I can’t wait until I’m old enough to drive myself around. I love cars as much as Sammy hates them. I try not to think of the accident, of course. When I see a car like Mom’s—one of those Subaru Outbacks that old people drive—I get a chill like it might be her, only shorter with white hair and glasses. But I understand that it wasn’t the car that killed her. It was her crazy fear of snakes.
That sounds strange. How could a snake cause a car accident? You’d think maybe she swerved into a tree trying to avoid a snake or something. But no. The snake was actually inside the car, and she freaked out when she saw it. Mom had a snake phobia.
A couple of years ago, when we visited Toronto, there was a picture of a snake on the subway. Mom saw it and ran to another car. She opened the doors while the train was moving and took off, screaming, while Dad sat there, embarrassed, trying to keep me and Sammy in our seats. Mom waved at us from the next car. She calmed down once she got away from the picture.
Phobias are serious things. I’m glad I don’t have any. Snakes creep me out, but I wouldn’t run off a moving subway train to get away from one. And I wouldn’t drive off a highway into a tree if there was one in my car. I’d just pull over and get out.
We don’t know how the snake got inside Mom’s car. The trunk was open for a while, but we live in the suburbs, not the jungle, and garter snakes don’t climb trees and dangle down through sunroofs. So it’s a mystery where it came from.
A garden spider once came in through the sunroof. It was the size of my fist, with thick legs and a big abdomen marked like a face. I didn’t notice it at first because it blended so well into the upholstery. Mom was buckling Sammy into his booster chair beside me when Sam said, “Hey look! It’s a spider.” I thought he might have seen a daddy longlegs or something normal-sized. But no. There was a spider on steroids stretched on the back of the driver’s seat, dead center, six inches from Sammy’s knee.
Mom nearly had a heart attack. At first she was like, “Oh yeah? Where’s the spider, honey?” I could tell she was expecting the kind of little spider you see every day. She looked where Sam pointed, and she nearly jumped a foot. She was all, “Okay. Oh my god. Look at the size of it. Okay.” She went to get something to catch it in, because she never killed spiders or any kind of bug. She asked if Sammy wanted to stay in his seat—because he was already buckled in and everything—and he said, “Sure!” like it was the greatest thing to be strapped down next to a giant spider. This is the kid terrified of Chihuahuas and Batman. I was out of the car by then. There’s no way I would stay in a car with a spider that size.
Mom came back with a jar. As soon as she held it up, the spider jumped to the bottom of the glass. It must have been a very cool and frightening sight from Sammy’s point of view. He would have seen the spider make a leap straight for him, then stop in midair when it hit the glass. Mom slid a piece of cardboard over the jar, and the spider started scrambling around looking for a way out. She called me over and said, “Listen.” I could hear the spider’s legs on the glass as it moved. Really fast clicks, tchicka-tchicka-tchick, like a horror movie.
Mom kept the sunroof closed after that, so that’s not how the snake got in the car. The day she died, she had just driven home with groceries before she went out again, so she might have left the trunk open while she carried in the bags. But I don’t think a snake climbed inside. Snakes are afraid of cars. I figure someone put the snake there on purpose. Maybe they knew Mom had a phobia and they wanted her to crash the car, and it wasn’t an accident at all. That’s what the police thought at first. But they gave up trying to figure out who did it. They ruled it an accident. I’m still looking for a better answer.
It’s hard to explain to people about Mom’s phobia. Everyone thinks, “Why did she ram her car into a tree?” And the answer, “Because there was a snake in the car and she spazzed out,” isn’t a good answer. Sometimes I tell people the car went out of control because of mechanical difficulties. But it didn’t. She just drove into a tree.
I’m afraid she’ll get a Darwin Award for this. There’s a group called the Darwin Society that gives awards to people who die doing stupid things. Their stupidity caused their death, so it’s like natural selection. Of course, the dead person isn’t around to accept the award—but who would want an award for being incredibly stupid?
