We Are Not Like Them
Page 21
“All I’m saying is, don’t take your friendship for granted. You have something special, and a whole lotta history. That counts for something. I would hate for y’all to have to wait for something awful to happen to find each other again and then be sick to death at all the time you’ve wasted. And anyway, something awful already happened. Gigi died. And for anything that can be said about Jenny, that girl loved Gigi like her own grandma, and it’s awful to think of her up there grieving all alone without a soul to talk to about her. And you need to talk too.”
I do. I want to talk to Jenny. I want to call her up right now and say, “I don’t know what to do with Gigi gone, Pony. I’ve never felt a loss like this. I don’t know how to live in the world without her.” I want her to say, “We’ll figure it out, Puff. We’ll never stop talking about her.” I don’t know why I keep pulling out our old nicknames now. Pony and Puff. It’s like I’m clinging to the strands that connected Jenny and me so long ago in the hopes that they’ll be enough. It’s almost 1 a.m. though, I can’t call her now.
I point this out to Momma.
“Darn, I didn’t realize it was that late. We gotta get to bed. But you call her tomorrow, then. Call her when you wake up. Don’t make excuses. You always keep everything so bottled up, Riley. I swear that’s why you had so much constipation as a child. So much so Dr. Lexington told me you needed a therapist more than a laxative. I told him you needed Jesus, but heaven help me, you put up a wall with even Jesus. Always all up in your head trying to reason everything to death. Sometimes you can’t think your way out of a thing. You have to feel it. And sometimes you just have to let it out. You can’t just push it away and pretend it’s not happening. Like with you and Jenny. Who knows what happens with you two from here? I’d like to think y’all find a way through this. I don’t know how that happens. I’m struggling myself. When I think of Kevin pulling that trigger…” She stops and shakes her head. “But I also believe that he gets a chance to explain himself, Jenny too. Bad things have always happened in the world, especially to our folks, but we can’t shut down every time they do. No choice but to keep pushing forward. It’s the same for you and Jenny—you gotta talk and see where you go from here. See that she understands your pain and why. But one thing’s for sure, just shutting down and shutting her out ain’t going to accomplish one thing, ’cept leave you all stopped up.”
Mortifying constipation references aside, I know there’s truth to what Momma says.
She yawns so wide I can see the pink flesh at the back of her throat.
“Get my night stuff, would you?”
I go to her small suitcase and retrieve the same floral silk scarf Momma’s been wrapping her hair with since before I was alive and her giant jar of Noxzema. I stand behind her and wind the threadbare scarf around her soft curls, trying not to notice the thin patches. She opens the Noxzema jar, takes a big scoop, and rubs it all over her face. The smell of it, the way it burns the inside of my nose, will forever remind me of my mother.
“I miss her.” It just comes out of me. I’m not sure if I mean Jenny or Gigi, but the ache is strong enough to cover them both.
Momma sighs and touches my cheek, the warmth of the fire in her hand.
“I do too, baby girl. She loved you something fierce, and I do too.” She leans over and kisses the top of my head.
It’s only when I can hear her slippers shuffling down the hall that I realize I didn’t get to tell her about my visit to the memorial. I sit back in the chair and listen to the quiet hum around me, Daddy’s snores, the crackle of the fire. There’s a stillness and a peace inside me all of a sudden. If only I could bottle this feeling. That reminds me. The promise I made at the museum. The dirt, the tribute. Fueled by moonshine, sugar, and grief, I root around in the musty cabinets, searching for a jam jar.
A near full moon casts a glow across the yard, lighting my way as I walk barefoot to a spot near the tree line. The air smells different down here than in Philly—muskier, earthier, like burnt embers and riverbeds. I squat and dig into the earth, scooping the rocky dirt into the jar, letting it coat my palms and gather beneath my fingernails. A few specks dot the pearl bracelet, catch in its clasp. I dig and dig. I won’t go back inside until the jar is full.
Chapter Ten JEN
December 22 6:07 pm
From: jaybird2002@yahoo.com
To: rwilson@gmail.com
Riley:
This doesn’t seem right for text. It’s weird on email too, but I’ve been trying to call you all week and keep getting voice mail. It’s like the only way I know about your life right now is by stalking Shaun’s Instagram.
I’m sorry and so, so sad about Gigi. I still can’t believe she’s gone. I also can’t believe I didn’t get to say goodbye. I kept meaning to go to the hospital to see her, but then… everything. But I really don’t understand why you didn’t call me. It feels like you’re pushing me away. Maybe you’re not, but that’s how it feels. And that hurts, because Gigi was a grandma to me too, you know. I mean, not like with the rest of you, I get there’s a difference, but she was the closest thing I had to one, and you of all people know how much I loved that woman. I really wanted to be there for the service. I looked at plane tickets. I mean, even if you didn’t want me there, I wanted to come and pay my respects, but they were too pricey. How was it? Please tell me you buried her in the purple hat. I remember her saying she was going to wear that hat one day when she shook hands with President Obama and then she did when he came to church that time. Talk about the tingles. God, I already miss her so much.
