by Han Nolan
"So you were asleep when your mother died, then," I say, kind of changing the subject but not really. The edge in her voice when Shelby told her sister this makes me wonder. I remember the time we had the conversation in Dr. Gomez's office when she said her mother wanted Shelby to let her die and not try to resuscitate her. Is that what happened? Did Shelby sit there and watch her mother die? Could she have saved her?
CRAZY GLUE: Could you have saved her?
AUNT BEE: Forgive yourself.
What? We're talking about Shelby's mother, not mine.
FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Are we?
I notice Shelby isn't cutting my hair anymore, and I look across the room at the mirror and see her face. Beneath all her freckles she's blushing, and her mouth is turned down. It looks like she might burst out crying again. I want to kick myself for bringing up her mother's death. I'm doing just what Gomez did to me. I think to apologize, but Shelby says, "No, I was awake. I was with her when she died, but I didn't want to tell Nora that." She sniffs and starts cutting again, tiny snips this time. "What happened between my mother and me is special. It will always be special—our own private time no one can ever take away from us."
"So it was peaceful, then?" I ask.
"In the end, yeah." She keeps snipping away at the back of my neck, taking my hair shorter and shorter.
"But what about your father?" I ask. "Where was he? Doesn't he sleep with your mother?"
CRAZY GLUE: What's with all the questions, Gomez?
I can't help it.
Shelby laughs a bitter sort of laugh, abrupt and sharp. "My father wasn't even home last night. I don't know where he goes and I don't care anymore. He's just like my sister. He hides his head in the sand and waits till everything's over, and now he pokes his head up and plays the part of the long-suffering husband with all our relatives gathered around him." Shelby cuts around my left ear, and I lean away from her and her scissors when the steel grazes my ear.
"Hold still!" Shelby says. "You want me to cut your ear off?"
"That's exactly what I'm afraid of."
Shelby swats my shoulder and I straighten up, and she continues cutting and talking as though I hadn't interrupted her.
"Both my father and my sister were so scared of my mom's illness, they couldn't even stand to be around her, like maybe it was catching."
"Yeah, I know what that's like." I nod.
"Hold still," Shelby says, clamping her hand down on my head to steady it. Then she shifts to my right and cuts on that side of my head.
"I was the one who took care of her, so it's right that I was the one to be with her in the end," Shelby says. "Really, I can't stand cowards. They're cowards—my sister and Dad. They think that by hiding they can keep it all from hurting them, but they can't. At least I had those last moments with my mom. I've got nothing haunting me, but those two, if they've got any conscience at all, they'll have their own guilt for company for the rest of their lives." Shelby smiles. And that's okay by me. They deserve it."
Her words sting me. Am I a coward?
CRAZY GLUE: Is the pope Catholic?
What am I hiding from?
FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: You tell us.
Shelby sounds so angry and bitter. I turn my head and look straight at Shelby. She stops cutting and holds her scissors and her comb above my head, waiting.
"Maybe they were just doing the best they knew how," I say. "I mean, everyone's not like you."
"Yeah, maybe, but what if I weren't here for my mom? Or what if I had been just like Nora and Dad? Who would have taken care of her then?"
I shrug and turn back around. "But you were here, Shelby, and your father and sister knew that. They knew they could count on you. Maybe if you weren't here to help out they would have done more; you never know."
"I doubt it, she says, yanking on my hair again.
"Do you really want them to feel guilty the rest of their lives?" I ask, reaching out for her hand to stop her from pulling my hair out.
"Oh, sorry." She snips some more around my ear. "Maybe—yeah. At least—at least I want them to feel something. It's as if they don't even care."
"Yeah, but maybe that's their way of grieving—to hide, and to hide their feelings, too," I say, these thoughts just occurring to me as I speak. "And anyway, maybe you won't have the guilt over your mother like them, but you sure seem angry. So maybe you're just going to be this bitter person the rest of your life because you can't forgive them for not being like you." I twist around and look at Shelby. "Maybe you need to forgive them—you know, for your own sake."
