I heard everyone’s story. Except Patrick’s.
Seeing my cousin challenge authority wasn’t anything new, but that night stayed with me. It wasn’t his getting in trouble or being yelled at that was the most haunting part. It was what the rest of us did when we saw Patrick’s tired eyes.
It was when the music stopped.
And we just sat and watched.
Back at home, my room is fantastically spacious, with no other bodies or voices. The wake is over, and no one is asking for my attention.
My waistline is slowly recovering from the deformed shape those pants created. At least I can breathe a little before having to put them on again in the morning. Once this speech is written, I can go to bed and not think about it.
All right, what to say about Patrick? Which story can I tell?
Nothing triggers the horrible effects of anxiety like a blank page mixed with a very public deadline.
OK, just get this done. No one is expecting Shakespeare tomorrow, just a few nice words about Patrick. I’ve written plenty of last-minute papers that sound like I know what I’m talking about. That’s what separates us Honors kids from regular English students. We’re not any smarter, just better at shoveling it on the page.
Nice story . . . nice story . . .
Didn’t get too far with Legos, so what else? The time we all went to the fair was fun. Until he flipped out over not winning the ringtoss and Uncle Mike had to fireman-carry him to the car.
Nope.
Trick-or-treating when we were nine was fun. Until he got in a fight with a little Abe Lincoln over the historical inconsistencies of his costume. Patrick felt that since Lincoln was likely left-handed, he would have never carried his bag of candy with his right hand. Abe’s dad didn’t appreciate the constructive criticism.
I just want tomorrow over with. Every part of it. I don’t want to think about this speech. I don’t want to think about the funeral. I don’t want to think about Patrick again.
OK, one paragraph. I can do this. I still have Legos to fall back on, but I don’t know if I can get a few minutes out of that one. Let’s see. . . . What else did he like? Patrick liked . . . the zoo! There. The zoo. I can talk about the time we went to the zoo and everyone had fun. Until Patrick went into the reptile house and started —
A knock.
A pause.
The door.
Mom.
The absolute last person I want invading my short-lived space.
She comes in, timidly. She knows I’m mad. My cheek still radiates from our last discussion.
“Jimmy?”
I’m not saying a word. I learned my lesson.
“Jimmy, I’d like to talk to you.” She sits on the end of my bed. “About something from earlier.”
Perfect. Exactly what I want right now is to have a meaningful conversation with the person who just slapped me. This should get my creative pistons firing.
“When you”— she pauses — “asked me about Patrick earlier —”
She’s not looking at me. She must have actually realized how mean it was to hit me. I’ll let her apologize, then she can leave.
“I reacted in a way I shouldn’t have.”
Mom sucks at apologies. She’ll say everything but “I’m sorry.” She’s speaking slower than normal, though. Maybe she actually does feel bad.
“I told your father about it, and we agreed I needed to talk to you.”
She’ll skirt around those two words a little more before convincing herself it’s enough, and then hopefully leave.
“I told him I wanted to talk to you alone. Because I . . .”
Let’s get this over with.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
Got it. You just said that. Why is she acting so weird?
“It caught me by surprise when you asked about your cousin. I . . . I hadn’t thought of what happened that way and I —”
She still hasn’t looked at me. She usually stares through me when telling me something important. This is new.
“I was very upset and I reacted.”
Yes, I know. You reacted on my face. Good for you for stating the obvious. I’m really not in the mood for a halfhearted apology. I just want to write something down, go to bed, and forget about everything involving Patrick Feeny’s life. And death.
“I . . .”
Hold on. She still hasn’t looked up. She hasn’t said sorry but is acting really strange, like I was the one who hit her.
“When you said that about Patrick, it . . .”
Another long pause.
I sit a little straighter. I’m still mad but very curious.
“It made me think of something that I didn’t want to think about.” Her head lifts slightly, her eyes straight ahead. “I didn’t want to think about Patrick making a choice like that —”
Wait. She’s about to cry. She almost never cries.
I sit upright, setting my pad of paper aside. Mom collects herself, just before a tear can flow.
“Because that is —”
She looks at me with something I have never seen on her face before. Fear.
“How my father died.”
Holy balls.
I have officially lost track of how many people have rendered me without the use of language in the last twelve hours, but Mom just took the prize.
She sniffles, once, while she grips her hands together.
Put wall clocks on the list of things you never notice the sound of until the room goes awkwardly silent. I don’t know if I’m supposed to guess what happened to my grandpa or ask for details. A coherent word doesn’t get out of me before she answers my question.
“Your aunt and I were nineteen when Papa died. You know that much. Your grandma was at work. Rose and I just got back from shopping.”
My ability to speak is slowly returning.
“Grandma Mutz . . .” I get out with effort. “She said he had a heart attack. In the bathroom.” An image of my grandmother telling the tale conjures in my head. She never minded talking about it, even looked for times to bring it into conversation. She was always very matter-of-fact about it — would even say “death is a part of life.”
