White Jacket Required

by Jenna Weber

  “You can take the call if you want, Mom. I’m going to go take a quick nap anyway before meeting Rob in an hour.”

  “No, no . . . I’ll call him back,” she said, laughing. “He probably just wants to know what I left you guys for dinner. Tell me about your hair. Does it look cute?”

  I could hear another phone ringing in the background and my mom’s friend, Margaret, saying calmly, “Lynn, you better take this.”

  And then all I heard was screaming before the line went dead.

  Panic bubbled in my chest and my hands started shaking. I instantly tried to call my mom back but the line was busy. The phone felt greasy and heavy in my hands, and then, all of a sudden, it was ringing and my dad’s name flashed on the screen again.

  “Dad? Is everything okay?” I asked immediately.

  There was a brief moment of silence, and I could hear the strain of my father’s breathing as he somehow found the words to tell me that my little brother had accidentally shot himself in the head and wasn’t going to make it. The details were still sketchy, Dad said, but John had been over at a friend’s house and somehow they’d been messing around with a gun when it accidentally went off in John’s hands.

  I left the house screaming, screaming, screaming. I screamed while grabbing my purse, my fist around the cold metal car keys, screamed while driving 65 miles an hour in a 40 zone down the road that John and I had jogged on together just one day earlier, screamed while searching frantically for a parking spot at the hospital, and screamed while running through the sliding glass doors of the emergency room. Somehow on the drive, I managed to call Rob. When I told him the news, he immediately left the golf tournament he was playing in and headed straight for Tampa General.

  Once inside the hospital, I looked for the first person who seemed to work there and cried out, “My brother . . . John Weber . . . I got a call . . . is he here? He has to be here!”

  “Miss, you need to calm down now. Take three deep breaths. There you go.” The emergency room administrator turned to the man next to her and whispered something. “James will take you to your family now, Miss Weber. Follow him.”

  I started to cry then for the first time, hot tears flowing down my cheeks and dripping off my chin onto the hospital floor. Deliriously, I asked James how my brother could possibly be shot when he was laughing with his friends only a few hours ago. It wasn’t right. It couldn’t possibly be right. There had to be some mistake, the wrong kid or something. Didn’t things like that ever happen? I thought I saw a movie once where it did. I was led into a tiny, dark room where my dad was hunched over a table, crying. I had never seen my dad cry before. I wondered how my mom was doing, 2,000 miles away.

  “Jennifer. Oh, Jennifer,” my dad cried, beating his fist on his thigh. “He’s going to die. John is going to die.”

  The seconds, minutes, and hours that followed were all a blur but would leave jagged, sharp memories for years to come. My hand on my father’s leg as he shook in pain, trying to be strong for me. Feeling my own legs buckle as I entered John’s room in Intensive Care. Covering my mouth to control my screaming as Rob caught me in his arms.

  We sat numbly all night in the waiting room as my mom made her way across the country, with two unavoidable layovers. In the end, John held on for eight hours after the shot. He was in no pain and never even heard the bang of the gun, since bullets travel faster than the speed of sound. As the heart monitor beeped to zero around 12:30 a.m., I put my hands on John’s heart and felt his spirit leave. A chaplain came in and said Psalm 23 as I kissed my little brother’s cold cheek good-bye.

  I couldn’t believe this was it. When we were growing up, we fought constantly. I was always the “good kid” with the good grades and gentle demeanor; John was the one who got busted throwing the wild parties, staying out too late, and speeding on the interstate. He lived life on the edge and got his thrills from pushing every limit set before him. He had a temper like no other, but at heart he was a good person. He had a soft spot for animals and the beach, often dragging his old surfboard across the street from our house to the ocean before the sun even started to rise in the sky. He would come home a few hours later, sandy and wet, and get ready to head to school, tracking sand into the shower and my car. A few summers earlier he had attempted to teach me how to surf, and while I caught a few waves, I was nowhere near as coordinated or stable on the board as he was.

