“Wow, this is beautiful,” I hear Cass say. When we catch up to her, I see exactly what she’s referring to: A crystal-clear torrent of water splashing as it hits rocks embedded in the side of the stream. Stones of all sizes and shapes, some submerged completely, others clearing a path in the shallow part of the river.
Marco sets the cooler he’s been carrying on a thick bed of discolored pine needles. As he removes the top, revealing five golden sunflowers minus their stems, we all take notice.
“Gorgeous,” remarks Cass.
He points out to the stream. “See the rock path into the water?”
“Yeah,” we say in unison. He doles a flower out to each of us as he talks. I’m struck by the coarse base of the flower and the hair on what’s left of the stem. The bright green moss that covers the sides of the rocks at the water’s edge makes the stones look almost iridescent.
The air is so fresh with pine that I can flashback on Christmas and Jen.
“We’re going to walk across the stones, then each of you is going to release a sunflower into the stream for your loved one. It’s a letting-go ceremony. Let go of your grief, anger or whatever it is that isn’t allowing you to move forward. Not move on, move forward. There’s a big difference,” Marco says knowingly. “And sunflowers symbolize loyalty, which you will always carry for the person you lost.”
Ben sighs. He asks, “If we aren’t ready to let go, can we just say something we miss?”
“Whatever you need to do to take a step in the right direction, forward. Like the grief process, there’s no right or wrong way to do this.”
Marco continues, “We’ll walk out as a group. The rocks are slippery so watch your step. Then one at a time, you’ll say what you are letting go of and release your flower.”
We pile our backpacks away from the water and follow Marco cautiously, careful not to tumble in. Since I’m bringing up the rear, I stop and take a 360-degree look around.
Just being out here for such a magnificent day. The deep blue sky radiant with the sun’s rays, not a cloud in sight. The sun reminds me of Jen’s smile, the way it lit up a room. The water meandering through the woods emptying into the nearby lake with a gentle ease. The kind of ease Jen brought to me. The bubbling stream reminds me of life being fluid, ever-changing. The biggest change being that my life will no longer include Jen.
We join Marco near the center of the cluster of rocks and huddle up for one of the last times. The lump in my throat is real.
“Who’d like to go first?” Marco asks.
I almost fall off my rock when Graham speaks up.
“I will.” He pauses, gazing out into the vast openness.
“I’m letting go of all of the guilt I’ve been carrying about not being in the car with Justin. If I had been with him, my parents would have lost both of us. Letting go of guilt, holding on to you, bro.”
So confident.
So proud.
He’s got a captive audience as he bends down and places his flower on top of the water. He kneels down like he’s saying a prayer as he watches the water take the flower and the guilt away.
Cass speaks up next. “I’m letting go of the notion that we will never be a family without my grandmother. I’ve been so preoccupied with losing her that I forgot to be grateful for all that I still have.”
She kisses the petals of the sunflower before leaning down and releasing it into the gurgling water, watching it float downstream.
“I’m going to try to let go …” Jack stops to chuckle as he exaggerates try. At least he’s being honest. He continues. “Of all that I didn’t say the day my dad deployed. Writing in the journal forced me to remember all the awesome things my dad and I did together when he was home this last time. He took me to a Braves game, we went four-wheeling on ATVs. Just hung out. He knew I was proud of him and loved him. Yeah, that.”
He stoops down over the rushing water and lays his dad’s flower gently down in the stream. With his back shuddering, he stays in that position long enough to indicate someone else should go ahead. He might be there awhile. Cass kneels beside him, gently moving his head to her shoulder.
Ben and I exchange a look. I turn my palm up and shrug.
“Go ahead, Ben.” I’m avoiding this as long as possible.
“I’m going to let go of the blame. I blamed myself for my brother being in the car. But my parents made him go, not me. Just like they forced me to go to his swim meets when I didn’t want to. That’s what families do. I know it’s no one’s fault. It was an accident. A terrible accident. That’s all.” Droplets of sadness stream down his pale face and he wipes his cheek with the inside of his Calculus: yes, it is rocket science T-shirt.
I love this kid.
No backpedaling now, it’s obviously my turn. The pressure on me is so intense that I feel I might combust.
I just have to get this right.
Like the prayer card.
Like the outfit.
Like the casket.
All the last things I would do for my sister.
I exhale what could quite possibly be the world’s deepest breath.
“I’m releasing the anger I have toward my sister. I didn’t know it was okay to be mad at someone for dying, but I was. Mad that she chose to kill herself. Mad that she picked death over me. Now I realize it’s not that simple. She picked death over a life that was too hard for her to live. I can’t be mad at her anymore for that. I just can’t.”
I kneel on the rock, stare into the center of the sunflower and imagine my sister’s beautiful face. “I love you, Jen Jen.”
Beads drip down my face and I taste the salt on my lips as I watch the flower and my anger take their own journey, downstream, away from mine.
