Everything Grows

by Aimee Herman

  “Umm . . .”

  “Eleanor, why are you asking me this?”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to know more about you.”

  “Okay,” Flor was looking at the road (since she was driving), but I could see her face tense up as though she was thinking big thoughts. “Well, it’s been a long time, I’m almost fifty. Wooh, don’t say that out loud much. It’s difficult and wonderful and challenging and . . . even at my age, I still have to come out to people. You never stop. I’ve had some good reactions, some horrifying ones. I’ve lost friends. I’ve gained friends. Funny, when I first met your mom, I thought she was gay. I thought everyone at the book club was gay. Maybe that’s wishful thinking. And when I realized she wasn’t—nor was anyone else—I wasn’t mad or anything, I was just worried. I really liked your mom and didn’t want to lose her as a friend. It had happened so many times before. Of course, she didn’t care one bit. I’ll never understand why something that has nothing to do with anyone else makes people so uncomfortable.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “If I found someone, I couldn’t even marry them. Shouldn’t everyone have the right to just . . . love and get married if they want? I’ll never get used to that. I’ll never understand.”

  That night at group, there were a few new people. I’ve been going since June and I’ve seen lots of people come and go. Shirley occasionally checks in with me to make sure I still want to go, and I do. I feel less alone when I’m there. I also feel really grateful because a lot of people in the group actually lost their family members. I’m lucky I still have a mom.

  “Eleanor, I made coconut chocolate cookies, the ones you love!” Delia insisted on bringing baked goods each week. She said that it allows her to funnel her sadness into something better. There was always coffee too, and some other snacks. I know, who cares, right? But I’m telling you this to set the scene, James. Because of what happened a little later on.

  I spoke a lot more in the beginning, when everything was raw, but now, I prefer to just sit and take it all in. Delia spoke about her husband, who she found in the basement. I guess he was hiding a bunch of bad pictures too, that part I didn’t really understand. But Delia said something about him leading some kind of double life. Delia always talked about her confusion of missing him and hating him at the same time.

  A few other people spoke too, and then Peter, the social worker, asked if any of the new members wanted to speak.

  I guess some people just need to be asked because right then a woman started speaking. She had a haircut just like my sixth-grade teacher. Do you remember Mrs. Gryzynsky? I know you weren’t in that class, but I feel like everyone knew her. She was so strange. She was really short and always wore bright, bright red lipstick. Her hair was cut like a mushroom.

  This woman had one of Delia’s cookies in the palm of her hand. It’s like she was petting it, like she didn’t know it was edible.

  “I lost my boy. My only one,” she said. Her voice sounded scratched like someone with giant fingernails tore up her vocal chords.

  “Would you like to share?” That’s what Peter always said. A few times, he has mentioned that it was a question that allowed more openness to answer. Like we can talk about more than just who we lost or almost lost. We can also talk about our day or whatever.

  “I don’t . . . I’m still trying to understand. How can a parent ever survive this? I mean, . . . I just didn’t know . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Patricia, who lost her brother last year, handed the woman a tissue. “There’s lotion in it,” I heard her whisper.

  “If you feel able, would you share your name and maybe anything about him you might like?” Peter has a really soothing voice, which definitely helped me to open up in the beginning. He also has a monstrously-large moustache. James, remember our music teacher in middle school? Mr. Jerricks? His moustache was like three fingers wide. Peter’s is even thicker.

  “He was only fifteen,” the woman said. “He liked to cook, bake all sorts of things with me. He listened to music a lot. I can’t remember the names of the . . . I’m Helaine.”

  “Helaine, thank you for being here with us today,” Peter said.

  “James is his . . . was his . . . name,” she added.

  Your mom. Of course. In this moment, I wish you weren’t just a piece of paper. I wish you could have seen her face. Puffy and red and wet and I don’t know . . . like her brain melted or something. Not like she didn’t make sense, no, not that. More like, she was at a loss for words. For understanding.