Shelby and I look at each other and I hold my breath, waiting for her to speak. I want her to forgive her father and sister, because somehow I feel that by doing so she will be forgiving me, too. Dr. Gomez told me I needed to forgive myself. I don't know how she knew this, but she's right. I blame myself for my dad. I even blame myself for my mom's stroke. I was up there on that mountain. I saw her go down. I should have done more. I should have run and gotten help instead of staying with her, but I couldn't move. I couldn't leave her. It's just that I feel everything bad that's happened in my family is my fault, and I don't know how I'm supposed to forgive myself. So it's like I need to see that something horrible, like the way Shelby's sister and father treated her mother, could be forgiven, and then maybe I can step back and look at my own situation and find a way to forgive myself.
I hold my breath and wait for Shelby's verdict, my heart in my throat.
Shelby shakes her head. "I hadn't thought about that," she says, blinking several times. "You're right. They're not me. I know they loved my mom." She pauses and tears roll down her face. "My mom knew it, too. I just wish they could have been here, you know? Mom needed them and"—more tears—"I needed them, too. It was so hard." She sniffs and wipes her nose with her wrist. "I needed them, too."
Chapter Thirty-Two
I FEEL LIGHTER all over by the time I leave Shelby's house, with my hair cut short and my mind more at ease. I sit in the back seat of Shelby's sister's car on my way to the Lynches' home, while Shelby and her sister sit up front and argue about the fastest way to get across town. I stay out of it. I think about my day, first at school and how great Haze and Pete were to me. They didn't laugh or look at me as if I were some monster when I went berserk. It surprised me that Haze shaved off his beard and took off his makeup out of respect for my parents. I guess I feel really good about that.
I think about my explosion in Dr. Gomez's office and my tears with Shelby and how I've been afraid to lose control like that because I thought I would end up spilling all my secrets, which I kind of did, or that I might go crazy, like Dad, which I kind of did, too. But I'm thinking that talking to Gomez about how I hated my mom for dying and how I've been invisible for so long and that telling her about the swirlie have freed me, the same way standing up to Reed did. I don't know, but maybe I can lose control a little and still be sane. Maybe there's still hope for me.
CRAZY GLUE: Aren't you forgetting about us?
You're a figment of my imagination.
CRAZY GLUE: Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself that, goob.
Just leave me alone.
I feel pretty good. I feel more like myself, my real self, not the scared-of-my-shadow self, than I have in a long, long time. Yeah, I'm calmer now, and I'm not so afraid of what's going to happen next. I even feel—surprise, surprise—less guilty and less angry at my mom. I know she didn't have a stroke on purpose. I know that. And I like remembering her. I just miss her. I need her so much. If only...
Nora turns onto the street where the Lynches live and I see a row of cars, a lot like the row out in front of Shelby's house, but here they're in front of the Lynches' house.
"What's going on up there?" Nora says. She slows down and we creep along the street.
As we draw closer to the house, I see a police car, and all my old feelings of dread and anxiety spring back to life. What's going on? I sit forward in my seat. "You can let me out here. Just
let me out, okay? I need to get out of the car."
"Jason, what's going on?" Shelby turns around to look at me.
"I don't know. All the lights are on in the house. Just stop the car. I need to get out."
Nora stops and I jump out.
Shelby pokes her head out the window. "Should we wait?"
"No, go on. Thanks for the ride. I gotta go."
I recognize Sam's car parked in front of the patrol car and I think of Dad. Has something happened to him? I run across the lawn, my feet crunching in old crusted snow. I leap onto the stoop and open the front door. "Hello," I call out. "Where is everybody? What's going on?"
A rush of people come out of the kitchen into the hallway—Mrs. Lynch first, then two police officers, then some man I don't know, and Captain Lynch and Sam, and then two other women, one carrying Gwen in her arms.
"Jason, thank goodness! Where have you been?" Mrs. Lynch says.
"Why? What's happened? What's going on? Is my dad all right?" I look at Sam and then at the police officers.