For example, a school bus broke down during an animal-safari field trip. The bus was like a cage that kept the visitors safe while tigers and baboons roamed free outside it. The class had been warned to stay in their seats and not to leave the vehicle for any reason. But the driver went out to fix the bus anyway. The tigers killed him. They went straight for his throat. He won a Darwin Award because that’s a stupid way to die.
But I don’t think it’s all that stupid. Imagine being stuck in a bus full of noisy kids for god knows how long, listening to them fight and cry and sing, “I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves.” The driver would want to leave just to get away from them. I’m surprised he tried to fix the bus instead of just making a run for it.
But that’s the kind of thing you get a Darwin Award for. Driving into a tree because there’s a snake in your car would probably qualify.
My best friend Simpson went on an animal-safari trip with his family once. He said it was awesome. He said you’d have to be an idiot to get out of your car.
Simpson lives two streets over from me, but he’s moving in a few days. His dad moved out a long time ago, and his mom just found a new house for them. It’s in another subdivision, with its own junior high school. That’s a harsh blow, because Simpson has been my best friend since kindergarten. I have a lot of friends, but none as close as him. Even if he sucks at piercing, there’s no way I’d let any of my other friends even try to do my eyebrow. His new place is so far away it would take a very long time to bike there. Dad is so wrapped up in his time machine he’ll never drive me. So not only will Simpson be gone from my school, he’ll be gone from my whole life. That sucks.
At least school will be somewhere to go. I’m bored. If Mom were here, she’d drive us to sports camps and take us on camping weekends. Or she’d come home like it was a normal day, but then after dinner she’d walk into my room and say, “Hey, Josh, I bought you a new game that gets high user ratings.” Or she’d finish her work and ask, “Anyone want to play Clue?” which we played for Kit Kat sticks. Sammy always went on Mom’s team and gave away half her cards. Dad took it very seriously and hid his checklist under the table while he ticked off weapons. It was fun. Mom was a good person to have in the family because without her, we’re all just locked in our rooms trying to drum up strong feelings to write about.
I just heard hysterical mewing, so I peeked into Sammy’s room. He snuck into the storage cubby at the back of his closet and found his old baby clothes. He has them spread across his bed and he’s putting them on the cats. They don’t like it, and it’s degrading and everything, but man, they look cute. Cleo is trying to keep her dignity in teddy bear overalls and a bonnet. Charlie is wearing blue velvet pants and a matching jacket. He looks like he’s begging to be put out of his misery. I have to get the camera.
It’ll be good to start at a new school with teachers who never knew Mom, so they won’t ask about her or tell me how sorry they are. I wish we’d move to the subdivision with Simpson, because I’m tired of condolences from our neighbors. I never said two words to any of them in my life, but now they all talk to me. Especially Mr. Smitts next door. He used to snowblow our driveway for no good reason, and he’d bring us DVDS he’d rented that weren’t due back yet. He’s retired and needs things to do, Mom always said. Now he talks to me every time I see him. On my way to the park, he’ll be sitting on his porch and he’ll call out, “Josh, you are a good boy! You take good care of your little brother! Your mother in Heaven is proud of you!” On our way back he yells out the exact same thing, like I might not have heard him the first time.
He was at Mom’s funeral, so I guess he saw me freak
out. That’s something I can’t explain, even though Dr. Tierney has asked me to explain it. Mom told me once that she wanted to be cremated. Dad hated that thought, and so did Aunt Laura—but I don’t know why she was involved in the conversation when I wasn’t. A son is more important than a sister. Grandma and Grandpa don’t like cremation either. So they all decided to bury Mom, even though she didn’t want to be buried.
Something weird happened inside me when the earth hit her coffin. I suddenly felt sure she wanted out. I knew she wasn’t alive. That used to happen to people sometimes—everyone thought they were dead but they weren’t, so they got buried alive—but that never happens anymore. Machines check your vital signs after you die. And with Mom crashing into a tree at high speed, it was pretty obvious she was dead. But I still wanted to stop them from burying her. So I freaked out.