But you know who else I miss? You, Riley. I miss YOU. I’m sorry for all the reasons you’re upset or anything I did to upset you.
xJ
PS: I made miracle bread. It wasn’t as good as Gigi’s. I can’t believe we’ll never have her miracle bread again.
December 23 7:13 am
From: rwilson@gmail.com
To: jaybird2002@yahoo.com
Jenny, I did call you about Gigi! I called you from the hospital that night, at least five times, and your phone must have been off. I wanted to talk to you, to hear your voice, and I didn’t want to tell you in a message either. And then after that, it was just so hectic between the funeral and work and the holidays. It’s not right, though. I’m sorry. I’m devastated about Gigi too. I keep accidentally turning to drive to the hospital… and then I remember she’s gone. The funeral was nice, hard, beautiful, and terrible, all of the things funerals are. And yes, we buried her in the purple hat and her favorite dress, the one with the giant lilacs all over it. One of the last things she said to me was, Make sure I look nice, ya hear. I want to look fine when I meet Jesus. And she did. She looked… peaceful. I got to be right there when she passed on, holding her hand. I swear she had a smile on her face. Like she and Jesus already had an inside joke. It made it easier to know she was ready to go. She even said it a few times that last week, I’m ready to get on outta here to the other side. It’s just that we weren’t ready… we were never going to be ready.
Anyway, even though we haven’t talked as much lately, I have been thinking and worrying about you, Jen. I swear. I’m sorry if that hasn’t come across. Because I do realize how stressful it’s been. For you, and for me too. It’s hitting so close to home. I don’t know how to explain it, because I didn’t know Justin or the Dwyers, but his death hit me like the death of a family member. Because it could have been a member of my family, Jenny. It could have been Shaun.
This is all so hard… and weird. It’s not easy for me to cover this story, to be objective when you’re involved and to see the story from all sides, but I’m trying my best.
I have something for you… from Gigi. Let me know when we can meet up so I can give it to you.
December 24 12:48 pm
From: jaybird2002@yahoo.com
To: rwilson@gmail.com
I remember now, I had my phone turned off the night that Gigi died. I’d gone to my place (did I even tell you that K
evin and I moved in with Cookie and Frank since the media is hounding us?) and there was a bag of shit on my doorstep and someone had spray-painted MURDERER across our fence. So I was a wreck and just wanted to shut out the world. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I wish you could see all the hate mail we’ve been getting. The awful trolls on social media. Have you seen what they say about us?? I mean, the first 400 or so times you’re called a racist cunt, it hurts, and then it’s like blah blah blah.
But anyway, Riley, what do you mean by sides? And if there are sides, shouldn’t you be on mine?
I feel terrible for what happened. God, I feel so bad. I was at the funeral, you know. I know you know, because you saw me there. It was important for me to pay my respects, because I’m heartbroken too. For Justin’s mom, that poor, poor woman. But also for Kevin. He didn’t mean for this to happen—you know that, Riley. You know that.
This morning I was up before everyone and I found Cookie making Christmas bread. Before I knew what was happening she was all hugging me and crying and saying how we need to make sure this is the perfect Christmas because it could be Kevin’s last holiday with us for a while. She was such a wreck, I felt like shit about every nasty thought I’d ever had about Cookie. I don’t know who I’m more worried about actually, her or Kevin… or us?
December 25 12:12 am
From: rwilson@gmail.com
To: jaybird2002@yahoo.com
Don’t worry about us, Jenny. We’ll talk. Soon.
I’m sorry you’re getting so many nasty notes online. It sucks. Believe me I know what it’s like. Every single day I get comments on the news station website about my awful bangs, and how I shouldn’t wear red or purple or blue. But worse is when they call me an ugly ape or say I should take my big lips back to Africa.
It’s nothing new though. I was just going through some old yearbooks earlier. Momma thrust a box of stuff in my face and told me I might as well get started on going through whatever I still have here. They’re preparing to put the house on the market, so I guess tomorrow will be our last Christmas there house. It’s strange to already feel nostalgic for something that isn’t quite gone yet. But I am.
Anyway, I started reading all the things people wrote to me senior year. You took up the entire back cover! And then there was a note from Ryan DiNucci. Remember him? He had that stupid Backstreet Boys haircut. He wrote, “Good luck in college. You’re gonna be famous someday.” Which was crazy because back in seventh grade he left a note in my locker saying “you think you’re so great you niger.”
Which is my point: people are always going to say shit and you just have to deal with it. Hang in there. And try to have a happy Christmas, okay?
