Turtle Boy

by M. Evan Wolkenstein

  Everything looks different from up here.

  It’s June 14, and I’m up on the bimah. I’m only a few solid steps up from the rest of the synagogue sanctuary, but it feels different with a sea of faces before me.

  I’m not running the entire prayer service like Shirah and Max did. Mom and I made that agreement with Rabbi Harris, and it wasn’t one of her red-inked “let Will off the hook” things. I have focused on school and memorizing my Torah portion and writing my speech. That was all I could handle, and Rabbi Harris understood. When I think about it, I’ve come to understand aspects of the values and kindness of Judaism I never knew. I’m not religious, but I do feel more connected.

  Everyone sings as Rabbi Harris opens the doors of the Ark, and he hands me the Torah scroll. It’s heavy, like the weight of a small child, and I grip it to my chest as I follow him down into the aisle between the rows of seats.

  As we walk, people lean in to touch the Torah with their prayer books, kissing the covers as if the brief contact left a sacred residue. I work up the nerve to look the guests in the eyes. Many are older men and women who come to temple every week. Then, as we reach the back of the room, I see newer faces: a few of the kids from Thestrals, my grief counseling group. They aren’t Jewish, but they smile and look fascinated and happy for me. I wish I could explain what’s going on. I make a mental note to sit with them at lunch and answer any questions.

  As I round the corner, I see Roxanne and Denise. Denise is singing the Hebrew along with everyone else. Funny; I didn’t realize she was Jewish.

  Continuing along the back row, I’m face to face with every kid from Hebrew school—even the ones whose Bar and Bat Mitzvahs I skipped because I was too sorry for myself, too angry, too sad for celebrations. They seem so happy for me.

  Nearing the front row, I spot two faces: Gwen and Ms. Kuper. Instead of her usual overalls, Gwen is wearing a dress. She’s even wearing makeup. Ms. Kuper is in a cool suit. They both flash me an expression of excitement, as if they’re accompanying me to a ship that’s about to set sail.

  The final three faces I see before I return to the bimah are Max, Shirah, and Mom, and their faces blur together as my eyes inexplicably fill with tears. I can just make out their beaming smiles.

  This blur continues as the Torah is unwrapped from its velvet cover, and soon the blessing has been recited and the silver pointer is in my hand. The Hebrew on the parchment froths in front of me, and I lower the silver tip to the first black, glossy letter to anchor it in place.

  I begin to chant.

  As my hand moves across the Torah, the melody unspools from my lips, long ropes of Hebrew connecting verse to verse, millennium to millennium. Once I’m finished, Rabbi Harris rolls the Torah scroll and we dress it in its velvet cover. Before he steps to the side to let me give my speech, he rests his hand on my shoulder and looks me in the eye.

  “Go get ’em,” he whispers.

  I clear my throat.

  “At the start of my Torah portion, the Israelites have already crossed the hot and deadly Sinai Desert,” I begin, my voice shockingly loud. I move my face back from the microphone and continue, scanning my printed speech for the next line. “They stand at the border of the Promised Land. Not long ago, they were slaves in Egypt, dreaming about a future home where they could be safe, where they could be free. That dream could come true, just steps away. They dispatch scouts to determine what sorts of dangers might lie ahead.

  “At first, the scouts present a realistic report. There will be struggles, for sure, but the Promised Land is a good land, and it will provide for all their needs. But then things turn sour. The moment the scouts’ leader says the time has come for the Israelites to enter the Land, the rest of the scouts change their tune: they say the Land eats people alive. It’s full of giants.

  “The entire nation panics and revolts. They would rather return to slavery in Egypt than face the dangers ahead. The story ends in tragedy, with many lives needlessly lost.

  “The first time I read this, I thought it was ridiculous. I thought: There’s no such thing as giants. There’s no such thing as the ground opening up and eating people alive. There’s no such thing as monsters.

  “But in the months that followed, I began to realize that I’d been incorrect. There are many monsters. The question is not whether they exist. The questions are Where do the monsters live? And how will you handle them?

  “I’ll come back to this later.”