  I didn’t know you liked to cook. I don’t really know anything about you, really. I wonder what your favorite recipe was. James, did you leave a note? Did you tell anyone beforehand? Who was your best friend? Did you ever get to be in love? Did you ever kiss anyone?

  At the end of group, people started folding the chairs, putting away the cups and napkins, grabbing the last of the cookies, chatting a bit. I motioned to Flor that I was going to talk to Helaine. When she mentioned your name, I think Flor understood as well.

  “Hi,” I said to her.

  She was looking at one of the few pieces of art on the walls. Some kind of landscape with a setting sun.

  “H-hi,” she said, still staring at the painting.

  “I’m fifteen too,” I said, hoping maybe she’d make the connection.

  She turned to face me. “Oh.”

  “Um, I knew him. James. I mean, we weren’t exactly friends, but—”

  Suddenly her skin grew pinker. “You did? You . . . did you have any idea? Did he tell you—”

  “No, no, I . . . we didn’t speak, but he was in my English class. He didn’t really talk in there either.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Eleanor,” I said. “Eleanor Fromme, but I doubt James ever mentioned me.”

  She shook her head.

  “I’m . . . I’m so sorry for your loss.” Even as I said it, I hated every word. Why do we apologize when someone dies as though we caused it, as though we could have stopped it? Could I have?

  “Thank you, dear. Tonight was . . . good. Maybe I’ll get Burt to come.”

  “James’s . . .”

  “Father. He blames himself. He . . . he’s a pastor. Always hoped James would be more . . . oh, I don’t know . . . Christian.” She smiled.

  I definitely didn’t know what to say to that.

  “May I . . . may I ask what causes you to come here as well?”

  I took a deep breath. “My mom.”

  “Oh, Eleanor, I’m so sorry—”

  “Actually, she’s still alive. I mean, she tried to kill herself, but she’s okay now. I’m not so sure what okay really means. I’ll always be waiting, you know? Scared that she might try again, even though she promises me she won’t. I see her every day, but what happens when I’m in college and it’s just her and—”

  “So much for a young person to think about,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, I’m sure I’ll put her through a lot too,” I laughed.

  “Maybe I’ll see you next Thursday, Eleanor.”

  James, I can’t pretend that it wasn’t strange to speak to your mom after there were days I’d go home after being bullied by you and thinking a monster must have raised you to turn you into one. But she’s warm and even in her sadness, she seems so kind.

  On the ride home, I told Flor about Helaine and feeling guilty that I still have my family member, while so many people in group lost theirs. Sometimes I feel like an imposter.

  “Eleanor, you are everywhere you are supposed to be,” Flor said.

  P.S. Your mom smells like banana bread.

  Friday, October 22

  Dear James,

  It is so strange to ignore someone I used to tell all my secrets to. And I wonder if Dara feels the same way. On the bus to school, I had to sit next to Ross, who smells like old grape jelly sandwiches. Dara and I always sat together. I thought maybe she’d apologize. But it�
��s like I was invisible to her. And then of course, I had this terrible fear. I mean, she’s the only person that knows that I’m . . . just write it, Eleanor . . . A LESBIAN! What if she tells people? What if the whole school replaces you as my bully. What if James, you got to die with all of your secrets. I guess we all have them.

  I don’t even know who your friends were. Sometimes I wish I could talk to one of them and ask what you were like. I don’t really think you were the monster I thought you were. After meeting your mom, I realized there must have been some of that kindness in you too, right?

  There is a poster in our health class with a boy in mid-punch leaning toward a scared-looking boy. I think they’re in a cafeteria, maybe? In giant bold lettering, it says: BULLIES GET BULLIED SO DON’T BE A BULLY! I’m sure someone was mean to you and you just did what you saw. Mr. Giore (my history teacher) said that history happens over and over, so there is no past, just present-tense re-runs.

