Back To Before (part 2)

“I’m serious about this one dude.” He says, and for some reason I think he might not be joking.  We’re all wondering what inspired her to go from Popular to Punk Rock, but the only person who could possibly know is Giovanna, and she probably couldn’t explain it in English anyway.1

After school, I do my homework and listen to the computerized voice alert me to a new email every few minutes.  I open one from Raven, although I hope I won’t have to answer it.  As usual, it is several pages long, detailing everything from what she has eaten today and what her plans are for the weekend to a bulleted list of why she hates her Trig teacher.  Why do girls think we care?  I really don’t understand it.  I apply my skimming technique, until I find a paragraph that begins with “Naida.” (Which is another thing- who uses paragraphs and indents in an email?)  2

I have to say that Raven is very good at tearing people part via printed word.  She has somehow come up with a list of reasons we should ignore Naida from here on out.  The list includes her newly dyed hair, her exotic looks, and her obvious distaste for us.  I’m not sure who the “us” includes, but I’m guessing me and Carlo.  Raven has liked Carlo since practically our freshman year, but he doesn’t like her much back, so it’s no wonder she’s mad at the new girl for stealing her dearly beloved.  I manage to type out a quick and impartial reply to her as well as to several other people before I turn off my computer.  It gives a final hum before silencing on my desk.3

Down the hall, my mom is in her room crying.  I can hear the sharp intake of breath, but I can’t stand to be here when she’s like this.  A quick note practically scribbles itself to my dad, telling him some excuse about a friend’s house and burgers, and I grab my keys and leave.  Music blasts out of my speakers, but none of the words register.  I drive aimlessly, turning left and right intermittently to see where I can get to.  If I were to drive far enough, maybe I wouldn’t have to come home.  I remember one time when I was seven I wanted to run away from home.  So I packed up my entire Spiderman comic book collection as well as two candy bars and four dollars and twenty cents that I found in my piggy bank (all but one dollar of it was in nickels, dimes, and pennies) and I left.  I walked all the way to the end of our street before I heard my dad’s car following me slowly.  He didn’t try to alert me of his presence, he just followed.  I felt a bit like an animal on one of those nature shows, being watched but not interfered with.  It wasn’t long before I climbed into the car and we drove home.4

I find myself across the street from Starbucks and I stop to get something to drink.  Caffeine might be just the thing to take the edge off of my nerves;  or at least it would be if Giovanna and Naida weren’t sitting at the corner table.  I try, very hard, to ignore both of them while I pay for a grande caramel macchiato with chocolate shots.   Actually, I would be happy with just plain coffee, but regular coffee doesn’t even appear on the menu here.  I can hear their voices slipping over the Italian words, accentuating the a’s and l’s.  Apparently Giovanna doesn’t care what Raven thinks about Naida, she just needs to talk to someone who understands her.  Naida titters in Italian and shakes out her brown and blue mane, catching my eye in the process.  Her look is ambiguous, she could hate me or love me and I wouldn’t know.  Why are girls so good at that stuff?  I think when they get pulled aside for that video in the sixth grade, they don’t really learn about their periods.  They learn how to look at guys ambiguously.  5

The vegan barista looks a bit perturbed that I haven’t taken my drink yet.  I’m sure it’s been burning his animal-friendly palm while I lose myself in Naida’s glance.  As soon as I touch the cup he snatches his hand back and turns back toward the empty cash registers before absentmindedly stroking the carved piece of bone embedded in his left nostril.  The electronic bell wishes me a robotically cheerful goodbye as I walk out.  6

NOW:7

The car accident washes away in a torrent of rain behind me.  Normally I would be worried about missing my exit in a storm like this, but this particular journey is carved like a roadmap into my heart.  8

What makes us who we are?  The question pops into my head suddenly, and for a moment or two I wonder if someone has just asked me aloud.  I turn the question over, inspecting it.  Like a worn piece of sea-glass, smoothed and rounded by the pounding thoughts of others before it finally came to me.  For instance, am I who I am because God intended it to be so?  Or did my parents decide my fate by how they raised me?  Actually, I don’t think I believe in a God anymore.  I think I might have once, when God was represented by presents at Christmas and rabbits at Easter.  But now that God is merely tolerated as a protector of souls, I’m not so sure.  A lot of things have changed since those easy days.  9

