18 Things

by Jamie Ayres

  “Okay, can we make a trade? Him for me? This is my fault. Please, do anything to me, but don’t take him. I understand if you need another soul or something, but why not me? Or maybe this is my wakeup call? I promise to do better, God. I’ll only think good thoughts. I’ll help the poor, the orphans, and the widows. Please forgive me, but don’t punish Conner. And, please, help me to be mindful of your presence from this day forward. I beg for your presence now. Jesus, please raise Conner from the dead.” I counted to thirty in my head, tears streaming down my face.

  Nothing.

  “Please, God! I’ll become a nun after graduation or a missionary in Africa. Anything you want, God.”

  I whispered those last four words over and over again until Dad’s hands gently squeezed my shoulders. “Other people need to say goodbye.”

  There was nothing left for me to do, except … I leaned down and whispered in his ear. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. I’ll spend the rest of my life loving you. I wish I would’ve told you sooner. I wish I could take your place right now. I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.”

  “How we remember, and what we remember,

  and why we remember form the most personal map

  of our individuality.”

  —Christina Baldwin

  Once I smashed my hand in the car door. The thought of returning to school today felt worse than that. I shoved my book bag into the backseat of Nicole’s idling silver Honda Civic.

  “Hey, Olga. How are you holding up?” she asked, hunched over her steering wheel. As her best friend, I could tell when her smile was a patent fake, plus, no amount of cucumber slices could cure the dark circles under her eyes.

  I took two puffs from my asthma inhaler. “Just drive.”

  She snapped her fingers. “I know just what you need. Some Espresso To Go.”

  What I need is Conner.

  We laid him to rest yesterday. I was so not ready for this, but Mom made me. Thought she knows best. I knew Mom wasn’t trying to be cruel, although at times, I wouldn’t put it past her. But she’s the kind of person who thought in practicalities. To her, going back to school seemed like the logical next step in moving on. If she let me stay home, then we were making Conner’s death even bigger, since as the probable valedictorian, I never missed school.

  She and Dad returned to work today too, always setting the ‘good’ example, even though they knew Conner well and grieved with me. Going back to normal was their way of coping with things. Usually I’d agree with being practical, but I was beyond that now. Conner’s death couldn’t be any bigger; I was the one responsible for not saving him.

  That’s the biggest truth that’ll ever affect my life.

  Nothing will ever be important to me again.

  Nic pulled up to the drive-thru coffee shop on the corner and ordered me a Snickers-flavored latte topped with whipped cream. I set the Styrofoam cup in the drink console without a sip, then flipped down the visor mirror.

  My glasses making me look like a female version of Harry Potter were all smudged, and I hadn’t even noticed.

  Odd. Though I hadn’t been aware of much this past week, aside from the gaping hole inside my chest where my heart used to be.

  I cleaned the lenses on my baggy sweater, then slid my glasses over my bloodshot eyes. They were so red I could barely see the blue pupils, but I tried to pat my frizzy red curls down through the blur. I hadn’t washed my hair the last three days, so I washed it three times this morning.

  Just to waste my time.

  I hoped I wouldn’t be ready when Nic picked me up and Mom would say I could stay home after all. No such luck.

  Sighing, I flipped the mirror back up and gazed out my window. Every perfect Victorian home mocked me. To everybody else, our town was the American Dream achieved. Lemonade stands and Dad-built tree houses in the backyard were standard.

  At the stoplight right before the school entrance, I took a swig of coffee to stop myself from crying, thinking about how Conner would never get to build his kids—our kids—a tree house someday.

  The light turned green and Nic whipped into the parking lot, brown liquid sloshing down the front of my black sweater.

  “Olga! Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry.”

  I opened her glove box to find some napkins.

  “No difference. Today hated me from the start. I don’t know what I’m doing here. Why don’t we just skip?”

  Nic parked, then leaned closer. The air was thick with flowery perfume, and her long straight hair the color of mourning tickled my skin. “Listen, I know this day is gonna suck. But you’re not alone. You have me, Sean, and Kyle to help you get through it. You’ve been my rock through so many things. Now it’s my turn.”

