Who I Kissed

by Janet Gurtler

  “Do you want to?”

  No. Yes. No. I can’t imagine which scenario is worse. “I don’t know.” I look up at his face. The familiar crooked nose. The thinning brown hair that doesn’t take away from his still handsome face. Age is being kind to him.

  “I understand.” He clears his throat. “But it might be good to have closure. Say goodbye. Let me know, okay? I’ll go with you.”

  He’s never used the word closure before. I wonder if he’s reading psychology books.

  I close my eyes to avoid thinking about that too long. When I don’t say anything more, he leaves the room.

  By the morning I’ve moved the plate to my dresser. The bread is hard and stale. The peas are untouched.

  ***

  I’m wearing ugly polyester-ish black pants that Dad bought me for an awards banquet in the summer. I have on a black turtleneck with black boots. It feels like I’m playing a part in a movie, the Mourner. Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten my lines. The cues are all jumbled in my head.

  Unseasonably warm temperatures drop to honor the seriousness of the day. It’s cold enough that my classmates are wearing their coats zipped up. Dad and I are sitting in the idling car watching them walk by. There’s no room to park in the church parking lot. We’ve stopped in front of a house a block away from the church. The street is lined with cars. Dead teenagers collect quite a crowd.

  I’m made of ice, so it surprises me that my breath is invisible in the air. I expect white clouds to float from my lips. The heat must be on and the air must be warm, but it doesn’t reach my insides.

  I can’t move.

  “Come on, Sam.” Dad reaches over and presses his gloved fingers into my arm. We touch so much lately, more than we have since I was a kid.

  “We’re here. We should go in.” I sense his desire to push me out of the car. To make me do the right thing. He wants me to go inside and show the world he didn’t completely fail raising me alone.

  “I can’t.” I try to imagine the stares from Alex’s mom and dad. I close my eyes tight and try to feel their hatred from inside the car. I deserve to let them have that, to let them pour it into me, blame me for their loss. But I’m afraid, terrified I’ll never thaw out if their faces reveal what I did to them.

  I’m the last person they’ll want to see, I tell myself. Going inside would be for me. It’s best for everyone else that I stay away. I’m unable to push myself out of the car. I want to have something useful to say to them. Something to make amends. But how do you say you’re sorry for killing someone’s son? What do I expect them to say back?

  “It’s okay. We forgive you.”

  Of course not.

  There is nothing. There is no apology. There is no Hallmark card.

  I want to tell his parents I’d gladly trade places with Alex, give my life for his. But how do you say something like that without sounding like a complete asshole?

  It’s too ridiculous to imagine.

  “I can’t, Dad. I’ll make things worse. Please. Take me home.”

  ***

  Hours later, Dad pokes his head inside my room. “Sam? Get up. You’ve got to move around.”

  I do? I have no idea why he thinks that. When we got home I walked straight to my room and crawled under the covers. I don’t know what time it is now. It ceased to matter long ago. Dad makes sounds in his throat and then walks inside my room, goes to the phone, and plugs the line back in the jack. “Your Aunt Allie wants to speak to you. It might help to talk to her.”

  I don’t point out that he’s done his best to keep us from talking in the past. He takes away the breakfast I didn’t eat and returns with another plate—a grilled cheese sandwich and purple grapes. My favorite. He throws my cell phone at me and leaves the room. He’s charged it. I stare at it for a minute and see a long string of texts from Clair. Taylor. Aunt Allie. I delete them all without reading them.

  Almost immediately the landline rings. Dad picks it up in the living room. By the tone of his voice I guess it’s Aunt Allie, but I don’t listen to what he says to her.

  I drift in and out of sleep, and then there’s light in my room and I guess it must be morning. Dad walks back into the room and stands in front of my bed with his arms crossed.

  “If you don’t get up and into the shower I will pick you up and shower you myself.”

  He means it, and the horror of being naked in front of him forces me out of my stupor. As warm water pounds down on my body, cleansing my skin, I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to stave off my thoughts. I reach for the faucet and turn it to cold. The icy water prevents me from thinking. Shivering, I wash my hair, and when I’m done, I towel off and change into the clean clothes Dad set out for me on my bed, like I’m five years old again. I floss my teeth until my gums bleed.