Graham’s reassuring strokes unclench the knots in my back. He takes my hand, helps me to my feet, draws me into the shelter of his arms. He holds me like he’ll never let me go. And even then, that would be too soon for me.
An inner calm prevails like I haven’t felt since that not-so-normal Tuesday. We’re all lost in our own thoughts, but as soon as we get to the edge of the stream, I break the stillness.
“One last squeeze?”
Marco reaches for my hand. Then like dominoes falling, I take Graham’s, Graham reaches for Ben’s, Ben grabs Jack’s, Jack takes hold of Cass’s. She closes the circle by grasping Marco’s other hand.
My inner circle of amazing.
Chapter 25
Tuesday morning.
Truly just a normal Tuesday.
Graham and I meet up near the hammock. The grounds are strangely empty as we steal away to our special spot one last time before going our separate ways.
Graham kicks some fallen branches out of our path, juggling our faux picnic. I watched him like a hawk this morning as he took charge of breakfast. Carefully placing each breakfast burrito into the carry-away container, surrounding them with packets of salt, pepper and ketchup along with napkins so nothing would fall. Two coffees, one with extra vanilla
creamer crammed tightly into the cup opening. White plastic lids pressed down to seal the heat inside.
Climbing down into the alcove, we move with ease into our customary positions, this time with a throw underneath us, cushioning our butts much better than the pine needles. He hands me a burrito but I wave him off.
“I’m not really hungry,” I say.
Graham nods knowingly. “Me neither.”
I take a sip of my coffee, nudging him in the ribs with my elbow. “Just the right amount of creamer.”
“I know what you like,” he says, all suggestive-like. And he’s right.
“I’m glad we have a few minutes to be alone before our parents get here,” I say.
“It’s gonna be a bitch saying goodbye to everyone. You’ll be the hardest.”
“Stop with the puppy-dog eyes. It’s not goodbye. It’s see you later,” I correct him.
“I know, but we won’t ‘see you later’ until the end of August when I drive down. That’s forever.” He says this so earnestly I feel his angst and love.
I lean back, using my elbows to support my body. I have a clear view of my boyfriend.
Boyfriend. I like the way that sounds. Actually, I love the way that feels. “It’s only a few weeks.”
“Whatever, it’s gonna blow.”
Graham tugs on the corner of the throw, tossing it over the two of us, shielding us from the dampness of the morning. I sink into his eyes as my hands explore every inch of him, trying to memorize his feel on my fingers. I inch closer to him, wanting his body as close to me as humanly possible. He gently moves his hand under my shirt, then traces a heart on my stomach.
This guy.
I won’t see him for another four weeks. Thirty-one lonely days. But I’ve weathered so much worse.
* * *
I zip up the last of the duffel bags. Even that sound is final. The room is pretty damn empty with Cass gone and the beds stripped. The butterflies in my stomach flutter around as I’m waiting to see my mom and dad. A text lets me know they’re almost here.
I sit on the front step thinking about all I’ve been through in the last month. The gamut of emotions; the rollercoaster of feelings. None more comforting than the sight of my parents getting out of their car. I resist running toward them but I kinda want to.
They look so relaxed, their pace in sync. My God, they’re holding hands.
As they get closer, I’m awestruck at what I see. No diamond earrings, no designer tie. My mom is wearing jeans and sandals and Dad is in a pair of cargo shorts and Top-Siders.
I can’t wait anymore. I leap off the stairs and run into their arms. Screw being cool; I’ve really missed them. They wrap me up in a bone-crushing hug and I don’t want to let go. When we finally unwrap ourselves, I ask: “Your clothes? What have you done with my parents?”
A much-needed laugh to stifle the teary reunion.
Dad says, “Let’s start with the bad news, okay?”
My heart sinks. I can’t take more bad news.
“Your mom and I signed us up for group counseling with other families who’ve been affected by suicide. It starts in a few weeks.”
An entire summer of therapy. Good-feel killer. I don’t know about this. After a month of grief camp?
Then Dad grins. “Before we tackle that, we planned a trip to Mexico. Make a new memory. We leave next week.”
Note to self: get international plan for phone. Not seeing Graham is one thing. No communication: not going to happen.
My dad reaches over and rubs my head.
“You look great, Kai. Not just the hair.”
We share the kind of laugh that we used to. Before we lost Jen. Before we lost our way.
When a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel becomes a ray of hope, it’s life changing.
Sandwiched between my mom and dad, hope washes over me.
I have them.
They have me.