  I take a deep breath. I’m swimming into deeper waters.

  “I’ve been trying to open up about my friend RJ.”

  The second I say his name, I feel an ache develop in my throat. It’s a bit like the ache that comes before crying, but it’s tighter. Many of the people in the room know about RJ. I can feel everyone lean toward me like a slow-motion wave.

  “RJ was an incredibly special person,” I say, forcing out the words. “Our friendship only lasted four months, but he changed me forever, mainly having to do with how I’ve learned to think. And this came by watching how he lived his life. See, RJ had a lot to be scared and angry about. He was suffering from an illness that was stealing his future. It kept him locked up in a very small world: just a hospital room and the occasional trip to the cafeteria.

  “And yet RJ constantly searched for new ways to send his mind and imagination outward. To widen the circle of his life. First by getting a pet. Then by going to a punk rock show. And a school dance. And on a roller coaster. There were plenty of times when RJ was sad and angry, but he never gave up his hunger for every taste out there in the world.

  “For months, I couldn’t understand this, but he asked me to help him. And I did. Each of those little adventures was terrifying, and it never got any easier. I couldn’t understand what made RJ want to explore every mountain, every valley of the unknown.

  “When I met RJ, I’d been having an awful time dealing with kids at school, and then I got scary news about my own health. The way I handled it was to close up into a shell. I wouldn’t try new things. I kept to myself. I pushed people away. I shut them out. Everywhere I looked, there was danger—monstrous giants. I couldn’t escape them. I couldn’t hide from them. Everywhere I went, they were already there, waiting for me.

  “Here’s the moment things changed: I was playing drums in front of the whole school at Prairie Marsh’s talent show. Me. Alone onstage. RJ pushed me to do it. He was relentless. I agreed, as long as I was wearing a mask. Well, mid-performance, the mask got loose, and it began to fall. I had to make a choice: save the mask or save the music. I let the mask fall, and I kept the beat, and I did this—as my friend Shirah always says—come what may.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Max gently punch Shirah’s arm, and a giant smile blooms on Shirah’s face.

  “The moment the mask fell,” I continue, “is when all the monsters became visible to me…as if a new light shone on them. I finally understood where they lived.”

  I pause and tap my right temple with my pointer finger.

  “Inside my shell,” I say. “Right here in my mind. The monsters were inescapable because I’d created them myself. And they seemed like giants only because they were so close to my eyes. Like the spies in my Torah portion, who saw themselves as grasshoppers, I thought I was no match for my monsters. But once I tried stepping outside of my shell—just long enough to get on a roller coaster with my friend Max—I found that the monsters weren’t as big as I’d thought they were. It’s like it says on a car side mirror: Monsters in mirror are smaller than they appear.”

  A good-natured chuckle passes through the room, and following his shout-out, I see Shirah turn and smile at Max. He doesn’t smile back, though. His gaze is fixed on me, and for an instant, our eyes meet. I have the feeling that Max, someone I used to run and hide from, will be my friend forever.

  “I’ve pushed myself,” I say, glan
cing down at my speech. “In the past few months, I’ve gone to as many Bar Mitzvahs as I could, and I’ve gotten involved in Ms. Kuper’s new Wild Animal Rehabilitation program. I teach other kids how to care for injured reptiles. And I’ve been talking more in class and in the halls at school. But I’m not out of my shell completely, which is fine, since that’s not how growth works anyhow. Not all at once, but in stages and steps. And managing through sadness also isn’t going to happen all at once.”

  I pause and take a breath. The ache in my neck is tightening.

  “I know that mourning for RJ will take a long time,” I say, my voice suddenly a croak. “Rabbi Harris says losing a friend is like a blow to the heart. I know I can’t just bounce back. But I also know that I’m not alone. I have amazing people to help me, and that’s why I have to say thank you to so many of you here today.”

  My voice locks up. No air, no words. I’m suffocating. I’m choking up right in the middle of my Bar Mitzvah speech. The audience shifts, and I can feel everyone looking at me.

  I reach up to loosen my tie, and that’s when my fingers make contact with something under my collar: RJ’s shell necklace.

