Death, Dickinson, and the Demented Life of Frenchie Garcia
Page 17
“And second, I wanted to give this to you.” I take out the folded paper in my pocket and read it aloud:
“‘Andy Cooper was not a seeker of truth. He was a boy, like most, who woke up in the morning every day and went to school. He sat in class with others like him, and at the end of the day he went home just the same. He often looked at the world and tried to find meaning in it the way most of us have done or will do at some point in our lives. Andy Cooper probably wanted to be happy, like most of us do. He just didn’t know how.
“‘So on one lonely humid night in February, Andy Cooper said good-bye to the world, in his own way. That night he brought along a girl, which consequently changed her life. And then, tragically, he went home and ended his.
“‘He is missed by his family, friends, and even those who didn’t know him. And the future of many will be different because Andy Cooper won’t be in it anymore.
“‘He could have had a magnificent life. Or a miserable life. Or a quiet life. Many wonderful things could have happened to him, as well as many bad things. But in the end, his life was hardly lived. And that’s what is most tragic of all.’
“That’s it,” I tell him when I’m finished reading. “See, you doing this, Andy, it didn’t change anything. It didn’t stop whatever you thought was so corrupt and horrible in the world. And there is a lot of horrible and corrupt shit out there, Andy. I get that. But there’s also a lot of good. I just wish you could’ve seen that. I wish you could’ve lived and been able to experience that.”
I look around the cemetery. I’m the only one here, and I’m thankful since I don’t want anyone to witness what I do next.
“Anyway, last thing, and don’t get pissed or haunt me or anything,” I say as I start pulling up a patch of grass on Andy’s grave and dig a small hole.
I want to leave these words with Andy. I don’t want them to blow away in the wind or be washed away with the rain. I want them to become part of the very earth that will someday be a part of these trees, these leaves, and the world again. Like Andy.
My heart beats faster with each discreet scoop.
Once there’s a small pocket, I quickly place the poem in there and start filling it up.
“Maybe you hung out with me that night because you were lonely. Maybe you thought that I was safe or I didn’t care. I’ll never really know. It took me a while to realize that but now I’m becoming okay with not knowing. But I want you to know that night did mean a lot to me and I did care. I do care. And I’ll always wish you had known that.”
I get up and pat down the earth with my shoe.
“Bye, Andy Cooper. I hope you have a good afterlife.” I turn to leave.
As I go through the cemetery gates, a procession is making its way down my street. I keep walking, and soon the hearse is passing right next to me. For a brief moment, I pass right next to death. And something about it makes me think of how we pass people every day, how our lives do and don’t intersect. How some lives end and others go on. And I’m grateful that I’m headed in the opposite direction of that corpse.
In the distance, I see Colin park in front of my house and get out of his car. He looks down the street and notices me heading his way. He stands there with his hands in his pockets, waiting for me.
“Hey,” I say as I approach.
“Visiting Em?”
“In a way.”
“You good?”
I nod. “Yep.”
“Good.” He reaches for my hand and we walk to my house. My hand in his like this, it feels like something is beginning, not ending.
“So, what now?” he asks once we reach my house and sit on my front stoop.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I have to figure some stuff out. Like if I still want to go to art school. . . .”
“I didn’t know you were into art,” he says, and this somehow strikes me as funny.
I laugh. “Really? Yeah, I guess we haven’t gotten around to that kind of stuff yet. But yeah, I draw and paint.”
“That’s really cool,” he says, genuinely interested.
“Thanks,” I say. “But I haven’t thought about it or done much of it lately. I love it, but I just have to find that inspiration again. And figure out if it’s what I really want. At least my parents are being pretty cool about it,” I tell him.
I ended up talking to them about taking some time to figure out what I wanted to do, instead of rushing to reapply to art school. And they were surprisingly understanding. Now that I don’t have any kind of plan of what I’m going to do next, I’m kind of excited about what it will be.
“Maybe I’ll study something else, like writing or literature or something like that.”
“Or both,” he says.
“Or both,” I agree, smiling at the possibility.
“So you’ll be around while you figure it out?” he asks.
“For the time being,” I say.
“And then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe go somewhere else, see what’s out there.”
He’s quiet and looks down at the ground, so I do too. There are ants scurrying around and I’m reminded of how I used to wish I were an ant whenever I had to do something I didn’t feel like doing.
But then I thought of how they’re always working and how someone can come by and unwittingly cave in their tunnels and destroy their world. But now I stare at them, thinking that in some ways, maybe they’re even more evolved than we are. Because when someone does crush their walls in, they immediately start rebuilding.
I watch as Colin avoids crushing the ants.
“Which means,” he says, “that I have just enough time to make you fall in love with me.”
I laugh. “You’re funny,” I say.
Except he’s not laughing. He’s leaning back on the top step, smiling. “You know, I’ve always wanted to go somewhere else, too.”
I raise an eyebrow and am about to offer a snarky reply, but he leans in closer and kisses me before I can say anything. When he pulls away he studies my face as if to ask if that was okay.
Having him this close to me, looking at me this way, makes my heart beat fast, but it’s also comforting and makes me feel warm. And I feel like I could stay this way for a long time. I smile to let him know that, yes, this is okay. And then I remember something.
“What did the psychic say to you that night anyway?”
He pulls his eyes off mine for a moment and says, “Something about having the power to choose our own destinies.” He looks at me again. “And recognizing when it chooses us.”
“Do you believe that?” I ask. “That destiny can choose us?”
He reaches for my hand and turns it over to trace the lines on my palm. “Yeah,” he says, “I do. But only the good things. And only if you let them.” He continues tracing my hand with his finger.
I smile and watch him. It’s not the answer I set out to find, but it’s one I’m glad I did. And it is one I know I can live with.
If I should die,
And you should live—
And time should gurgle on—
And morn should beam—
And noon should burn—
As it has usual done—
If Birds should build as early—
And Bees as bustling go—
One might depart at option
From enterprise below!
’Tis sweet to know that stocks will stand
When we with Daisies lie—
That Commerce will continue—
And Trades as briskly fly—
It makes the parting tranquil
And keeps the soul serene—
That gentlemen so sprightly
Conduct the pleasing scene!
Acknowledgments
Endless thanks to those who made this book possible:
Kerry Sparks at Levine Greenberg, for your continued enthusiasm, support, and advice. And especially for helping make the people who live in my head live in the heads of others.
M
arlo Scrimizzi, for your insight, your brilliant suggestions, and thoughtful questions that made me think about this story in ways I missed and helped make it the story it always wanted to be.
Frances Soo Ping Chow, for an amazing cover and interior design.
Kate Forrestor, for your illustrations.
All my friends and family for their love, support, and inspiration, especially:
Mom, because I know you worried about me a lot and wondered if I was in a cult led by Robert Smith. I wasn’t. I just really liked music. And the color black. Dad, because unknowingly, I asked you if I could go get ice cream the day grandpa died. You said yes and hid your tears. Nancy and David, because each of you may be slightly demented by association. Katherine, because you’re strange and wonderful and you read this first. And Ava and Mateo, because each of you are certainly demented by association.
And Nando, always Nando, because you love me even though I’m slightly morbid. And because of so much more.
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JENNY TORRES SANCHEZ