“That may have been true. His heart did stop,” she continues, “but only after he swallowed a bottle of his painkillers first.”
No. Words.
“And that . . . that is what killed him.”
All manners, grudges, or conversation etiquette is off the table. I’m saying what comes into my brain.
“But Grandma said he had a heart attack. She talks about it like it was just something that happens to people.”
“Grandma wasn’t the one who found him. I was.” She doesn’t hesitate that time.
The furnace kicks on to give the clock ticks some company. I’ll gladly take any other noise as she continues.
“The bathroom door was open. He was on the floor with an empty pill bottle in the sink.”
The remains of what was almost tears in her eyes are now gone. She is upright, determined to get this out. “And an envelope addressed to us was on his bed.”
“What?” I’m down to one-syllable words. “Was it a note?”
She nods. “I called 911, but there was nothing they could do. He’d been dead for a while by the time we got home. He never went to work that day . . . just went into the bathroom and . . . and took all his medicine.”
Wow. I had no idea. Of anything.
“But . . . then why did Grandma say he had a heart attack? Does she know?”
Mom nods, lips pursed.
“I called her and told her what happened. By the time she got home, the paramedics had taken him away. They tried to revive him, but he’d stopped breathing long before we found him. There was nothing anyone could do.”
She looks at the floor again and exhales. “And . . .”
Another pause. I have a horrible feeling that my grandfather’s secret death isn’t the toughest thing she’s had to say so far.
“Your gra
ndma hugged me. She cried. I showed her the envelope.” She pauses, seemingly to gather strength. “She grabbed me, shook me. And started yelling.”
My head hurts. Picturing Grandma Mutz crying and yelling is crazy enough, but doing it over my grandfather’s intentional overdose is too much. This doesn’t make any sense.
“Why? Was she so upset he died?”
“Yes. But . . .” Mom looks down again. “She was also angry.”
“At him?”
“At me. She ripped the envelope out of my hands. She grabbed me and yelled, ‘His heart stopped and that’s how he died!’” Her eyes find me again. “And told me I was never to say anything else.”
The tear is returning.
“You didn’t open it?”
Mom shakes her head, eyes still fixed on me.
“Do you know what it said?”
“No.” Mom sits perfectly still. “To her, there was never a note.”
“What about Aunt Rose?”
Mom’s eyebrows go up slightly. She never forgets about her sister, but from the time she walked through my door, I think she had.
“Your aunt was there for it all, but she didn’t say anything.” She takes another deep breath. “She loved Papa very much, and I did, too.” Mom tells me that last part sounding as if she almost forgot it. “But she wanted to have good memories of him, not the rest of it.”
I don’t understand “the rest of it,” but can’t bring myself to ask about it.
“So when your grandma told us his heart stopped, that’s what your aunt believed, too.”
“I . . .” No other words form. I struggle to get one more out. “Why?”
Mom looks at me again; her voice is calm.
“Sometimes, people don’t want to see things because it’s too difficult. Sometimes the bad is too much. So they see bad things how they want. They believe what they want.”
She must be able to tell I’m even more confused. Between having never seen this side of my mother, never hearing about my grandfather’s death, and never knowing my family had secrets . . . I’ll take looking confused over my head exploding.
“They believe it until it becomes their reality.”
Images of my family and how I know them are swirling in my head. And melting.
“Your grandma was a very good mother, but she didn’t want to see her husband as someone who would end his own life. And she didn’t want others to see him that way, either.”
My mouth must be open.
“So I stayed quiet.”
I should talk, but I have no response to any of this.
“I did what your grandma always taught us. I didn’t interfere.”
I sit still, wondering if this secret will get any bigger, as Mom’s shoulders grow with a deep breath.
“She also didn’t want to see her husband as someone who wasn’t the best father.”
And there it is.
“He wasn’t?” Another total shock. I knew he was tough on them and liked to drink, but not . . . not whatever he was.
“He had a”— she searches for a descriptor to soften the blow of what she really wants to say — “a temper.” She looks as though a particular memory of this temper is playing in her head. “And we never knew when it would come out. But when it did”— she inhales deeply — “it was bad.”
Sounds like someone else we know.
Earlier today I looked at Greg Karlov with his father behind him and it reminded me of an apple and a tree. I can picture Patrick now, with my grandfather behind him.
“It was hard for us sometimes, living with him. He seemed to medicate himself more and more as he —”
She pauses, looks to the floor again.
“Rose and I . . . we looked out for each other.”
Mom typically says what she means and means what she says, but not now. She’s searching for every word. She takes another deep breath.
“He could yell so loud. Could get so angry. He was . . .” She stops. I don’t know if she can find any more words.
“Scary.”
It comes out of me without my even realizing it. Or realizing that I’m helping my mom right now.
“He was sick. We didn’t know how to help him get better.”
Her focus is back on me. She blinks hard, like she just woke up.