  Greta used to bully me all the time. She’d boss me around and if I put up a stink, she’d yell at me. Sometimes she’d steal my favorite toy and hide it. She was worse than when Dad and Shirley would punish me. I’m sure I’ve bullied too. Maybe I’ve even bullied Dara. Bossed her around. Made her feel bad. I don’t know. What things can we forgive? And are there things we just can’t let go of? James, writing to you really digs at my apple core. I know I’m still so mad at Shirley for doing what she did. Maybe I won’t ever forgive her. But being in that support group helps. Maybe that’s why I stay, so I can try to let go of what she did. So I can trust her again.

  Sunday, October 24

  Ms. Raimondo said that to tell a story, one must start at the beginning. But who remembers that? I couldn’t speak when I began. I can’t remember what my first word was, probably Mom or Dad but certainly not enough vocabulary to tell my story. Or a story.

  But Ms. Raimondo said something else, which I guess is why I’m writing this. She said that stories find their meaning once they are written down. You were there that day, weren’t you? When she said that? It meant something because I actually wrote it in my notebook and I’m not really the best note-taker—I usually start and then lose interest—but I wanted to understand it better.

  Anyway, I never told anyone about that night. Last March. Maybe if I write it down, I can let go of it. Forgive you, maybe. It was so cold outside, but I had to get out of my house. Shirley had her book club people over. Every month they discussed romance novels as though they are . . . I don’t know . . . works of art or something. But that’s how Shirley met Flor, so I guess good things come out of weird things, right?

  Everyone was smoking cigarettes, and it was like the tar was tiptoeing up the stairs, into my bedroom. I piled on a sweater over my long-sleeved shirt and another sweater over that with long thermal underwear beneath my sweatpants and I felt like a polar bear swallowed by another polar bear. Plus, two scarves, my winter coat and my Walkman with a mix tape made by Dara. I remember everything.

  “Bored! Gonna take a walk around the block! Be back s—”

  “Wait,” interrupted Shirley. “Are you kidding me? It’s freezing out there.”

  “I know. I’m bundled. But it reeks of smoke in here and my lungs are screaming. I promise I won’t be gone too long.”

  Shirley looked at the others. “Okay, but just around the block and then back,” she said.

  I walked out, pushing the headphones over my ears and preparing for some perfectly picked out music to accompany me on my walk.

  James, I just realized this was before. Shirley was . . . Mom. Helaine is probably going to think this way too. Before you hung yourself and after.

  Here is something to know about my neighborhood. I live on a cul-de-sac. The great part of this is that when I was younger and the thought of playing outside was enough to make me happy, I didn’t have to worry about oncoming traffic when playing catch in the middle of the street. Anyone who drives on our block already lives here. But I decided to make a right turn and travel out of the cul-de-sac, heading toward the ‘shady development’. I titled it this when I first noticed the tall trees turning into each other like clasped fingers. The branches became like an umbrella shading me from the summertime sky when I was zipping away on my bike. In the winter, without all the leaves, they just looked like trees with bad posture, leaning. But it’s my favorite place to bike through in the warmer months. Each house is so different from the other and since the houses are much older and have been there for many decades, the trees are tall and wild.

  Anyway, I was listening to the Pixies in my eardrums and feeling like a dragon as my frozen breath escaped me, creating a white smoke from between my chapped lips. I was singing loudly—I remember this—because I was the only one who existed or at least it felt that way. I don’t really know too much about the Pixies, except for the way they make me feel, which is alive and excited. I wonder what music you listen to. Your mom couldn’t remember.

  And then I felt something.

  “Hey!”

  I felt you before I saw you because the music was loud, and I was lost in my thoughts.

  “What?”

  “Hey, what are you, freak?”

  And I remember everything as though it was a movie I was watching, but I was in it. I didn’t know it was you at first, because it was so dark. You were in one of those winter sock hats and your jacket was dark. Actually, everything was dark except for the streetlights that had been illuminating my walk.

  I took off my headphones because I was scared and wanted to be alert.

  “You go to my school, dyke.”

  I kept walking. And if I was a dragon before, I suddenly became Jackie Joyner-Kersee. Although, I wasn’t exactly running, more like power-walking, which is what I do in gym class.