Author’s Note
I was writing an entirely different book when Just a Normal Tuesday was born. I was stuck and discouraged with my work in progress. So I did what writers do: I sent an email to another writer, Aaron Hartzler. As he was emailing me off the edge, he asked me if anything happened in my life when I was a teenager that affected the rest of my life. I wrote, “Well, my sister killed herself.” I realized that I hadn’t said those words out loud for many years. His response was simple and in all caps: THAT IS THE BOOK YOU HAVE TO WRITE. He told me this book would matter. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I could do it. I knew if I did, I would risk exposing a secret that I had guarded for so long. I was embarrassed to say that my sister had chosen to kill herself. I felt as if people might judge me and her. I was afraid of the awkwardness that the word suicide brings to a conversation. So I simply went with the only-child explanation when anyone asked if I had siblings. It seemed easier than the alternative.
But the more I thought about it, I just couldn’t shake it, so I started writing. I kept asking myself how my sister would feel about me doing this. That’s when I found her suicide note, which I had hidden away long ago. In the note was my answer. Her final wish for me was that I embrace life and love what I do. That she would always watch over me. So I kept writing.
I wrote with the hope that some teenagers might see themselves on these pages and know they were normal. When I was a teen, I longed to see myself in a book. I didn’t. So when the words were hard to write, I still kept writing.
One thing shared by every person who is left behind in the aftermath of a loved one’s painful decision to end their life is the agony of wondering if there was anything you could have done to prevent it. The feeling of isolation can consume you because the truth is that no one can possibly know what you are going through unless the same thing happened to them. I wish that I had had a grief camp like the one in this book and the ones that are out there for teenagers now. I can’t help but think it would have made a profound difference as at age fifteen I navigated the hardest thing I would ever face in my life. Grief camps are designed to guide you through the pain and bring a sense of normalcy back to your life.
In writing this, my adult self became my fifteen-year-old self in search of answers I would never find and I was forced to confront feelings I had buried. I didn’t find answers but what I did find was forgiveness.
It is my hope that anyone who has suffered such a tragic loss will seek the help I didn’t have. Writing this book freed me from the stigma suicide can bring. It provided me with a road map of forgiveness and allowed me to process my loss through a version of the grief camp I desperately needed at the age of fifteen. I wish my parents were alive so I could tell them that I finally realize that their loss was as enormous as mine.
Everyone in this world does the best they can. You never know what anyone else is going through. Things look bright and shiny on the outside but can be very dark on the inside. No one has a perfect life. Lead with kindness. Live your story. I chose the hashtag #liveyourstory for my book because your story is important. Living your life is important.
Every year tens of thousands of people commit suicide. In the United States, it’s the third leading killer of kids between the ages of ten and twenty-four. In Canada, it’s the second leading killer in the same age group. Go to http://toronto.cmha.ca/mental_health/youth-and-suicide/#.V3aZVemzs6Y.
If you are struggling with thoughts of suicide, there is help.
Call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline, open 24/7, at 1-800-273-8255, or see http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org.
The Trevor Project has trained counselors to support you 24/7. If you are a young person in crisis, feeling suicidal or in need of a safe and judgment-free place to talk, call the Trevor Lifeline now at 1-866-488-7386.
The Hope Line is at https://www.thehopeline.com.
If you think someone you love is struggling, there’s http:
//www.helpguide.org/articles/suicide-prevention/suicide-prevention-helping-someone-who-is-suicidal.htm.
Your life is worth saving.
If you are someone who was left behind whether it be by a family member or friend who has committed suicide, died tragically or lost a battle with cancer or any other disease, there are incredible resources at camps like the Comfort Zone Camp (http://www.comfortzonecamp.org) in the United States and Camp Erin (http://moyerfoundation.org/camps-programs/camp-erin/) in the U.S. and Canada.
Acknowledgments
I don’t even know where to begin. Getting to this part of the book is overwhelming and all kinds of wonderful. This book was a lifetime in the making, so my emotions are all colliding.
Thank you to my agent, Bethany Buck. I could write an entire book about how thankful I am for you. Your unwavering passion for this story and belief in me was extraordinary. You were a cheerleader, a therapist and a champion. I will forever be gum on your shoe.
To my rock star editor, Kate Egan. The sequel to the above book would be all you. Your encouragement, compassion and mad editorial skills got me to the finish line. You are a dream to work with; I can’t imagine this journey without you. Thank you for the gift of your magic touch with Kai, Jen and me.
To the team at KCP Loft: Lisa Lyons Johnston, Naseem Hrab, Michaela Cornell, Kate Patrick and DoEun Kwon. Thank you all for making my dream come true. I’m so proud to be part of this inaugural imprint.
A gigantic thanks to my amazing copy editor, Chandra Wohleber. Your eye to every tiny detail was epic.
So many thank-yous to designer Michel Vrana for capturing the heart and soul of my book with this cover. You’re amazing.
Lin Oliver, thank you for opening up the world of children’s book publishing to me by giving me the best job ever. And thanks to my SCBWI family.
Deborah Halverson, you read the very first draft and helped me shape this book into being submission-ready. Your talent and kindness were invaluable.
