‘Sure.’
Slowly, we walk up to the casket, a shiny wooden box containing my friend. I am afraid that once I look into the box, I will scream or burst out crying or faint. And I can’t do that. Perry deserves better. I look into the casket and there, surrounded by white satin, his head resting on a small white satin pillow, lies my friend – the shell of my friend.
I look at his face and study the make-up. He looks more like a doll. The hair is arranged to hide the sewn up hole in his head. The suit he is wearing, furnished by my parents, is dark blue and would have complemented his eyes. I look at his hands, folded peacefully over his stomach, and for a moment I think I see a finger twitch. I stare harder, watching his chest, thinking if I stare hard enough I might see him still breathing. And I do see this; I see what I want to see. But I know it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. Horrible, cruel tricks.
The person in the casket looks like Perry, but it isn’t Perry. It’s just an empty shell resembling Perry. I wonder if it’s right to mourn a shell. I reach out my hand and touch him, slowly extending my fingers to stroke his cheek. He is cold to the touch. Do I really expect it to be any different? This isn’t real. This isn’t Perry.
The priest is up at the podium, waiting for the mourners to be seated, so he can begin the service and read his prepared eulogy. Brian and I take our seats in the front row, next to my mom and dad, as the service begins with a prayer. I let go of Brian’s hand. I’ve been holding onto him so tight our palms have become sweaty.
I bow my head and pretend to go along with the prayer, and when the priest begins his eulogy I just stare at the casket. Even though I believe the priest is trying to deliver a fitting service, it was a short one. The day seems to be lacking in grand gestures for Perry. So when the time comes for the priest to invite family and friends up to give their own personal farewell or relate a special memory, even I don’t volunteer.
In less than an hour, we are all going our separate ways and climbing into our cars, waiting for the hearse to lead the way to the burial site down the road. There is still no sign of Perry’s mom. Whatever her reasons for not coming, it’s left me feeling bitter, but at the same time somehow envious.
The drive through the cemetery is a long one. Over a thousand acres of stones, mausoleums, tributes and resting sites. There are small paved roads running throughout the cemetery, making visitation easy and accessible. There is some cleared land offering burial sites for sale to those who want to plan ahead. This is The Hills of Rest Cemetery.
Once we come to the burial site, we all park in one line and wait around the cars as the casket is set up where the pit has been dug. After about 20 minutes we are all escorted to the site where Perry will be laid to rest forever in the cold, dark ground.
Flowers have been set up around the grave and on top of the casket. It is cold and everyone is bundled up in gloves and hats and coats that cover the Sunday-best funeral clothes. I’m glad. People shouldn’t dress up like they’re ready to party when the occasion is a funeral.
I close my eyes and listen to the priest as he speaks. It’s a speech like those I’ve heard in the movies. As I listen to the priest’s prayers, I wonder how my parents were able to convince a Catholic priest to preside over a homosexual boy who’s committed suicide. For that matter, Perry really wasn’t Catholic, or even religious. I will definitely have to ask about this someday.
‘…We commend to Almighty God our brother Perry Daniels; and we commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless him and keep him, the Lord make his face to shine upon him and be gracious unto him and give him peace. Amen.’
In the still cold air of the day, the priest pushes his toe to a lever and the casket starts to descend slowly into the ground. Everyone stands still, silently watching. And Perry is gone.
CHAPTER 8
When we get back home, I go straight up to my room. I am too exhausted to do anything other than merely exist. Hell, I don’t even want to do that. As soon as I close my bedroom door, I start taking off my black mourning clothes, dropping them onto the floor. I’m not even kicking them to the side. I lift my heavy dressing gown off the hook of my wardrobe door and slip it on. Wrapping myself in the comfort of its warmth and tying the sash tightly about my waist, I drop down onto my bed and lay back, closing my eyes. Inhale, exhale. All I need to do is breathe.
Inhale.
I have to clear my mind.
Exhale.
Don’t think.
Inhale.
Don’t remember.
Exhale.