  It suddenly feels tight; so tight it’s constricting my oxygen flow. I fiddle with the clasp and loosen the loop.

  It’s not perfect, but it’s better. I take a few deep, slow breaths and finish my speech.

  “To start with,” I say tentatively, “Max and Shirah, you’re true, good friends. You each have gifts that I’ve tried to learn from. Max, you taught me the art of movement. Whenever I was stuck, you showed me how to run and leap and climb.

  “And, Shirah, you taught me how to make a fist, how to beat a ball across a net, even when you’re down ten points. If the heart is willing, you can climb up and fly out of any hole you’re in.

  “Ms. Kuper,” I go on, glancing at her, “you taught me to fight for what I believe in. Some of those fights are visible, and some are invisible. Some of those fights you only win once, and some you have to fight again and again and again. In the future, should anyone ever try to do something bad to the Back 40, I’ll be there, ready to fight.”

  I see Ms. Kuper make a subtle fist, a show of solidarity.

  “Gwen,” I continue, “besides helping me with this speech, you taught me that it’s never a bad idea to risk loving someone. You also taught me that there are always people who know more than you do, even about the subjects where you already know everything.”

  There’s a little jolt of laughter in the room, even though only she and I know what I’m talking about. I see her dab at her eyes with the tips of her pinkies, and Ms. Kuper hands her a tissue.

  “Rabbi Harris,” I say, looking behind me to where he’s sitting in the big chair at the back of the bimah. “If RJ was the one who pushed me into the water, you’re the one who led me to the shore. I didn’t like what you were up to early on, but now I see that you had a sense of what I needed from the beginning. I’m lucky to have you in my life.”

  I pause and realize something. My speech is almost over. That means the whole thing is almost over: the speech, the Bar Mitzvah, the year leading up. The waiting, the stress, the nightmares, the wondering. It’s all about to become a memory. But there are two more people to thank, and I’m swimming deep. Only the vast, deep blue below.

  “Dad,” I say, and stop. I touch my throat. Amazingly, there is no fear. Instead, there is an ocean of warmth and compassion and concern before me, keeping me afloat. “I used to be sad when I thought about you, but now I feel different. I feel connected, knowing how happy you’d be for me. Thank you—I love you. I miss you.”

  “Mom,” I say. I look up, and there she is, looking at me, shining her smile at me, bright as a lighthouse. “You know me better than anyone in the world. And even when I tried as hard as I could to push you away, you never left my side. Your love was always stronger than my fear.”

  I thank everyone for coming, I shut my mouth, and everyone shouts “Mazel Tov!”

  It’s over.

  * * *

  • • •

  After the service, there is lunch: pastrami on rye bread. I sit at a big round table with Max on my left, Shirah and Gwen on my right. I eat and feel the squiggly feelings of relief and satisfaction. Across from me are a few of Shirah’s volleyball friends, and the kids from Thestrals. The group is named after the winged, skeletal horses from Harry Potter, creatures a person can only see if they’ve witnessed death. For a little while, though, we’re like everybody else. We laugh and talk, and every time I take a bite, I sneak a peek at the perfect C shape I’ve bitten into my sandwich—beautiful layers of pink, yellow, and white, nothing falling, nothing landing in my lap. The moment is perfect. Almost perfect. I can’t shake the feeling: something remains unfinished, and I can’t enter this new chapter of my life without completing it.

  I need to finish the last task.

  I need to swim in the ocean.

  It’s June 25. I’m in northwest Maui, in an area called Kapalua.

  Yes, Maui. I’m in Hawaii.

  On our first day, I put on the mask and went into the water—just wading out, waist-deep. I started to get anxious, so I stopped and went back to shore. Some old voice inside my head said, You’re done! It’s good enough! But I knew wading around and running for shore wasn’t what RJ meant by “swimming in the ocean.”

  The next day, I tried several times to go deeper. I was wearing RJ’s shell necklace, and whenever the water reached the necklace, I started breathing hard. I thrashed my way back to shore, disappointed in myself.