The worst thing is how much it scared Sammy. He’s attached to me like a barnacle, so to see me spaz out at Mom’s grave shook him up something awful. I still catch him spying on me sometimes, like I can’t be trusted. It must have been embarrassing for Dad. He said no, not at all, it was just sad. Dad can be nice when he’s not hiding in the basement.
There were so many people at Mom’s funeral I don’t even know who was there, so when I pass someone and they smile at me, I wonder if they’re remembering how I freaked out on Mom’s grave. Karen was there—she’s sort of my girlfriend, or at least she used to be. She left the funeral early, but not so early that she missed me jumping on Mom’s coffin and trying to scratch it open. God, I can’t believe I did that.
In the Muslim religion, you’re not allowed to freak out at funerals. No wailing, shrieking, beating your chest, scratching your face, pulling your hair, tearing your clothes, breaking things, swearing or blaming God. I didn’t scratch my face or tear my clothes, but I did an awful lot of wailing, and I tried to break the coffin open. It’s a good thing I’m not Muslim. They only mourn for three days after someone dies— except widows, who are supposed to mourn for four months and ten days. People probably mourn a lot longer if they loved the dead person, but three days is all that’s required. Then it’s back to life as usual. If you’re Muslim, you believe the dead person is going to their afterlife, and you’re not supposed to be sad about that.
It’s like how Christians believe in Heaven. There’s no set time for mourning in Christian churches. But we’re not Christian, either, so it doesn’t matter. We’re not anything. We don’t know what to do.
I should go make dinner now. Dad said he would make it, but that was an hour ago, and nothing’s cooking. I do a lot of the work Mom used to do at home. I feed Sammy and do the dishes and laundry. I shrunk every pair of Sam’s pajamas by washing them in hot water with his sheets. I don’t understand why they make pajamas from cloth that shrinks. When a kid pees the bed every night after his mom dies, it makes sense to wash all the dirty stuff together in hot water. Now Sammy’s running around in pajamas that are too small, and it’ll be years before Dad gets off his butt to go buy new ones.
Aunt Laura came over yesterday to return a pie plate Mom brought to her house at Easter. She said she’d come back soon and take us pajama shopping. Maybe by then I’ll have some strong feelings to write about.
Saturday, August 4th
I’m starting to think maybe Dad put the snake in Mom’s car. On purpose. Maybe not to kill her, but to stop her from going out. He was ticked off that she was going to work on a Saturday, because it meant he had to stay home and babysit. That’s what he called it when he looked after us—babysitting. Like he was getting paid for it.
The police suspected Dad at first, but they couldn’t prove anything. Babysitting isn’t much of a motive. And a snake isn’t much of a weapon. It’s not something you’d see on America’s Most Wanted. But I think the police didn’t dig deep enough. Parents always have secrets they throw at their kids when it’s least expected. Like, “Hey, kids, I’m building a time machine to disappear in. Have a nice life.” I just know in my gut that he’s to blame.
Maybe he thought Mom was going to leave us to be with some other guy. That happened to my friend, Ameer. His father kicked his mother out of the house because she was dating some other guy. He didn’t try to kill her, but he yells at her in the mall whenever they cross paths. I saw it once, when Ameer and I were buying soccer shoes. His mom came out of the jewelry store and stopped dead in her tracks. She smiled at Ameer, but then his dad started freaking out so she ran away, clutching her purse and looking terrified. Ameer’s dad kept yelling at her even after she’d turned the corner. I didn’t understand a word he screamed, because he wasn’t speaking English, but everybody in the mall could guess what he meant. Ameer never said a word. He just stared at the wall of sports socks. He hasn’t mentioned his mother once since she moved out. I think he’s still in shock over the whole thing.
My friend Simpson was totally surprised when his parents divorced. His dad came home from work on a Friday three months ago and said he had big news. Simpson said his mom was excited, like she thought his dad was going to tell them he’d booked a family trip to France. Then his dad announced that he had a girlfriend who was pregnant and he was going to marry her. And that was it. He left. The next day a moving truck showed up. That’s the thing that bothered Simpson the most—the truck showing up on Saturday morning. It meant his dad had planned to leave long before he told Simpson and his mom. You just don’t know what parents are up to.