  She reached out, then held my hand. My nails were a disaster, bitten down to the quick with worry. Another pair of hands slamming on glass made me jump.

  Reporters shouted through my window.

  “Olga, sweetie, how have you been since the accident?”

  “Olga, do you have any words of encouragement for your fellow classmates today?”

  “Olga, is there something you wish you would’ve done differently on that night?”

  “Olga, what’s the last thing you remember before being knocked unconscious?”

  I guess they figured I’d had enough time to grieve, and now, they wanted their exclusive interview. Grand Haven was a small town, so someone dying from a lightning strike was big news … even a week later. Fortunately, our friends Sean and Kyle were already in the parking lot. I opened the door and heaved my overstuffed bag onto my shoulder, clutching my extra textbooks to my chest to conceal the coffee stain, and my friends blocked the cameras shoved in my face.

  Staring straight ahead through glassy eyes, I made my way to the front entrance. I’d never been drunk, but I probably looked like I was with my wobbly, uncertain steps. In fact, my whole body shook. My mind couldn’t even process what was happening. I knew today would be tough, but I never expected reporters.

  None of us said a word to each other. We wouldn’t have been able to hear if we tried. Nic just kept holding my hand and led the way as the parking lot became more like a frenzied mob at a boxing arena.

  Once we got inside, my gaze flickered to Conner’s locker, which was in the same hallway as mine. People wrote messages with markers on his actual locker. Flowers, cards, and pictures littered the floor around it. Notes were stuffed inside, pieces of paper overflowing out of the tiny slots. People shoved notes inside mine, too. Which I thought was weird because mostly everybody wrinkled their nose at me. Then again, maybe they weren’t making faces. Maybe my imagination was running wild with guilt.

  “Okay, I should get to my class,” Nic said as I spun the dial to my tiny compartment, wishing it were bigger so I could hide inside. “You gonna be okay, or do you want me to walk you?”

  The boys were in the office, telling the administrators about the reporters so they could get rid of them.

  “Go ahead. I’m fine.” Which couldn’t be more of a lie, but I hugged her and then trudged to my first period class anyway.

  Walking through halls and corridors seemed too surreal. Conner did the same thing just last week, with thousands of students who knew him or knew of him so well. Would any of them ask me how I was doing today? Would they want the low down on the accident? Or maybe they’d yell at me?

  “Yeah, everyone is totally blaming that girl Olga for his death. Because like, who dies from a lightning strike? I hear she was jealous he asked another girl named Tammy to prom, so she pushed him off the boat, and he actually drowned.”

  My stomach tightened, and I wished I would’ve taken Nic up on her offer to walk me to class.

  Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

  I wasn’t sure if they knew I walked behind them or not … it’s probable they didn’t even have a clue what I looked like. I wasn’t popular.

  Keep walking. You can cry later. I promise.

  I made it to my fi
rst period class without a tear, but now I was rooted to a spot outside the door, unsure if I could go through with this. Hiding out in the bathroom for the next forty-five minutes sounded better. I turned, thinking that was the best plan—

  “So let me get this straight.” Toe-touch Tammy, AKA head cheerleader bully and prettiest girl at school, stepped in front of me.

  The whole hallway seemed frozen. I had no doubt the crowd watched for Tammy’s response to my presence so they could copy her appropriately—like they did with everything else.

  “First, we have to tolerate you attending Conner’s funeral yesterday, when it was clear you killed him.” Her perfect posture was stiff, her stare fevered. “And now, we have to deal with you at school, too? Haven’t you ever heard of homeschooling, geek? Better yet, do us all a favor and find yourself a new town to live in so we never have to see your loser face again.”

  Someone lightly placed their hand on my shoulder. “That’s quite enough, Ms. Fitzgerald. Why don’t you all get to class. Now.”

  Tammy dropped her gaze to the ground in front of her, then walked away.

  I turned and found myself face to face with Mrs. Cleveland, my AP English and Journalism teacher. The onlookers shuffled through the hall, still staring at me and whispering to each other.

  “I’m glad you came to school today, Olga. If you need anything, anything, you know where my room is.” She squeezed my shoulder.