  As we drive to the emergency peanut butter killer meeting he’s set up, Dad babbles, carrying on a nervous monologue that sounds a lot like gibberish in my ears.

  I walk into the office of the counselor and figure out a few things. His name is Bob. It’s written on the plastic sign on his door. Bob Kissock. Also, he wears too much cologne. It smells up the tiny room and makes me think of men wearing towels around their waists on TV commercials. He’s middle aged and reminiscent of Santa Claus with his gray hair and beard. He’s wearing a red sweater vest over a round belly that stretches over his black pants. He’s got glasses on, but when I look closely I can see that his eyes are kind.

  I sit on the leather couch, preparing to ignore him, but when he speaks his voice is gentle. “I’m so sorry, Sam,” he says. “For what happened.”

  His voice chisels away some of my frostiness. Cold snaps in my bones. I pull my sweater tighter around me, breathing in and feeling tightness in my chest.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says. He slides into the chair across from me. His voice is smooth and deep. Reassuring.

  The tightness in my chest expands and travels up to my forehead. It pounds, and I press on my temples to try to relieve the pressure.

  “I would like to help you.” He says it simply but enunciates the words so that they sound authentic and sincere.

  “Yes.” It surprises me. I open my eyes wider, looking at Bob. “Please. Help. Me.”

  He leans over and pats my hand. My shoulders collapse against the back of the couch.

  “I didn’t mean…” I stop, unable to continue, wringing my hands around and around.

  “Of course you didn’t,” he says, and the understanding in his voice nearly slays me. “You need help coping, Sam. And that’s why you’re here.”

  He asks me simple questions in his gentle voice. I answer in one-word sentences at first. My voice is throaty and froggy, as if I haven’t used it in a very long time. Bob gently but firmly describes the stages of grief and guilt. He never takes his eyes off me. He never condescends or tries to tell me how to feel. He explains himself and why he’s asking and continues with more and more personal questions. My body melts a little further. I find myself relieved to be able to feel again, though an hour ago that seemed impossible.

  “Have you been bothered by reporters?” he asks after a pause.

  I shake my head. “Not really. I mean, obviously it’s all over the news. But none of the reports have named me. They’re not coming after me. Even though it’s no secret in this town.”

  “Good.” He nods and presses his fingers and palms together like a yogi or something. “Sometimes the ethics of the news world surprise me. In this case, in a good way.” And then he asks another simple question.

  “Tell me about your mom.” The question throws me off. I struggle not to cry and he looks me in the eye. “It’s okay to cry,” he says.

  I press my lips tight. Swallow and inhale deeply through my nose. I wave my hands in front of my face as if fanning will keep me from giving i
n to everything I’ve been burying. His permission rips at the imaginary duct tape I’ve wrapped around my heart to keep the sorrow inside. A sniffle escapes, and then I can’t hold it in anymore.

  I use up almost a whole box of Kleenex before I can speak again.

  As I sniffle, Bob talks about loss. And then asks more questions. His gentle voice and kind demeanor allow me to purge things from deep inside, and when the questions finally stop, I’m exhausted.

  “What can I do?” I ask him. “What can I do to make amends? I mean, I can never do that. But I feel like I need to do…something. What can I do?”

  Bob settles back against his chair. Folds his hands. “That,” he says, “is a very good question.” He leans toward me. “I want you to think about that. We’ll talk about it again.”

  He stands then and tells me my dad wants to join us for our last few minutes, and then he goes to the door to invite him inside. Dad walks into the room and sits beside me, darting glances at me and then at Bob.

  “What about school?” Bob asks. “Have you thought about how to continue her education in a safe manner?”

  Dad glances sideways at me. “I could hire someone. For homeschooling.”

  “No,” I say. Both men stare at me.

  “I want to go back to school.”

  “Are you sure?” Bob asks. “Your dad tells me you’ve only been going there a couple months.”