  Each day, Mom brought a book to the beach and sat under an umbrella. After failing to swim, I would sit with her. We ate sandwiches and drank iced tea. We’re not big talkers in general, but we’ve been working on that. We’ve been talking about fixing up the house. Maybe even moving to a new place in town. We’ve even talked about Dad, four or five times. Mom’s told me some stories I’ve never heard.

  I’ve also been spending time with RJ’s headphones on, listening to music and playing the practice pad. I gaze at the horizon. Sometimes it’s just deep, endless blue. Other times, the clouds stack up in these dramatic pillars. I’ve seen a few rainbows that stretch down to the water. They’re so impossibly beautiful that I don’t believe my own eyes. And yet, there they are.

  Still, I didn’t come all the way to Hawaii to practice drums or gaze at the scenery. I came to finish the bucket list.

  “It’s nearly time to go, Will,” says Mom. “We need to head back to the hotel and pack; it’s a long way to the airport.”

  “I’m going to try one more time,” I say.

  “Try what?” she says.

  “Swimming,” I say. I never did tell her about the bucket list. It always felt like something intensely personal, something private between RJ and me.

  I take off Dad’s hat and slide the snorkel and mask over my head.

  “Have fun,” Mom says, going back to her book.

  “Beep,” I say.

  “Beep,” she says.

  I head for the water. This time, I grip RJ’s necklace as the water reaches my neck, splashing my chin.

  I turn and see Mom at the shore. She’s blurry, but I see her waving.

  “It’s now or never, Will,” I say out loud.

  I crouch down in the water, put the snorkel into my mouth, and plunge my face through the surface. In front of me is dazzling color and motion—rocks, sand, and a handful of tiny fish glinting with the sun. Instantly, my breathing speeds up. This makes me panic a little, and I lift my face out of the water, my feet shuffling back to shore. I cough and sputter as salt water burns my mouth, nose, and throat.

  Then I remember how Roxanne showed me how to breathe when I was panicking, way back when I stepped through RJ’s door and he wasn’t there.

  One. Two. Three. Four.

 
Boom. Pack. Boom-boom pack. Boom. Pack. Boom-boom pack.

  Slow and steady goes the rhythm, and it isn’t long before the panic fades.

  I put my face back into the water. I fold my body into the lapping waves and crouch-walk deeper and deeper, and soon I’m floating. I’m not touching the bottom. I’m swimming in the ocean.

  As I swim deeper, I can see much farther without glasses than I can on land. Fish stream past, nipping one another’s tails, nibbling at the rocks. I find myself moving my limbs, awkwardly at first, and increasingly relaxed, trailing after them. I recognize some of the species from the pictures on RJ’s wall. Long, narrow white fish, delicate yellow fish with white stripes, and some bigger fish, with big mouths and tiny, sharp-looking teeth, chomping at the coral. They all move aside as I float past.

  I realize that I’m really far from shore. Maybe it’s dangerous. But when I lift my head, there’s a handful of other swimmers. I’m not the only one out here, even if I’m the only one in here.

  Soon I relax enough to let my mind drift. I try to think about RJ, how proud he would be of what I’m doing. I try to remember what he looked like and how he sounded—his face, his voice, his hospital room—but I can’t. It’s all so far away, I find that I can’t do anything out here but float and swim and breathe and see, and maybe that’s how RJ would want me to be.

  WHAT WAS THAT?

  A giant, terrifying shape moves past my peripheral vision. Some primitive, illogical part of my brain screams, SHARK! I’m going to be eaten alive! But it isn’t a shark at all.

  Chelonia mydas.

  It’s a giant green sea turtle.

  A scared sound comes out of my mouth. “Oh!” piped loud into my ears by the snorkel, but then it’s replaced by my own gentle breathing. One…two…three…four.

  The sea turtle floats past me lazily, slowly moving its fins with minimal effort, and yet loaded with some sort of quiet, ancient power. It looks at me. It’s not my imagination; it’s actually looking at me. I lift my head above the surface, almost to see if I’m dreaming, but I’m not. I return my face to the water, and the turtle is still here, with its brown and green plates and its big black eyes. It’s in no hurry.