I remember one Christmas my mom hid my presents all around the house—in the washer, the dryer, the bathtub, the refrigerator.  I spent what seemed like hours searching and felt my heart jump every time I came across a high-powered water gun (to be saved for summer) or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles pajamas with matching Leonardo and Michelangelo action figures.  Mom was always doing stuff like that, making the boring days seem fun and the good days heavenly.  I was closer to her; I looked exactly like her, we liked the same things.  I loved my dad, he was great for going to baseball games and I have to admit he kicked in some pretty decent chromosomes a while back, but Mom was always a little closer to my heart.  10

I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror and nervously brush my hair out of my eyes.  I’ve got to look somewhat presentable if I’m going to see the two most important people I’ve ever met.11

THEN:  I drive aimlessly for a few more hours before I finally return home.  There is an ambulance parked on the curb in between my house and Mrs. Boyler’s house.  She’s an old lady; probably fell and called the hospital.  I hope she’s okay.  12

I park at the top of my driveway and leave my keys on the passenger seat, after checking to make sure that the doors are unlocked.  It looks like all of the lights in the house have been turned on, although not the ones in my room I notice.  I see a shadowy figure moving behind the thin curtains in the kitchen.  Probably Mom cooking or cleaning, unless Dad came home early tonight.  My watch says 8:34 pm, and he’s usually not home until at least nine.  The kitchen door opens, and a lean man in a blue shirt and navy pants walks out.  My heart skips a few beats, but still I rationalize.  Must be a repairman—maybe the electricity went out?  That would explain all the lights being on.  But no, he gets closer and stays silent, the EMS patch on his sleeve is clearly visible in the light from the house.  13

“What happened?”  My words choke off awkwardly, but I don’t have breath to continue.14

“Sit down son.”15

Somewhere in my mind it registers that I dislike being called ‘son’ by anyone, but especially by a guy not more than five years older than myself.16

“There’s been an accident.  Your mother—the neighbor called and said she heard a scream.”17

I can look into his gray eyes and see that he has explained this kind of thing too many times before.  What was once probably sympathy has now been replaced by a kind of out-of-body detachment.  As much as it saddens him to give me the news, he won’t lose sleep tonight.  18

“I’m sorry.  By the time we got here it was too late.  We found her curled up in the bathroom.  We think it was intentional.”  19

His last words catch me off guard.  So this wasn’t a robbery gone awry?  20

“So it was a deliberate murder, not robbers who screwed up.”  I must not be thinking clearly.  Maybe this is all just a mistake.  21

“No, no.  Not like that.  You don’t understand.  We think she purposely overdosed.  She was holding an empty bottle of antidepressants.”22

At these words, I sink to the ground.  Not me not me not me not me not me.  This is not happening.  My mother didn’t kill herself.  She wouldn’t.  She was happy with us; with me, my dad.  We were a family.  They must have made a mistake.23

“You’ve got it wrong; my mother wouldn’t do this to herself.”  The words are not mine exactly.  They belong to a smaller me, the one who disbelieves and questions.24

“She might not have,”  he sinks to his knees beside me and balances forward on blue-veined hands blotched white from the strain of constant worry.  “We don’t know at this point.  I’m just telling you what we suspect.”  25

Dad’s not home, and I can’t bring myself to watch the stretcher be wheeled away.  I hide my face in my hands when I hear voices and the squeak of tennis shoes on the wood of the stairs.  After she’s gone, the paramedics pack up and drive away, after the same guy who talked to me in the driveway leaves a phone number for the hospital.  He asks if there’s anyone he can call for me, but I shake my head no.  I just want them to leave.  The sirens are off when they pull out of the driveway, no need to rush to the hospital now.  With all of the lean doctor-types gone and the cops on a coffee break in their cars, the house is eerily quiet.  26