  “Thanks, but I better get to class or I’m gonna be late.” Suddenly class sounded so much better than having a heart-to-heart with a teacher, even if she was my favorite.

  Unfortunately, my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Davis, kept encouraging everyone to voice their thoughts and feelings during class. She meant well, putting out some punch and cookies, wanting my return to school to be ‘a positive experience.’

  All of it made things ten times worse. I would’ve preferred a confrontation with Tammy over this. Mrs. Davis set up the desks in a semi-circle, and the students took turns talking about Conner. The discussion caused me only more anger that he died, and not punching a hole in the wall took everything I had. When the bell rang, I headed straight to the office and called Dad to pick me up.

  At least he couldn’t say I didn’t try.

  Dad dropped me off at home a half-hour later and lingered for a bit.

  “Don’t tell Mom,” he said, running a wrinkled hand through his gray hair before leaving to head back to work.

  When I heard his car start, I spread the notes on my bed to read. They weren’t the condolence kind of letters; they were full of the things I suspected my fellow classmates felt all week long. The boy they loved was gone, and the one they viewed as responsible still walked among them. Notes detailed the steps of treating hypothermia so I wouldn’t kill anybody else, asking how a genius girl could be so dumb. Notes telling me my ashes should be spread over Lake Michigan, not Conner’s, so why didn’t I just kill myself?

  I didn’t hold hard feelings toward my anonymous writers, as their thoughts echoed mine. One note wasn’t really a note at all but Conner’s obituary cut from a newspaper. I never even thought to look at the newspaper headlines through all my grief during the past week.

  Conner Anderson was granted his angel wings on April 1, 2012. His life would seem too short to many, and although this may be true, those who were touched by him understand the quality of existence far exceeds the quantity of time in which one lives.

  His sense of humor, his kind smile, and his giving heart brought much joy to family and friends. He enjoyed music and was the lead singer of a local teen indie band titled the Cantankerous Monkey Squad. He was also captain of the Grand Haven High School competitive sailing team.

  Conner is survived by his loving parents, Robert and Loria Anderson of Grand Haven, MI; sister Megan Anderson; paternal grandparents Bob and Arletta Anderson; and maternal grandparents John and Maxine Bergeron.

  A memorial service will be held at the Christian Reformed Church off Lakeshore Drive at 11:00 a.m. on Monday, April 8th.

  My heart beat so fast it hurt, the claws of grief threatening to rip it out of my chest. If I looked up the news reports, would they blame me? Would I discover all the threats of my classmates were warranted? I hadn’t looked before, but I had to now.

  OTTAWA COUNTY LIGHTNING STRIKE

  TEEN KILLED, GIRL SURVIVES

  [FROM THE GRAND HAVEN TRIBUNE,

  APRIL 2, 2012, REPORTER MELISSA TRACY]

  A seventeen-year-old boy struck by lightning on Lake Michigan has died, authorities said late Tuesday night. A girl, who was also on the sailboat when the lightning struck, survived.

  Ottawa County Coroner, Michael Wallen, told the Grand Haven Tribune that Conner Anderson died at the North Ottawa Community Hospital from heart failure, following injuries from the lightning strike.

  Paramedic John Croley told GHT that the teens rented a sailboat around three o’clock yesterday afternoon, and Anderson was struck by lightning around eight. The strike caused him to fly off the boat and into the frigid waters of Lake Michigan. Since the teens weren’t wearing life jackets, the seventeen-year-old girl, Olga Worontzoff, had to jump into the water to retrieve Anderson. After swimming back to the boat, with Anderson’s body draped over a lifebuoy, she managed to dial 9-1-1 on Anderson’s cell phone. That’s when she apparently noticed Anderson wasn’t breathing and administered CPR before being rendered unconscious when a gust of wind knocked the sailboat boom into the back of her head.

  Anderson was in cardiac arrest when the Coast Guard arrived and was pronounced dead at the hospital an hour later. Worontzoff regained consciousness while being loaded into the ambulance on shore, Croley said, and was treated for a Grade 3 concussion and moderate hypothermia at the hospital before being released.