"What's happened, Jason, is that you've been missing for the past three hours," Captain Lynch says, breaking through the small group to get to the front and face me.
"What? I haven't been missing. I didn't run away, if that's what you're thinking." I glance at Mrs. Lynch's angry face and then at Cap's. He looks like he wants to knock my head off.
"Where have you been, son?" one of the police officers asks me.
"Jeez. I was just at a friend's house."
"What friend? We called the friends on the list the school gave us," Mrs. Lynch says, pulling a folded piece of paper out of her pocket.
"Shelby Majors. I was with Shelby Majors."
"We called there and spoke to Mr. Majors. He said you weren't there," Mrs. Lynch says.
"What? Jeez, what is this?" Why are they making such a federal case out of the fact that I went over to a friend's house? What do they think I was doing over there?
SEXY LADY: Oh, I can think of a few things.
"I was there," I say. "Her sister just drove me home." I pull my hair. "Shelby gave me this haircut."
"Mr. Majors said you weren't there," Cap says in a tone indicating the matter's closed.
"Well then," I say, getting irritated, "he was wrong. Look, his wife just died today, okay? Shelby's mom died today. So I went over there to see her."
"In the middle of class? Without calling us first?" Mrs. Lynch says.
"What? What is this?" I flap my arms, slapping them against my thighs. "I'm almost fifteen years old. I've been in charge of my own life for a long time and now suddenly I'm what? I'm supposed to ask permission from perfect strangers if I want to go somewhere?"
The same police officer who spoke last time interrupts us. "Well, looks like he's safe, so I think we'll leave him to you, now. Good night, Captain Lynch, Mrs. Lynch."
Then everybody leaves, including Sam, who gives me the eye and says on his way out, his voice stern, "We'll be in touch, Jason."
The three strangers are Gwen's birth parents and her caseworker. They leave with Gwen to go out to dinner. Then Cap closes the door, and I'm alone with him and Mrs. Lynch.
"Jason," he says, "we'll finish our conversation in the living room." He gestures toward the room. I follow behind Mrs. Lynch and sit down in a chair across from the sofa where the two of them sit.
LAUGH TRACK: Uh-oh!
The walls of the room have been decorated with African masks, Peruvian rugs, and a set of ancient-looking pistols, stuff I figure Cap collected during his naval travels. The masks, with their turned-down mouths and their creepy, missing eyeballs, stare at me from behind the Lynches, so I've got several faces watching me with disapproving expressions.
"So you think you should be able to go wherever you please whenever you please, is that right?" Cap says.
CRAZY GLUE: Yup!
I shrug. "Pretty much, yeah. You're not my parents. You're never going to be my parents, if that's what you think, so—"
Mrs. Lynch interrupts me. "So if you were expecting to come home tonight and we were gone, gone for three hours after we had told you we would be here, you would think what? How would you feel?"
CRAZY GLUE: Ooh, good one.
I look down at my lap. "Worried, I guess," I say.
"Is that okay if we make you worry? Is it okay if we take off on vacation, say, and leave for a few days without telling you? After all, you're not our real son, so why should we tell you where we're going, right?" Mrs. Lynch says, totally irritated.
CRAZY GLUE: Zing!
"I don't know. I hadn't thought of it that way. I mean, today"—I look up—"I wasn't really thinking of anything. I didn't not tell you where I was on purpose. I just didn't think about it. I was kind of upset."
"Even upset, Jason, you have a responsibility to those who care about you," Cap says. "And like it or not, we not only care about you, but we're in charge of caring for you, and that means that you never on any condition make us worry like that. Do you hear me?"
I stare at the two of them sitting on the couch and picture my own parents sitting there giving me this lecture. I know my mom would have said the samething they just said to me, and Dad would have, too, in his right mind. I nod. "Yeah, uh—yes, sir, I hear you. I guess I'm not used to thinking about people worrying about me. Lately, I've always been the one doing the worrying."
"It's no fun, is it?" Mrs. Lynch says.