“So, like I said, I wanted to talk to you . . . about earlier,” she replies, brushing her hands on her legs. “When you said that, about Patrick, it reminded me of some things I wanted to forget. And I reacted. Without realizing it.”
Mom sighs and wipes her face. I don’t think the day of talking to people at the wake compares to how exhausting the last few minutes were for her.
“Mom?”
“Yes.”
“When was the last time you told that story?”
I can’t explain why that question popped into my head, but it just spilled out. Mom’s eyes get big. My question seems to make everything very real for her.
“Oh, wow,” she gets out while sitting up straighter. “Before you were born. Before your father and I were married. That was the last”— another pause, this one with an expression of awareness — “the only time I ever told it.”
I’ve never seen this . . . this vulnerable side of my mother.
“Jimmy, I don’t want you to talk about this with anyone, all right? Some things are better left alone. OK?”
“Not even Aunt Rose?”
The worry of her fragile sister takes over her face. “Especially Aunt Rose.”
“OK, I won’t.” Sometimes I tell Mom I’ll do things just to appease her. I mean it this time.
“What you said about Patrick . . .” Another side-eye follows. “I don’t think he intended for this to happen.” She looks straight at me. “I really don’t.”
I honestly don’t, either, and so regret saying it. I’m still a little afraid to respond, and decide to just listen.
“But he put himself in a spot where it did happen. And maybe he didn’t even know why.” She looks at the floor again.
I have never taken in so much information at once. I have no words at all. I think she senses the overload.
“OK, I think that’s enough for today,” Mom says with a nod. She places both palms on her knees and takes a quick breath. “You need to get to sleep. You ready for tomorrow?”
As crazy as hearing the family secret was, I appreciate the break from thinking about this speech.
“No. I can’t think of anything to say.” There’s a difference in my voice now. I’m not complaining about the speech. I’m owning what I have to do. “I’ll come up with something, though.”
“All right. I’ll let you finish, then.” Mom stands up. She looks at the blank pad of paper, then back at me. “Don’t stay up too late. You’re only going to talk for two minutes tomorrow. Do you have any ideas?”
I look at the blank page with her. “No, but I’ll make something up before tomorrow. I’ll be fine.”
“I know you will,” she calmly replies while walking to my door. “And you can say whatever you want.” She stops short of walking through the doorway and turns toward me.
“Don’t make anything up.”
I haven’t been in many churches, but I feel like most of them have seedy-looking basements. Everything here has a tint of yellow, from the floors to the fold-up tables scattered across the room. Two older ladies in black suits are setting up a punch bowl that looks bigger than either of them. Dad said this is where the party is held after the service. I had no idea that people walked out of funerals and went straight to parties. It has to be better than the wake.
Mom and Aunt Rose are sitting in folding chairs talking quietly. Mom isn’t holding her sister’s hand; one of the few times in the last three days that hasn’t happened. Dad and Uncle Mike are sitting at a table next to them, looking around the room, with their legs stretched out and their hands in their pockets. Sofia is sitting with Norman and, like me, nervously waiting for what comes next in the mourning
process.
This is it, my last chance to figure out what to say. I was too exhausted last night to write anything. Between the wake and hearing everything about my family, I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
We should have a few more minutes before going up. I have to get something down. Mom said, “Don’t make anything up,” but I still want to be nice.
The crumpled paper finds its way out of my pocket again. It has to count this time. There’s still one person I haven’t consulted to create this speech.
OK, Patrick. What do you want me to say?
Something nice? How you’ll be missed?
Or the truth?
Draft 3 of Speech
The truth is I never really tried.
I knew there was something wrong with him and I knew he couldn’t always control it. Even when we were younger, I knew. I didn’t need to be a detective to figure out there was something rotten inside him the time he punched my aunt in the mouth and yelled at her afterward.
I did everything I could to keep away, but when he’s your cousin, and our moms are twins . . . only so much distance is possible.
I told myself I tried to accept him. Instead I watched the clock until he was gone.
The truth is I’m kind of glad he’s dead.
I can’t say this!
I’m an awful person.
A third older woman comes down and pokes her head in just long enough to say “It’s time” before making an about-face and marching back upstairs.
I’m not ready. I’m not ready to speak. All I have written down is what a horrible cousin I was. I’ll pray for a miracle. I’m already in church, so it can’t hurt. God, if you’re listening, I want a tornado right now.
I know it’s time for my cousin’s funeral and I know that’s what I should be thinking about and I know that I should feel sadder than I do . . . but I can’t. It’s time for my speech and that’s all I can think about. I can’t focus on anything but wanting this moment to be over with and how bad it’ll be for everyone to have to hear it.
Uncle Mike gets up first. “Let’s go,” he whispers to his wife, who’s now clutching Mom’s hand. The five of us follow him up from the basement to where the stairs lead to the entryway of the church. Two men wearing black ties and a third man in a robe are waiting for us.
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