But I don’t. So I just go inside, glancing back one last time as Andy disappears into the darkness. He turns around, waves good-bye, and I wave back. Then I go to bed, thinking about Andy Cooper. How I wish I had the nerve to kiss him. Hoping that I’ll run into him at school on Monday.
Chapter 30
TONIGHT
“So this is where your night with Andy ended, then?” Colin asks as we sit at Em’s grave. A few crickets chirp as the moon shines brightly over all the headstones.
“Pretty much.”
He looks at me. “Then what?” he whispers.
PART 3
THE MORNING AFTER WOE—
Chapter 31
I wake up the next morning, the night with Andy slowly coming back to me while I’m still half asleep. I feel the smile on my face as I recall every detail, every place we went. The image of his shoulder branded with my name.
I open my eyes. Did he really do that? What if he wakes up today and totally regrets it? What if he never makes eye contact with me again.
I imagine Andy in his room, in his bed. Maybe recalling last night the same way I am.
My phone buzzes and interrupts my thoughts. I ignore it, only to have it buzz again immediately after it stops. I grab it and see that it’s Joel. He probably showed up last night after I’d already left with Andy and he’s only calling now to give me shit. I debate whether I should answer it or not. It stops buzzing. And then it immediately starts again. What the hell? I decide to just answer it.
“What’s up?” I say.
“Where have you been? I’ve been calling you,” Joel says.
“Yeah. And?”
“French—”
“I was waiting for you last night,” I say, cutting him off.
“French—”
“But when you didn’t show—”
“French, stop. Listen.”
“What?”
There’s a moment of silence. Then I hear him let out a deep breath.
“What? Speak,” I say.
“You know Andy Cooper, right?”
“Yeah, he was . . .”
“French, Andy Cooper is dead.”
I’m sure I didn’t hear him right. I know he said Andy’s name because my stomach fluttered when he did. His face flashed through my mind, the way he looked last night. “But it’s not just that,” Joel says. “Andy . . . he committed suicide.”
“What?” I don’t understand what Joel is saying. “What?” I repeat.
“Gene Fitzer, he called Robyn. He lives two houses down from Andy. He said there was an ambulance and cops on their street this morning. He found out Andy overdosed on some pills.”
“Oh my god.”
“Andy’s mom was screaming in the street when they took him away. Andy’s dad had to . . . man, this is just so messed up.” Joel stops and takes a breath. “He’s dead, French. It’s fucking crazy.”
“French? You there?” Joel says when I don’t respond.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“I’m at Harold’s. Robyn and Gene are here. You should get over here. . . . Shit, French. I’ve gone to school with the kid since kindergarten,” Joel says.
Silence.
Then, “I’ll see you in a bit.” There’s a click.
“What?” I whisper into the receiver. And I know Joel hung up because there’s no answer, but I can still hear his words. He’s dead, French. He’s dead.
At some point the phone isn’t next to my ear anymore. I change into some jeans. Slowly, the words take on meaning. The back part of my brain that has been processing them pushes the information to the front part. I sit back down on my bed and shut my eyes, while those words churn around in my head.
Joel’s wrong. It can’t be real. I look at my phone. This is some kind of sick joke. They’re confused. It was somebody else they wheeled out of Andy’s house. He was down the street. Hours ago. He’s somewhere . . . anywhere. But he’s not dead; he’s not on some gurney.
I frantically pull on some socks and then my shoes. I don’t change my shirt. It’s the one I was wearing last night.
Next thing I know, I’m outside. The sun is blinding. I stare at the sidewalk as I head to Harold’s. I watch my black Converse sneakers pounding the sidewalk. Joel will be there. He’ll tell me it was a mistake. Gene Fitzer will tell us he’s an idiot asshole and got Andy’s house confused with someone else’s.
I quicken my pace, but it takes forever to get to Harold’s. I feel like I’m walking in place. I feel unreal, like I’m in a movie.