  I nod, and he leans over and makes a note in the notebook beside his chair.

  “What about the swimming?” my dad asks. “You need to go back to that too.”

  “No.” My voice snaps, quick as a starting pistol.

  They both look at me like I’m a little unhinged. They think I’ve got it backward. Yes to school. No to swimming. But they don’t understand my need to be punished.

  Bob asks me to explain in my own words why I can’t swim, why I won’t get back in the water. Sorrow that has been consuming me turns to anger, as if I’m being forced to say things that are vile and dark. I press my lips tight. “I can’t. I won’t.”

  “She’s close to breaking records,” my dad says to Bob, his voice pleading. “She’s close to a national record in freestyle.”

  Bob nods but doesn’t take his eyes off of me. “She’s going through a very intense trauma, Mr. Waxman. She needs to heal.”

  “But there’s a meet coming up. This is her senior year. She’s been training most of her life for this. College scouts…” He stops.

  Bob doesn’t say anything, but he watches me. His expression tells me that he will support my choices.

  “How will you feel if you don’t make those records, Sam?” Dad asks. “You’ve trained so hard. You’ve set goals.”

  I turn away from him. “None of this stuff matters.”

  “Of course it matters,” Dad says and turns to Bob. “We moved to Tadita to get her the best coaching.”

  I glance at both of them. Bob raises his hand, and Dad snaps his mouth shut. But his eyes flash with the anger churning inside him.

  “Sam has to make that decision.” Bob glances at the clock on his wall. “I’d like to see you again,” he says to me and glances at my dad. He nods, but I can tell he wanted immediate results. One session to fix me. Get me back in the pool.

  Bob stands. “Will you wait outside for a moment?” he asks me, and I nod. I’m emotionally shredded. Exhausted. He takes my limp hand and shakes it. He’s warm, and his grip is firm. There is something in my hand when I pull mine away.

  “My cell number,” he tells me. “You can call me anytime if you need to talk. You’re going to be all right, Sam,” he says before he lets go.

  I walk to the hallway as Dad writes out a check. Bob quietly tells Dad to give me space to recover. I plan on using his words to my advantage. I know how much it’s hurting him, but I can’t swim. Not even for him.

  chapter five

  Days later, I still haven’t been to swim practice, even though my body is an uncomfortable mass of heaviness. It misses the feel of being in the water. Craves it. My hair smells different. My skin isn’t as dry. I have pimples on my forehead. But I can’t go back.

  My life has become one major game of “if only.” If only I had kept my damn lips to myself. And boycotted peanut butter. I can make up millions of different scenarios, all with a different outcome. Alex. Alive.

  A few times, my mind wanders to Zee. I can only imagine what he thinks of me now. I try not to.

  Instead I flick on the flat screen Dad installed when we moved in. A treat for both of us, TVs in our bedrooms. The TV links me to a reality I’ve yet to return to. The story about Alex is a big one. Not just in Tadita or even in Washington state, but all over North America. Maybe even the world.

  There’s a story about a school in Seattle with parents picketing and marching. “My daughter will only eat peanut butter,” a woman says to the reporter. “What I am I supposed to do?”

  “Try Cheez Whiz,” a voice yells from behind them, and the camera pans to the red face of a man holding a little boy. “Is your kid’s fussiness really a reason for my child to die?”

  “If my child had that handicap, I wouldn’t inflict her problem on everyone else,” the woman says to him. “Homeschool if you want a peanut-free environment. My kid has rights too.”

  My stomach gets queasy, and my throat swells. Handicap? Really? A few weeks ago I probably wouldn’t have seen the big deal about taking a peanut butter sandwich to school, but things look different to me now. I’ll never eat it again.

  I turn the TV off. After a minute, the silence in the room starts to eat my brain, so I flick the TV back on and click through the channels until Alex’s face fills the screen. It’s a national program. The crucial thing missing from all the coverage is me. My identity. I’m both grateful and ashamed that my name hasn’t made the headlines or eased into the feature stories about deadly allergies. It seems the media made a collective decision to leave me out. I have no idea whether it’s because of legalities or ethics, but I wonder why I deserve that respect.