I shake my head and feel myself getting choked up like I might start crying any second as I think of the times Dad disappeared. I had been so scared. Anything could have happened to him. No, it's no fun worrying about where people are when they're supposed to be right there with you, no fun at all. I stare at my lap, sucking in my cheeks to keep from crying, and just sit.
"Well then, all right," Mrs. Lynch says after a long silence. "Why don't we all go have some dinner? I don't know about you two, but I'm starving."
The two of them stand up, so I do, too, and I follow them into the kitchen, where we put together a mess of chicken salad sandwiches and heat up some soup. Then, while I set the table, putting the fork on the left and the knife and spoon on the right, with the glass as an exclamation point over the knife, just the way Mrs. Lynch tells me to do, I decide that all this feels okay, the anger, the lecture, and now setting the table according to Mrs. Lynch's instructions. Yeah, it feels normal, sane. A guy could get used to this.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Dear Mouse:
A couple of nights ago on the way home from practice, I ran over some kind of animal. All I could see was the flash of white just as it ran under my wheels. I couldn't stop. I know I hit it. I killed a live creature! I can't get over this. I know some people think it's no big deal—so you killed a squirrel or whatever—but to me it is a big deal. How do I get over this? How do I deal with my guilt? Please don't say I'm being silly. This matters to me.
Deadly Driver
Dear D.D.:
I like animals, too, so I think I would feel like you if this happened to me. But you didn't mean to do it. If you could have prevented it from happening, you would have, right? I mean, you didn't do it on purpose. And you can't fix the past. It happened. So now I guess all you can do is be careful driving and maybe do something good for some other animal. What's the use of feeling guilty? It won't bring the animal back to life, so feel sad and then do something for the animals in the world that are still alive and need our help. So like, forgive yourself.
Mouse
Okay, I know, I stole a little bit from Dr. Gomez, but I've been thinking about what she said. Maybe there was something I could have done for my mom when she had her stroke, but I don't think so, really. I think I've just been carrying around a useless sack of guilt over it and even more guilt over my dad having to go into the hospital. All that stuff's in the past. All I can do is fix the present. So I'm trying to let go of feeling guilty, and, funny thing, I feel less and less angry at my mom the more I let go of feeling guilty about her dying.
And I think it's weird how I didn't even know I was angry with her. I didn't know how guilty I felt until the other day in Dr. Gomez's office when I went berserk. So I think I forgive myself. I think I'm feeling better now—sort of.
The rest of my first week back at school is the best week I've had in a long time. I feel like an honest-to-goodness normal person.
CRAZY GLUE: Lets not get carried away, goob. We're still here, aren't we?
SEXY LADY: He needs us.
AUNT BEE: It's all right. He knows we're just a figment of his imagination.
That's right. That's what I keep telling you.
So I go to school each day wearing decent clothes and a decent haircut. I've got friends—real friends—and they're happy to see me, and the teachers are helpful about my getting caught up with my schoolwork.
After school each day I go home, eat a snack, and do my homework. After dinner I go to the club with Cap, and we shoot baskets or swim for an hour or so. Then I come home and read or something and go to bed.
CRAZY GLUE: Aren't you leaving something out?
AUNT BEE: Some things should be private.
CRAZY GLUE: He's the one who's opened his life to the whole world here.
All right, yeah, I cry myself to sleep every night. But it's a good cry. I cry over my mom. I think about her. I remember our hikes together and her teaching me stuff about photography, and junk like that, and it's just, I miss her. I really miss her. And my dad. I'm all he has.
Anyway, as sad as I feel every night going to sleep, somehow every morning I wake up feeling great, as if I've washed away a little more of my grief and guilt every time I cry.
The hardest part of the week is Thursday morning at Shelby's mother's funeral, but even that turns out all right. At first I didn't want to go. I thought the funeral would be way too painful for me. I didn't tell Shelby this, but she must have noticed the way I was dragging my feet about going, because she took my hands and squeezed them, and told me she needed me there. "I need my friends by my side," she said.