  The last thing I ever baked for John was banana bread. I poignantly remember him asking me if it was “normal” banana bread, meaning that most of the baked goods I made were too healthy for his liking. I lied and said yes, even though it was one hundred percent whole wheat and contained far less oil than the norm. John dug in as soon as the bread was done, not waiting for it to cool like I told him to. I joined him and we both cut thick slabs of the hot bread and burned our mouths together. After finishing his slice, John looked over at me and said, “Well, I guess it’s good.” My heart soared at that moment—I was so happy he’d enjoyed something I made. By the end of the night, the loaf of banana bread was gone.

  My Brother’s Favorite Banana Bread

  Makes 1 loaf

  Sliced and topped with honey, peanut butter, or raspberry jam, this sweet bread makes the best snack. Be sure to use only the ripest bananas here. You can ripen bananas quickly by storing them in a brown paper bag for a few days. And, you can keep any extra “black” bananas in the freezer for a few months.

  3 large ripe bananas

  ½ cup organic cane sugar

  ¼ cup canola oil or melted coconut oil

  2 tablespoons molasses

  2 cups whole-wheat flour

  1 teaspoon baking soda

  1½ teaspoons cinnamon

  1 teaspoon sea salt

  Preheat the oven to 350°F. Spray a loaf pan with cooking spray.

  Peel bananas and mash thoroughly in a medium-size bowl. Add sugar, oil, and molasses and stir well.

  In a separate bowl, sift together dry ingredients, then gently fold into banana mixture. Pour into the prepared loaf pan and bake until golden brown, about 40 minutes.

  Transfer loaf pan to a rack to cool for 15 minutes, then invert loaf onto rack.

  18

  JOHN’S GONE

  GOING HOME AFTER LEAVING THE HOSPITAL SEEMED surreal. How were we supposed to return to the dirty laundry and dishes in the sink like nothing ever happened? All I could do was focus on breathing, and even that felt labored and painful. I walked in the door, tossed my keys on the counter, and saw my empty plate with a few scraps of chicken on it from earlier that day lying in the sink. A few hours seemed like years. My throat felt swollen and my eyes burned from crying and exhaustion. Not knowing what to do next, despite the fact that it was nearly 2 a.m., I pulled out turkey from the fridge and made a sandwich on the sourdough bread I had baked the previous morning at work. Then, my dad’s cell phone rang.

  I spent the next two hours curled up in the wicker chair next to him as he spoke to the organ donation company that was about to harvest all of my little brother’s organs. None of us could ever forget how he insisted on becoming an organ donor the day he got his driver’s license. “Everybody’s doing it at school!” he’d said, checking the box on the registration form.

  As I absorbed the reality of John’s death, it was hard not to feel cheated. Wasn’t I, the older sister, supposed to die first? Wasn’t that the natural order of the universe? I was an only child now, and John would never be there to take part in my wedding, be an uncle to my future kids, or help me take care of Mom and Dad when they grew old. Nothing about this made any sense. Our lives were never meant to be this way, I kept thinking.

  When my mom finally walked through the front door at eight o’clock the next morning, she somehow looked as if she had lost ten pounds in one day. Her eyes were bright red and puffy, and she held a weak arm out for my father to support. I had made a fresh pot of coffee and poured her a steaming cup as my dad led her gently toward the couch.

&nb
sp; “John’s gone?” she mumbled, almost to herself. “Can I still see him? I need to say good-bye to my son!” My mom started wailing as only a mother who has just lost her child can do.

  Somehow, I’d managed to get about an hour’s worth of sleep the night before; I was still running on adrenaline despite the fact that I had been awake for nearly the past forty hours. I called John’s high school principal to tell him the news. He answered the phone wearily, as if he had been up all night and expecting the call. When I told him, I could hear him start to cry, and he said he would come over to our house later with some food. Family began to arrive quickly, and I reunited with aunts, uncles, and cousins I hadn’t seen in years. Our home was also filled with my brother’s friends, mostly high school seniors, who sprawled out on our living room floor as they silently petted Mikan, my brother’s dog, over and over.