  This article and others flashing on my laptop screen suggested the lightning strike wasn’t the only factor contributing to Conner’s death, that he didn’t receive the proper care in time. Nicole and my parents had spared my feelings. I guess that’s why the news crews were at school; they were trying to get my side of the story. Again, I’d agree with them. I was surprised there hadn’t been a citizen’s arrest for not doing more to save Conner’s life.

  I should be in jail right now.

  No medicine existed that could help me get over losing my best friend, my soul mate. But a bottle of prescription pain meds the hospital gave me sat on my nightstand, next to a glass of water. It still had ice floating on top. Mom brought it in this morning with a cup of applesauce, a piece of peanut butter toast, and a sliced banana. I still wasn’t hungry. I didn’t think I would ever be hungry again.

  I didn’t want Mom to add anorexia to her list of worries for me, but how could I eat when I felt like puking all the time? My body shook with sobs.

  Blood pounded faster than normal behind my ears, a panic attack on the horizon. My throat burned, so I sipped my water. The glass shook because my hand was unsteady, but I left the pills alone. I figured I deserved my pain and lay down.

  Although I desperately felt the need to sleep more, I couldn’t force my eyelids shut with the guilt of responsibility gnawing at my insides. Tears wouldn’t stop, but after an hour of hearing myself weep, I couldn’t stand the noise anymore. I reached for my iPod and scrolled until I found the playlist for Cantankerous Monkey Squad, then hit the arrow button seven times until the title Haunted displayed on the screen.

  This was the most recent song he wrote before they laid down the tracks to produce their first album a few months ago. Conner’s rich parents paid for the whole thing as part of his Christmas present. I cranked up the tiny speakers, drowning out my sobs, and heard Kyle tapping out the beat and Sean strumming his guitar at the beginning of the song before Conner’s voice filled my ears.

  “We ain’t the same children who scared the other neighborhood kids/ When we made spooky sounds from the closet where he hid/ We ain’t the same best friends who up on my backyard hill/ Engraved our initials on that old oak for summer th
rills/ We ain’t the same homies who to Detroit we’d go/ Just so my bro could hook up with some hoes/ Well, maybe I’ll make my dreams come true someday/ Move to Florida and have a son that bears my name/ But in this haunted house there’s danger in every direction/ I pray to God he would give me some protection/ And in this haunted house we’re not the same people/ But you, my friends, are my sanctuary, my steeple/ I hope if I die young, I’ll find my way back home/ So you’ll feel me and know you’re not alone/ In this haunted house.”

  Kyle went all out with his long drum solo at the end, and it felt like a metaphor for how I’d been battling my emotions. The words to Conner’s song were truly haunting, like a premonition. He wrote the song in October, inspired by Halloween, even wanted me and the rest of our friends to spend the night in a real haunted house.

  I’d joked with him, asking, “What—the one we created in sixth grade doesn’t count?”

  “Not a ghost of a chance,” was his response, typical corniness.

  The song told briefly about our haunted house. We didn’t care if it was summer. We’d devised a plan, made invitations, and delivered them to the neighborhood kids’ mailboxes. Nicole dressed up as a witch and stood in Conner’s foyer, greeting children and stirring dried ice in her cauldron. She led them into the kitchen, where Conner’s sister stuck the kids’ hands in bowls covered with napkins. I thought she used JELL-O and put weird stuff in there, and the kids guessed what they touched. Then Kyle, dressed as a zombie, led them upstairs to where Conner and I told a scary story in the dark with the flashlights shining on our white-painted faces. Sean hid in the closet, making spooky sound effects. At the climax, I led them out of the room, screaming down the stairs. Except I tripped on the last step, and everyone tumbled on top of me. I split my lip open on the hardwood floor, and Loria took me for stitches. That was the only time I visited a hospital, until last week.

  Last week … because of last week, Conner will never get to move to Florida, never have a son, and it’s entirely my fault. Holding up the bottle of pain pills, I read the labels. I hadn’t taken any yet. The directions said to take with a small meal because the medication may cause drowsiness or dizziness. The instructions stated I was only supposed to take one tablet a day.