Just don’t.
I want to fall asleep, but it seems like no matter how long I lie here, I just can’t slip away. My eyes keep opening. I don’t want them to open. My body just isn’t ready to call it a day. For some reason, I think of Perry’s bag sitting in the corner. It’s been in the house for days and I have yet to rummage through it. Should I even be rummaging through it?
I sit up and look at the bag. There is nothing special about it; it’s just a blue and grey bag full of school books. I get up and walk over to it. Kneeling down on both knees, I touch the zipper. I shouldn’t do this. What might I see?
I pull the zipper and open the bag. There’s a maths book, a social studies book and a few notebooks and folders. I finger through the notebooks until I find one that catches my attention. Written on the cover in black marker is: JOURNAL – GRADE 10 in large bold letters. Somehow this is morbidly enticing. I pluck it out and take it back to my bed.
I’m holding the notebook. Why did I take this damn thing? What does it matter now what Perry wrote, who knows how long ago? There can’t be anything written in it that I wouldn’t already know. Recollections, memories, feelings – all just words on paper of things that have already happened. I keep telling myself that it is just words on paper. But then, why am I so afraid of it?
I sit on my bed with the notebook on my lap. What I’m about to do would be a serious violation of privacy had Perry been alive. He had never dared to peek into my diary and I had always shown him the same respect. But if I took it back to his house, would his mom read it? Who should read it – a person who loved him for who he was or a blood-relative who couldn’t care less?
I open the notebook, turning the page to the first entry, and skim the page before reading it through. Perry always had such nice handwriting. I read through the pages; some entries are a sentence or two, others are a page long. I am familiar with most of the happenings, good and bad. I remember them. There are, as I’d suspected, few surprises. That is, until I come to read the last few entries:
December 20
Mom’s going on a holiday this weekend with Mike. I don’t know what she sees in him. Sure, he makes good money but he treats her like crap. The only time they seem to get along is when they are both drunk. Hopefully he’s just another one of her flings and won’t last very long. The Christmas dance is tonight. I can’t wait. I have the perfect hairstyle for Dawn. Her dress is so beautiful! I can’t wait to see what Brian will be wearing tonight. I wonder if I can pretend that Brian is my date without him knowing?
December 23
Okay, so the Christmas dance was a disaster. For me anyway. First, I never thought I would feel the jealousy I felt with Dawn and Brian. Something just ate at me. Then Gary caught me looking at Brian’s rear! I have never been so careless, but Brian was bent over and well, I just couldn’t help myself. I get so tired of hiding who I am. I just feel like I need some kind of release before I explode.
Then when I got home, Mike was there and he started getting at me about coming home so late. I don’t know who he thinks he is. He’s not my dad. For some reason, I snitched a bottle of whisky from the drinks cupboard and walked over to Dawn’s house, slugging the bottle dry. Yeah, it was stupid of me. But at least I don’t get ridiculed over there when I mess up.
December 26
I tried talking to Mom about getting help for her drinking problem. Maybe I should have
done this while she was sober. She started going on again about how it was Dad’s fault for ruining her life. She must have called him every foul word she could think of. I couldn’t take it. I called Dawn, but she wasn’t home. She was probably out with Brian again. I know I should be happy for her, but I can’t help feeling that Brian is taking away my only friend. I just don’t know what I would do without Dawn.
December 28
That bastard! I can’t believe he freaking hit me! And Mom didn’t say a word. Who does he think he is? Where the hell is Dawn?
December 30
Brian, Brian, Brian! I am so freaking tired of hearing about Brian! I really needed you tonight Dawn and you were too busy messing around with Brian. My back hurts. I think Mike left bruises this time. I thought Mom kept a stock of painkillers for her hangovers, but I can’t find anything. I’ll just have to see what I can scavenge from the drinks cupboard.
January 3
Ditched again. Dawn wouldn’t even talk on the phone with me because Brian was there. What does she see in him? What did I see in him?