  “Am I scaring you, lezzie? I know what you are.”

  You were smoking a cigarette.

  “Or maybe you’re a fag,” you said. “Which one? Huh? You a dyke or a faggot?”

  I could still hear the music blaring through the speakers of my headphones. Of course, I didn’t answer you. I didn’t know what to say. James, you really frightened me. And then, suddenly I was on the ground because you pushed me, pulled at my sleeve, and I fell.

  I could hear the crackle of the paper burning up with each suck of your cigarette between your lips, and do you remember what you did next? You blew that smoke right into my face.

  Here’s the thing: I’m not going to pretend to be some fearless superhuman. My body was trembling beneath every single layer, and I think my complete silence was due to the fact that every word that wanted to come out was frozen inside me. I’ve never been in a fight before, so I can’t even say if I can pack a mean punch or not. There was that time Heather S. thought I was staring at her boyfriend in Spanish class last year and she told me she was going to beat me up after school. I was terrified of the day ending. I wound up hiding in the library until I knew all the buses had left and then called Shirley from the payphone to pick me up. Yes, I was staring, but only because I thought his jean vest was so cool and I was trying to read the pins he had on the back. Anyway, maybe I’ve got a badass boxer living inside me, but I wasn’t exactly in the frame of mind to figure it out that night.

  You said some other stuff that for some reason I blocked out and then. You. Spit. On. Me.

  You were so close to me that I could feel your hot breath on my neck. I remember you kind of smelled like Vick’s VapoRub.

  “My dad, he . . . he wants me to be everything he is. Go to church, pray every single day. It’s bullshit. He wants me to be real . . . you better not tell anyone about this, dyke.”

  And then you spat on me once more and I could taste the tobacco in your saliva on my skin. So gross.

  I always wondered if you were afraid I’d tell. Or if you even cared. And I’m not sure why I didn’t. I guess I didn’t know how to tell it. I guess I was afraid that if I said the words out loud that you called me, they would become more real. What I really wanted
to ask you was: how did you know?

  I have lived in this neighborhood for most of my life. We moved here when I was six and everyone on my block pretty much knows each other’s business. The Fiore’s live next door and when Gabby, who is one grade above me, found her father french-kissing her mother’s best friend, everyone found out. It’s kind of like a game of telephone, where the real story rarely remains in its original form. But in this particular case, her father really did have an affair, and now I think they are having an open relationship or something.

  When Shirley set off the fire alarm because of her cigarettes, the fire trucks came. Oh man, they all couldn’t wait to feast on that gossip. It wasn’t the first time she fell asleep with one lit. I don’t even want to talk about that.

  David Werzloski moved into the house at the corner two years ago. In second grade, he showed me his penis. Just pulled his pants down right in the middle of Mrs. Rossi’s math lesson and I couldn’t believe how wrinkly it was, kind of like a crumpled-up fruit roll-up.

  And Rachel, Tina and Tiffany live three houses away with their parents and new dog named Rover. The Pashmis across the street. The Jacobs. The Gowers. The McDonnells. The Goldbergs. Dara and her family live about six houses down. There are more boys than girls on our street. The Goldbergs have triplet boys who are Gret’s age. One enlisted in the army, the other two went to some college in Oregon, I think.

  My point. My point is that I feel like we all know each other in some way. I’ve trick-or-treated at everyone’s house. Beyond just this cul-de-sac, all the streets connect. I sold Girl Scout cookies when I was briefly a Brownie, just until I got to go to Sesame Place. Then, I decided I didn’t like being called a dessert that I couldn’t even eat because during that time Shirley prohibited sweets from our house. I’ve been to sleepovers and played Monopoly in these houses and swam in their pools and went to Halloween parties and even accompanied Shirley to a Tupperware party one evening at one of these homes.

  When you pushed me, I stopped feeling safe. I was so afraid to go to school that Monday, but you acted like nothing even happened. Didn’t address me or taunt me or anything like that. Actually, I feel like that was the last time you ever bullied me.