Finally I see them ahead; Joel and Lily, Robyn and Gene, who we don’t hang out with much but Robyn does sometimes. They’re sitting outside of Harold’s, up against the side brick wall. Joel watches me as I approach and stop in front of them. I wait for them to say something, to tell me it’s not true. But Joel just takes out a cigarette, lights it up, and holds it out for me. I take it.
Robyn is leaning her head on Gene’s shoulder. She looks up at me with red eyes, but doesn’t get up. “Can you believe this?” she says.
None of them say anything else, and I’m afraid to ask what I have to ask. I take a deep drag.
“Are you guys sure,” I finally get out. I look up at the sky because I can’t look at them.
Gene says, “I saw it all go down this morning.”
My knees feel weak, and I slide down onto the concrete, next to Joel. Gene recounts how the sirens woke him up, how everyone on the street came outside, how they watched Andy’s mom fall apart, how Andy’s dad had to hold her and drag her back inside. How Gene’s mom was over there the rest of the morning and saw Andy’s suicide note on the table. A lousy suicide note that consisted of four words.
Four words. No explanation. No apologies. No signature. Just four words:
“I love you. Bye.”
All of this should be enough proof, but I can’t help but think, Did you see him? Did you check the body bag? Did you see if it was actually him?
Gene keeps talking. His mouth is moving, but I don’t know what he’s saying anymore. I’m suddenly on a strange street watching it all happen. Watching them push the gurney out, stopping the paramedics, unzipping the bag.
And there’s Andy Cooper. He opens his eyes and smiles. “You’re a badass, Frenchie,” he says.
I close my eyes, and when I open them again, I’m back at Harold’s. I hear Gene’s voice and Joel’s and Lily’s and Robyn’s. I listen as the same things are repeated until they’ve all been said a number of different ways. And then we sit there in the silence that comes after everyone has nothing more to say. We sit under a burning sun and we sweat and we smoke. I take drag after drag, until we have no cigarettes left, until I feel dizzy and nauseated. And then I pull out from Joel’s arm around my shoulder and I go home.
I go straight to my bathroom and throw up. I strip off all my clothes. I hold the T-shirt I was wearing last night in my hand, and hold it up to my face because maybe it will smell like Andy. But it just smells like cigarettes and makes me cry. So I turn the water on as hot as it will go. I sit in the shower, letting the water burn my back. I try to melt the words that are rushing through my head, the words that are exploding and falling like debris in my brain. The ones that I can’t stop.
Chapter 32
After a death there are things like strange spontaneous gatherings and student-led prayers in the courtyard during lunch. There are moments of silence during morning announcements. There are girls who give out ribbons with Andy’s name on them to everyone. And all these things make you want to hate everyone at your school more than you already do.
After these things, there’s a wake. And almost everyone goes because you hear about it. It becomes the topic of lunchroom discussions until the funeral. And that’s the big finale. That’s what everyone is waiting for.
Andy’s funeral is on a Wednesday. Instead I go to school and sit in my empty classes. I stare out the windows. It’s the sunniest fucking day of the year, and I can barely see because of the b
rightness. At first I don’t think much of it. But then it bothers me more as the day goes on, with its obnoxious brilliance and radiant disposition. There should be rolling gray clouds. There should be rain.
The substitute filling in for my economics teacher comes by my desk and gently whispers, “There are grief counselors on campus if you feel you need to talk to someone.” I look over at a girl in the room who is actually using the free period to color. I can’t take it anymore and grab my stuff and leave.
I had made this big thing about not going to Andy’s funeral. It was a matter of principle, I thought. So I’m a little disgusted with myself when I park in my driveway, get out of the car, and walk to the cemetery. I don’t want to be a hypocrite. I don’t want to be the person who barely knew him but came to watch to either be a part of the crowd or fulfill some morbid curiosity.
But here I am, at Em’s grave, waiting for Andy. Waiting for them all to file in after him.