January 15
Dawn came over today. Mom and Mike were off somewhere for the weekend. I was happy to see her, but it seemed as if Dawn didn’t really want to be here. I was hoping to talk to her about what’s been going on – but we don’t seem to communicate like we used to. I was hoping that she would ask me what was wrong with me. But she just didn’t notice or care. Maybe I should’ve said something. I mean, she wouldn’t come over if she didn’t still care for me, right?
January 18
I don’t know how much more of this I can take. Mom is marrying that asshole and I’m losing my only friend to those jerks at school. For God’s sake! How much more of this can I take?
February 11
I think Mike cracked a rib. God this hurts! I want to go to the hospital, but I’m afraid to. If I go they will see the other bruises. I’ll have to ditch gym for a while. I’ll see if I can steal a bottle of painkillers from the school nurse tomorrow. Until then, I’ll just try to numb the pain with what I can.
February 17
I can’t believe Dawn outed me in front of everyone on the school bus! The nerve of her! How can I even show my face in school again?
February 18
I think I’m turning into my mom. I’ve been drinking more than she has lately. She gets so wasted, she doesn’t remember how much she goes through. Today she asked me about some missing bottles and I said the booze has been going down faster since Mike moved in. She believed me! She would be so ticked if she found out it’s been me drinking her whisky. Mom and Mike have been married for a week now and he has already given her a black eye. Serves her right. I have a little buzz going right now, so I’m not feeling much of anything.
February 19
Got my ass beat in school by a bunch of jocks. Thank you Dawn for making my life even harder. First it was the laughing and insults and now this. I haven’t talked to Dawn in days and I don’t care to either. The other day, Mom and Mike got into a fight and Mike put a gun to Mom’s head. When I tried to intervene, he turned the gun on me, pressing the barrel right into my temple. You know what? I wasn’t scared. I didn’t care. I just thought finally I would have some peace. I think a part of me wanted him to pull the trigger. I found out where Mike keeps his gun. I had it out today, playing with it. Maybe I should have it waiting for him when he comes home.
February 21
I know what I have to do. For the first time in a very long time, I feel peaceful. My mind has never been so clear.
I’ve read it. I’m sitting here. I stop breathing – I don’t know for how long. My eyes start to dry before I realise I’m not even blinking. It’s like my whole body has just ceased to function. Breathe in… out… blink, breathe in… out… blink…
Why didn’t I see this coming? All the signs were there. Why couldn’t I have done something?
Perry was just so angry with me. I did try to talk to him, didn’t I? Think, Dawn, think! Maybe if I’d tried harder, put more effort into finding him, pounded on his door harder, called his house more, busted out his bedroom window to crawl inside and force him to talk with me… There were so many things I could’ve done. Should have done. Why didn’t I do them? Why didn’t I tell Perry that I loved him back?
Maybe if I’d never got involved with Brian or never brought home Perry’s personal life story and laid it on my desk out in the open for Brian to see. Brian. What a dirty word his name’s become to me now. I can’t say it any more without it leaving a foul taste in my mouth. Everything is because of Brian. If only it had stayed just the two of us, Perry and me, none of this would have happened. We were happy. We could have stayed happy. Damn you Brian!
I grab the notebook and fling it across the room. It flaps through the air and slides across my desk and onto the floor along with some other papers that were on my desk. That isn’t enough though.
In a rage I grab handfuls of my quilt and pull it off the bed. Then my pillows, throwing them across the room. My bed sheets, the clock radio, the lamp and everything else I can get my hands on – are all thrown across the room. I tear the posters down from my walls and shred them, crushing them in my fists and throwing them to the floor. I pull out dresser drawers and fling them, with all my strength, against the wall, cracking the wood and the plaster.
Still, it isn’t enough.
I grab all my perfume bottles, ceramic and glass knick knacks and shatter them against the wall. Almost. Then as I grab the chair from under my desk and lift it as high as I can to take out my frustrations on the dresser mirror, the door swings open and my mom and dad stand in the doorway with their faces frozen in fear and shock. I stop. Suddenly I feel weak, and I drop the chair.