Actually, I just realized it’s past midnight; it’s already Christmas. Remember how we always used to say that at sleepovers? We stayed up until tomorrow. Merry Christmas, Jenny.
xR
December 25 3:02 pm
From: jaybird2002@yahoo.com
To: rwilson@gmail.com
I’m trying to have a happy Christmas over here, which means for right now hiding in the basement with the kids and just getting a moment to myself. There’s too many people in this house. All the aunts and uncles and cousins down from Scranton. Kevin’s family breeds like horny rabbits. Lou’s here too and got so drunk last night on eggnog that she told Cookie her hair looked like a lampshade. Things were still chilly this morning as we opened presents, but then Lou gave Cookie a tea towel with Dolly Parton’s face on it and then Cookie actually hugged her. I never thought I’d see the day. I felt so dumb giving Kevin the stupid scrapbook I made him since I couldn’t afford a real gift, but I think he loved it. Then Matt gave him a real nice leather wallet with his initials on it and the words “we bleed blue” and Kevin shut down for the rest of the morning.
Why didn’t you tell me about Ryan DiNucci when it happened? I would have punched him right in his fat face for you. And why didn’t you tell me about getting called names online? I tell you absolutely everything about my life. I don’t understand why you would keep stuff like that from me.
Getting together sounds great. Maybe next week, when it would have been my shower? Which is canceled, by the way. I think Cookie was going to call, but I guess that’s obvious. It wouldn’t be right. I’m disappointed, but I’m so excited to meet him soon, Riley. You have no idea.
December 25 4:12 pm
From: rwilson@gmail.com
To: jaybird2002@yahoo.com
Wait. HIM??? It’s a boy?!
December 25 8:20 pm
From: jaybird2002@yahoo.com
To: rwilson@gmail.com
Oh shit—whoops! Yeah, it’s a boy. I’m not telling anyone. Maybe it’s stupid, but it’s nice to have a secret. Something that’s only mine. Even Kevin doesn’t know. Don’t say anything to anyone.
Things will be better soon. I have to believe that. They’re going to complete the investigation and clear Kevin. It was a terrible tragedy, but he was strictly following his training and protocol. All our lives can go back to normal. You can come over to have dinner with Kevin and me and all this will be behind us.
December 26 11:20 pm
From: rwilson@gmail.com
To: jaybird2002@yahoo.com
Back to normal? Jesus, Jenny, an innocent boy is dead. And Kevin and Travis Cameron get to go on with their lives like nothing happened? I don’t know how I can sit down with your husband and eat burgers and act like everything’s a-okay. It’s so not okay. And the fact that you don’t get that…
Chapter Eleven RILEY
That last email to Jen has sat, unsent, in my drafts folder for days. It’s begging to be sent. So are the other ten emails I’ve drafted to her since then, some long rants, some heartfelt, one that was just a sentence: What the hell, Jenny?
But each time I go to press send, I stop myself. I tell myself it’s because an email is a cop-out. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to escalate things. I tell myself it’s because I don’t have time right now to deal with the fallout and it’s easier just to tiptoe. I tell myself I’m being generous in giving her space right now. I tell myself I can just wait and bide my time and all this will go away, somehow things will go back to the way they were or some version of it. Of all these excuses, this last one is the biggest lie. Things can’t go back to the way they were, because I’m too upset. That last message, Jen’s optimistic attitude, like she and Kevin can just put a dead kid behind them and move on, broke something in me. I mean, I get it, of course she doesn’t want her husband to go to prison; she wants her life to return to normal. I want these things for her too. Or I should want them. I want to want them. There’s a part of me though, deep and primal, that keeps returning to the fact that an innocent kid died. It may all be a tragic accident, but there need to be consequences. Wasn’t that one of our earliest lessons at Sunshine Kids? Fairness. Or the blunter version that was drilled into me at Sunday school: an eye for an eye. Someone should pay. Kevin should pay. My breath catches on the betrayal.
But Kevin won’t pay. Likely no one will pay. The facts are right there in front of me on my screen, when I close my email drafts folder. I’ve been working on background research for my story tonight, gathering statistics on cop indictments and convictions. They’re startling and confirm a truth we’ve all seen borne out: cops are almost never charged or convicted for shootings on the job. There’s always a defense, rationale, justification, wall of loyalty, or legal technicality to hide behind. There’s always something. The stat I chose for my story tonight highlights this: Since 2005, 110 police officers have been charged with manslaughter or murder for an on-the-job shooting; only forty-two were convicted, often for lesser charges, the proverbial slap on the wrist. The coils in my stomach wind tighter as I shoot that text over to the graphics department to appear on-screen in my package for tonight’s broadcast.
My work phone rings just as I’m trying to decide if I have time to escape my emails, my research, my feelings and run down to
the vending machine before the afternoon news meeting. A bag of Cheetos I don’t need is calling my name. No one ever calls my work phone, just my cell; only like three people even have the number. So somehow I know it’s Gaby before I even pick up, and also that she’s going to be annoyed with me.
“I figured I could finally catch you at work. I mean, damn. What’s a girl gotta do to get a call back? I’ve been blowing up your phone.”
“I know, sorry. It’s just been crazy, Gabs.”
There’s something about just hearing her voice that makes me want to break down. I haven’t spoken to her since right before Gigi’s funeral. She was away on a family cruise for the holidays and I didn’t want to bother her with my shit as she circled distant islands most people won’t ever see.
“How are you? How were the holidays? You got my flowers?”