“Andy Cooper is dead,” I tell her. And then I repeat it because it sounds so strange. Andy Cooper is dead. The cars come in through the gates, the same gates we climbed four nights ago. And I think of how he knew. How even as we climbed those gates, he knew he might be among these graves in just a few days. I wonder what kind of person can do that. I wonder who the hell Andy really was.
They wind around the cemetery, around the paved trails. It’s the longest trail of cars I’ve ever seen. It looks like a sick game of follow the leader. And then they get out, appropriately solemn. The guys wear sunglasses. The girls walk together and cry or talk in whispers.
And then there’s Zeena, standing at the gates by herself. She stares at the crowd. And then, as if she can’t look at them anymore, she looks around at the trees in the cemetery. For a moment I think she sees me, but her gaze goes right past me. Just when I think she’s going to walk in, she turns around and leaves. She can’t handle the show either, and I admire her ability to go. Me, I have to sit here and watch it all.
“Is he with you?” I ask Em. Maybe now that he’s dead, you’ll know him better than all of us. Maybe now you know his secrets. And maybe, Em, maybe you’ll tell me.
But she doesn’t.
“What do you think they’ll do next, Em? Plant trees at school?” And I somewhat laugh at that.
I watch everyone and can’t help wondering that if I were to die tomorrow, would these same people show up to my funeral? I recognize their faces, I know their names, but I don’t really know them and they don’t really know me and I know they don’t really know Andy. I wonder if there’s a way I can leave Mom and Dad instructions for my funeral without totally freaking them out. Because I don’t want these people at my funeral. I don’t want them to make me into this idea of who they think I am, an illusion of being someone better than I really am. Because I’m not. And Andy wasn’t either.
I know right now, they all love Andy. They are all recalling how awesome he was because of that one time he said hi to them. They’ll tell his mom he was a great guy. They’ll tell stories of the time Andy Cooper lent them lunch money. And they’ll all think he’s fantastic.
I want to tell them all to go home and forget about Andy Cooper. Pretend he never existed. And I want to tell them all that Andy Cooper sucked.
“That’s wrong, isn’t it, Em? You must think I’m screwed up to want to do that.” I hug my knees to my chest so I don’t do anything crazy.
I think that’s his mom there, in the front row. She looks sedated. Maybe you become cold and still, like a statue, and never feel again after your son dies. I think she wishes everyone would leave. And I think maybe she hates all those people from our school because we’re alive and Andy isn’t. Maybe she’s looking at them and secretly thinks, Why couldn’t it be you, or you?
Did she see Andy’s tattoo?
Any minute now she’ll stand up and demand to know who the hell is Frenchie. Maybe she’ll scream, “My son had ‘Frenchie’ tattooed on his shoulder. I want to know which one of you fuckers is Frenchie!” And then everyone will know how I just let Andy Cooper go home and kill himself.
Andy’s mom will scream my name until they all look over here and point. “There she is,” they’ll say. “There’s the girl who let him die.”
But Andy’s mom doesn’t scream. And nobody points. Because they’re all watching as he’s lowered into the ground.
I should tell them it’s all a mistake. Because if I don’t, Andy Cooper is going to be stuck down there, trying to claw his way out.
But I can’t get up. I won’t. I just watch as they throw roses on his casket.
People start to walk away and they leave him there. In a few months, most of them will forget Andy.
And now the cars are leaving, a motley group of ants, filing out one by one by one.
I watch as a man, who must be Andy’s dad, tries to get Andy’s mom to leave. But she won’t. And now, he’s talking to other people who go to her as well. But still, she won’t get up from the chair she’s in.
He goes back to her. He leans down, whispers something in her ear, and then kisses her cheek and leaves.
She’s the only one left.
Andy’s mom stays there the rest of the day and into the evening. There are these guys in a white van parked near the grave. It’s their job to fill the hole, to take down the tent, to collect the chairs. But they don’t make her leave. They sit there for a while, leave, and then come back hours later and sit and wait some more.