Mom walks in with her arms reaching out to me. Her eyes are red from crying all day and her face is worn and tired. She has never looked as old as she does right now. I just stand there, knowing that as soon as those loving hands touch me, I will break. And then I fall into Mom’s embrace and I cry. I cry until it hurts. I cry harder when I feel Dad come up behind me and wrap his arms around me and Mom. Yet, even in the loving arms of my mom and dad, I feel alone.
Shortly after the funeral, Mom booked my first session with a therapist.
Therapy is a load of rubbish if you ask me. Dr Reed reminds me of a fake talk show host who thinks he has all the answers to everyone’s problems. I’m not even going to try to remember his name. He sits across from me with that serious look on his face, his bald head catching the glare of the fluorescent lights.
With his notebook in his lap and a pen in his hand, he asks me the dumbest questions. How did I feel when Perry and I fought? How did I feel when he died? What did I feel when I saw his body on the bed? Am I having suicidal thoughts?
All I can think of is that this man is an ass. Mom is paying him good money and what for? For me to learn how upset I am about losing my best friend? To learn how it was my fault that Perry took his life? She needs to pay money for me to discover this?
I had four sessions with Dr Reed before I went back to school. Four wasted hours that would have been better spent staying home in bed or on the couch, brooding. Nevertheless, he has convinced Mom that we are making progress and that I should return to see him twice a week.
CHAPTER 9
So, here I am, hiding in a toilet cubicle at school. I’m sitting here, and my legs are numb from sitting. I’ve been here for what, hours? I’m not even sure what time it is and I don’t really care. I just know that I need to get up and get some circulation back into my legs. All I can do is stand for a few minutes, my legs are feeling so dead. Then the pins and needles come, thousands of them pricking my legs from thigh to toe. And although I cringe in agony at the sensation, I realise this is the first time in weeks that I’ve felt anything at all.
Slowly, I make my way out of the cubicle, and walk to the sinks and back. I’m walking in circles just to keep my legs moving, to get rid of this discomfort.
I avoid the mirrors as I take this repetitive path from the sink to the stall. Back and forth, back and forth. I wonder, briefly, what it would be like to see myself in the mirror. It’s been a long time. How would I look? How would I feel? But I’m still not ready to face myself.
Once the pain is gone, I go to collect my books and step out into the hall. The hall is empty; the school is quiet and half the lights are off. It’s all rather eerie.
I walk over to the nearest classroom to peer in at the clock. Quarter to five. I’ve missed the bus and most of the students and teachers involved in extra-curricular activities will be on their way home by now. Looks like I’ll be walking.
I make it down to my locker undisturbed. I drop my books into the bottom and reach out for my parka, but my eyes are drawn to the brown bomber jacket hanging opposite. I lift the leather jacket off the hook and slip it on. Although it fits loosely on my slender frame, it is warm and comfortable. The scent of Perry’s cologne still lingers. I close my eyes and take a deep whiff. I smile. God I miss you Perry.
Standing there in the hall, I realise that I don’t want to go home. But where do I go? I shove my hands in the jacket pockets and begin walking down the hall. I come across the staircase that leads down to the gym. No one will be there now. I walk along the hall, past the locker rooms. Half the lights are on. The school never turns off all the lights. At the end of the hall I come to the pool entrance. I walk along the edge of the pool, peering down into the still, blue water. It looks cool and peaceful.
Inviting.
Almost hypnotizing.
Quiet.
This is nice. This is what I want. This is what I need. With one hand I grab the collar of Perry’s coat and raise it to my nose, just enough to take in a big scented breath. Perry.
I smile.
Without hesitating, I step forward, plunging into the cold, blue water with a loud splash. I relax, letting the water soak my clothes, adding weight, dragging me deeper below the surface. My eyes are open as I sink to the bottom. And with the cold, hard bottom of the pool against my back, I think of Perry. His scent. His laugh. I am holding my breath, but I really want to let go.
Breaking Dawn Page 7