  I watch as the camera cuts to some lady doctor with a fancy suit sitting stiffly in a chair facing the camera. Her name and title appear on the screen. An allergist. Her face is serious as she answers an off-screen reporter’s questions about allergies. “A death of this sort is extremely rare and worrisome,” the doctor says.

  She goes on to explain that the likeliness of dying by a kiss is remote. “It’s believed allergens can only survive in the saliva for an hour. Accidents like this, from contact with second parties, happen, but are extreme exceptions rather than the rule.”

  I picture Alex’s face. His expression when he realized he couldn’t get his breath. The way he bent over at the waist, his hand in the air, looking for help. For him, it was definitely the rule.

  I flick to a new channel. Local news. They’re showing a montage of pictures of Alex. My heart breaks at a shot of a cute little Alex wearing a Spider-Man costume. His mom tells the viewers he wore the costume almost every day when he was four. She laughs, but it abruptly stops.

  Then the screen shows Alex, holding a giant fish and standing beside a man who has to be his dad. There’s a look of joy on Alex’s face and pride on his dad’s. It fades to another picture of young Alex with his arm wrapped protectively over his sister’s shoulder. In the background, his mom tells the camera that seven years ago, when Alex was ten, he rescued his sister from a rabid fox. He kicked the fox until it ran off. He’d been fierce protecting his sister. His mom explains that Alex and Chloe were less than eleven months apart. Born the same year.

  How can his family possibly cope with his loss? How do you go on living when you lose someone like that? I lost my mom, but I was too young to really understand what was happening. I try to imagine losing my dad, and my mind goes blank. It can’t go there. I won’t.

 
The camera cuts to Alex’s mom. She’s in a chair across from the reporter, saying that three universities were interested in Alex for baseball scholarships. She wipes under her eyes. She’s clutching a Hot Wheels car, and when the reporter asks her about it she says that Alex had collected Hot Wheels since he was a boy. She holds up a red Mustang. “This was his favorite.”

  I imagine it’s something that would have embarrassed him. If he was still alive.

  For a moment I allow my “if only” to change to what might have happened if Alex had lived. I wonder if we’d have gone out for a while. He was cute. Seemed nice. He liked me. He could have made me forget about Zee. Maybe right now he’d be on the phone with me, confessing that he still had a Hot Wheels collection in his room.

  I shake my head. And I remember that I pushed him away. I look back to the TV. A girl is being interviewed by a different reporter. They’re standing in front of my school with a microphone in the girl’s face. She’s skinny and short with fake-looking black hair and an eyebrow piercing.

  “Everyone knew about Alex’s allergy,” she tells the reporter. “We all kind of watched out for him. He used to eat at a special table in elementary school. We were always reminded to wash our hands after eating nuts.”

  Yeah. Well I was in Orlie then. I’d never heard of Alex.

  “Some people say she shouldn’t be blamed,” the pierced girl says, “but honestly, what me and my friends wonder is—if she didn’t know him well enough to know about the allergy, what was she doing kissing him?”

  A fair question, if I do say so myself.

  The camera cuts back to his mom in the studio. A close up. She’s pretty but heartbreakingly sad. Pain is written into every inch of her skin, every breath she takes. I wonder what she looked like before he died.

  I do know one thing.

  Alex didn’t deserve to die.

  The reporter asks his mom what it was like living with his peanut allergy and asthma. His mom describes years of diligence. Fighting to be the voice for her child. The underlying fear when she sent him out into the world without her. Her secret wish to find a peanut-free world and move there. She wipes her eyes again. I hear unspoken thoughts about the slip-up she couldn’t prevent. The girl who ate a sandwich and then kissed her son. She doesn’t mention me. She doesn’t turn to the TV and declare that Samantha Waxman murdered her baby boy, but she doesn’t have to. I imagine her desire to reach through the television screen, wrap her hands around my throat, and squeeze and squeeze until no air can fill my lungs.