They must know she’s outwaiting the sun. We watch her, unmoving as the sun sinks down below the horizon. And then we watch as Andy’s father comes back. We watch as she finally allows herself to be led away. We hear her cries; cries that instead of fading the farther she gets from Andy’s grave, grow louder, until they abruptly stop and I realize she must be in the car. The only sound that’s left is the steady sound of cars speeding on the expressway just outside the cemetery. And moments later, I’m almost certain I can hear the Coopers’ car on that expressway, passing by, and Andy’s mother still calling his name over and over from behind the passenger window.
And I realize that grief can’t turn you into a cold piece of stone. But it can crumble you as if you had been.
The guys fill the hole, break down the tent, and collect the chairs.
I sit here a little longer. Even though I want to forget all about Andy Cooper. Even though I wish I were far away from here.
Chapter 33
TONIGHT
Colin sits next to me, pulling up blades of grass from the ground.
“Do you think,” he says, holding up a single blade, “we’re in this blade of grass?”
I shrug because I’m remembering that day, watching Andy’s mom leave the cemetery. Although she’s not here now, it feels like I’m still here, keeping vigil over Andy’s grave.
“We must be, right?” Colin continues. “Well, they are. They’re in this grass.” He motions around to all the graves and then points directly at Em’s. “Some part of Emily Dickinson is in this.” He holds up the piece of grass again.
“She’s been dead too long,” I say. “The blade of grass Em was in is long gone,” I say.
Colin becomes thoughtful. “Or it has disintegrated back into the earth, fertilized, and sprung up again. It’s comforting in a way, if you think about it.”
“Who cares,” I say. I’m frustrated with his ramblings even though this conversation is right up my alley. I would normally wrap it around me like a blanket. But right now I can’t get into another deep philosophical discussion.
“Oh, sorry,” Colin says, “for wondering about death as we sit here, in a cemetery. In the middle of the night.”
“I’m sorry, you’re right,” I say. “It’s just . . . tonight, I thought I’d find something, or understand something, or feel . . .” I shake my head. “I don’t know. Different, I guess. What am I not doing?”
Colin is quiet for a moment and then says. “Maybe it’s not about doing what you’ve already done. Maybe it’s doing w
hat you haven’t done.”
“What do you mean?” I say.
He hesitates. “Maybe you should stop searching for him, for answers. Maybe what you really need to do is say good-bye,” he says.
I feel like I’ve been punched in the throat. His answer is so obvious. So impossible and yet so simple.
“But there’s so much to say. And I don’t know how,” I tell Colin.
“Maybe you’ll figure it out once you start.”
I set my eyes on Andy’s grave. Going over there terrifies me.
“All you have to do is walk over there. That’s all,” Colin says.
Before I can change my mind, I get up. Colin does too.
“Maybe you should . . . I mean, you don’t have to go with me,” I tell him.
“You want me to leave?” he asks, sounding a little hurt.
“I’m really sorry,” I say, “especially after dragging you everywhere tonight.”
“No, I understand,” he says. “I’ll wait for you over by the gates.”
I shake my head and look at the ground.
“Hold on, you want me to leave . . . leave?” he asks.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. It’s all I can say.
“Are you sure? I mean, do you really want to hang out here by yourself?” he asks looking around.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” I assure him, but he doesn’t look convinced. I guess he figures that if I really were fine, we wouldn’t be standing in a cemetery right now.
Colin runs his hand through his hair. “Fine,” he says. We stand there awkwardly looking at each other. I feel I should thank him for doing this with me, but for some reason I don’t know how to phrase it because a simple thank-you hardly seems like enough.
“Colin,” I say, “I just want to say . . . this, tonight . . .” I have to stop myself. I don’t know how to thank him without losing it.
Death, Dickinson, and the Demented Life of Frenchie Garcia Page 14