  I didn’t cry much until the night after John’s funeral. I was lying on Rob’s couch, trying to numb my brain with an Oprah rerun, and suddenly tears started to stream down my cheeks.

  “Jenna?” Rob called from the kitchen. “Do you want to go out for frozen yogurt or something?”

  At that point, I was crying too hard to even form a sentence, and as he rushed to my side, I picked up my purse from the ground next to me and chucked it straight at the living room wall. The contents of the bag flew out and scattered on the floor while I sat sobbing, unable to move to pick anything up.

  Not really knowing how to deal with me, Rob picked up my purse and gently led me down to the car and back to my parents’ house, where I lay down in the dirt next to John’s car and wailed. I wailed that his life had been cut so short, that we constantly fought when we were on earth together, that I wasn’t there for him on the day he died. My mom and aunt held me as I sobbed, and when I was all cried out, the one thought that streamed through my mind over and over was that I couldn’t go back to my middle-of-the-night baking job. I just couldn’t go back. I didn’t know why the thought was so strong, but it overtook me completely. For some time I had been feeling like something just had to give, and now it was giving. Big time.

  So, the next morning, I called my boss and told him that due to the circumstances, I would not be returning. He was kind, of course, due to the circumstances. He also told me I was too valuable a worker to just let go, so for the next thirty days I would remain on payroll but not on the schedule. After a month, I could decide if I really wanted to quit or not. I told him this was completely unnecessary, that my mind was made up and I was incredibly sorry to put them in a bind. The idea of going back to work there was enough to make me scream; just the thought of the bakery sent my heart into panic mode.

  The next few days after the funeral passed quickly, a hustle and bustle of airport trips, neighbors stopping by, and casseroles lining up centimeters apart on our kitchen counter. Most extended family had left the day after the service; only my aunt, my mother’s sister, had remained to help out for a week. Though I finally had let go and cried, I still felt a hard ball of pain and anger in my chest that threatened to explode at any moment.

  When it did, I was sitting on the couch with my mom and my aunt late in the afternoon. Rob and my dad were talking about hedge funds, and the news was droning softly on TV. My aunt was talking to my mom and me about how my twenty-something cousin had matured into such a great guy, and I laughed and said, “Well, I’m sure he’s had his fair share of drinks and parties, too.”

  My aunt didn’t smile but just turned to face me. “Nope. I would know. James never has touched marijuana before. He’s a good guy.”

  “Are you telling me that my brother wasn’t a good guy?” I asked, my face getting red and my heart starting to pound into my ears. Normally, I would never have started a conversation like this, but something in me just felt dark.

  “Jennifer. I’m not saying Johnny wasn’t a good guy. He was my godson, for crying out loud. I’m just saying my own son has never smoked pot before.”

  Something in me broke loose. “I know EXACTLY what you’re saying. You’re saying that your son was better than my brother and now my brother is dead. He is dead!” I started crying, getting madder and madder. “You know what, I hate you. I do. You’re self-righteous and claim to live this perfect life with your perfect son who never does anything wrong. I hate you, I hate you, I HATE YOU!” I screamed.

  I had no idea who I was in that moment. I ran out the door and slammed it. All I could hear now on the inside of the house was my mother wailing and my aunt sobbing. Had I done this? Had I just said such horrible, horrible things? I felt empty and alone. My brother was dead, I’d quit my job impulsively, and now I had just told my aunt that I hated her. Hated her. I’d never even thought such a thing before. She was my aunt, my mom’s only sister—the same aunt who had changed my diapers, watched me grow up, and flown out from Wisconsin to watch me graduate from culinary school only a few months before. Too stubborn to go back inside, I sat at the end of our cobblestone driveway in the heat and dropped my head into my hands.

  Where in the world was I supposed to go from here?