Maybe Dad thought Mom was going to leave us to be with some other guy, so he wanted to kill her. A lot of men kill their wives, and I bet it comes as a total surprise to their kids. Some Darwin Award winners are men who tried to kill their wives, but ended up killing themselves because they were too stupid to think of a plan that would work. One guy threw his wife out the window, but she grabbed the power lines and saved herself. Then the guy jumped out the window to try to knock her off. How stupid is that? He crashed into the street, dead. And really, he deserved to die. It’s wrong to kill someone, especially your wife. Then you wouldn’t have anyone who loves you.
I’m pretty sure Mom loved Dad, because she used to dance with him in the kitchen while she was making soup. That was the only thing she ever cooked: a hundred kinds of soup with cheese biscuits. They were all weird soups, like carrot and orange, or mushroom and black bean, or garlic and squash— nothing Sammy and I would ever eat, though the biscuits were good. If Dad came in to see what Mom was cooking—maybe he was hoping it would be something other than soup—she would put her hand on his shoulder and dance and smile like she loved him so much. So normally he wouldn’t try to kill her. But if he thought she wanted to leave him, and that she’d be dancing and smiling with some other guy, then maybe he would. I know she’d never leave me and Sammy—she’d come back for us, even if she had some other guy—but she might have left Dad.
What builds the case against Dad is that Mom’s job came with life insurance that gives Dad two years of her salary. Which is one hundred thousand dollars times two, and that’s a lot of money. I know this because I’ve been snooping through the mail. Maybe Dad killed Mom for the money, and also for vengeance because of some other guy.
I used to be sure that Mom and Dad loved each other, but Simpson says you never know for sure. He heard his dad say that he never loved his mom, not even for one second. It’s hard to believe you could live with someone for thirteen years and have a kid with them and kiss them goodnight every single day and never love them for one second. But what do I know?
If Mom’s death was actually a murder, it wouldn’t qualify for a Darwin Award, even if it’s a stupid way to be murdered. I checked out the Award requirements. To win, you have to show an astounding misapplication of judgment. For example, a woman on a bus trip wanted a cigarette, but she wasn’t allowed to smoke on the bus, so she jumped out. And since the bus was moving, she astoundingly misapplied her judgment and got crushed under the wheels.
Crashing into a tree is pretty astounding too. But a phobia makes y
ou scared out of your mind, like you truly believe your life is in danger. So Mom doesn’t deserve a Darwin Award. She was a university professor and very smart. She should have had even more kids, because she had such good genes. She should have donated her eggs to other people who weren’t as smart as she was.
I went and sat in Dad’s room for a while, because it feels like Mom’s still there. I was snooping a bit, and I looked in her drawers. She had pictures from work tucked away. In one picture she had her arm around a man who looked like he adored her. Maybe she was dating him, and Dad found out. I saw that same guy crying at her funeral. Dad looked at him funny, like he recognized him. Or maybe he suspected him. The guy was crying like he had lost his best friend. He didn’t freak out like me—but he had dark skin and hair, so maybe he’s Muslim and he tried not to wail and tear his clothes. He was definitely weeping, which you’re allowed to do if you’re Muslim.
I freaked out again this morning when Aunt Laura came over with groceries and told me everything would be okay. I threw the groceries down and stomped on them. Aunt Laura got mad and left, so I had to scrape a dozen squashed tomatoes off the floor. It was totally gross. I freaked out because I hate the words Everything will be okay. Mom’s death is not a broken cup we can clean up. I know you can make most things better, even really serious things. If you fail a grade, you can make it up. If you lose your job, you can find another one. If you go to jail, you can do your sentence and get out. But dead is dead. There’s no way to make it okay.
Aunt Laura got mad and called me a spoiled brat, which is pretty harsh given the circumstances. She yelled, “You’re not the only kid in the world who ever lost a parent!” She’s forty years old, and Grandma and Grandpa are healthy as can be, so what does she know?
Walking Backward Page 2