  19

  THE NEW NORMAL

  WE FILLED THE NEXT FEW WEEKS WITH ERRANDS; I DIDN’T want my mom to be by herself, and knew I had to keep myself busy to make it through. My aunt had left a few days after my outburst, and I had never apologized; instead I hid at Rob’s house for the remainder of her stay. I was ashamed of my behavior, of course, but making things right with her had felt way too overwhelming. Living hour by hour was about all I could handle.

  Physical activity became an outlet for my grief, but not in the way I would have expected. For the first time in my life, yoga scared me. Being vulnerable and open to discomfort in the way that yoga demands felt like it could suck the life out of me. The one time I attempted to go to my favorite Thursday-morning class, I almost had a panic attack and had to walk out while all the other students were sweating in triangles and plank poses. Instead, I took over John’s elite membership at the health club down the street—the health club he often went to, after getting high with his friends, to sit in the steam room for hours on end. My dad had handed me John’s membership card and told me it was mine now.

  The first time I walked in the club to work out, I handed the cute brunette behind the front desk my brother’s tattered card and she didn’t understand.

  “John Taylor Weber,” she read aloud while smacking gum between her lips.

  “Yeah . . . that’s my brother,” I said, not sure if I could say any more because my voice had started to give out and I felt a ball of emotion welling inside.

  “Okay . . . if you are going to use his card I’m going to have to get you to fill out this form please. Is he out of town?” Smack, smack, smack went her pink gum. I grimaced.

  “Well, actually he passed away last week.” The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them, and bubble-gum girl just stared at me.

  “HE DIED?!” she asked, her voice rising in alarm, and I glanced around and caught several members now looking our way.

  “Yes. It was pretty sudden. Did you know him?” I could now feel tears welling in my eyes and gritted my teeth to halt them.

  “Oh my God, of course I did! He was a little hellion . . . always came in with that David kid. I’m so, so, so sorry!” Now she looked like she was about to cry, and I wasn’t sure if I should reach out to her, get my card back, or just turn around and run. “Well, of course you can use his membership. Don’t worry about anything at all, sweetie. Is there anything else I can do?”

  “Thank you . . . no. Thanks so much for your help.” I desperately just wanted to grab my card and get out of there at this point. She gave me a sympathetic look and I pushed my way through the entrance into the women’s locker room, card clutched in my sweaty palm.

  Spinning class took the place of yoga as my primary mode of exercise, and I came to crave that dark room where I could just go and block everything out. On the bike, no one knew my brother or me, so I could escape t
he “I’m-so-sorry-for-you” looks that I got so often from friends. I felt best in the dark, with beads of salty sweat dripping from my brow. At night I would nurse my sore muscles with hot showers and massage, cooking comforting meals that required just enough effort to take my mind off things for half an hour while I mixed, beat, and blended.

  Despite it all, normal patterns began to return to our lives, slowly but surely. As my parents went back to their jobs and Rob began to finally feel comfortable leaving me at home by myself, I tried my hardest to just keep going. Writing heartfelt blog posts and responding to emails became a new routine that helped keep me grounded, and I was blown away by the outpouring of love and support by my readers. Care packages from foreign countries began to come to the door, as did book-length emails from girls telling me how much they admired my strength throughout the ordeal.

  Numerous people—readers, and friends—asked if I would consider taking some sort of antidepressant to ease the trauma of the previous month, but I always refused. In college, I had gone through a brief period of depression (or what was diagnosed as depression) and had resorted to one of these medications for a year. Instead of helping me cope, it had merely numbed my brain and left me feeling strange and plasticlike. Now I wanted to feel things, to really feel them for all they were, even if there was some pain, so instead of pills I just focused on staying busy. I threw myself into freelance writing, planning for a bloggers’ conference, spinning, and cooking.

  On the outside, I maintained the sunny disposition that I’m widely known for online; I kept on a big smile and laughed at all the right moments. On the inside, though, it felt like pieces were breaking off my heart, one crumb at a time. I’ve never been one to really express my feelings; whenever anyone asked me how I was doing, I just answered that I was fine, fine. Throughout my life I’ve always taken on a protector mode in times of trouble, and I told myself I had to keep it together for my family.