by Jill Orr
“I don’t know.” I pushed back from the table and brought my mostly untouched plate to the sink. “I’m just saying suicide seems so incongruent with everything we know about Jordan.”
“Riley.” Her voice was a warning.
“What?” I said again, trying to sound all causal and innocent. I turned my back to the table under the guise of rinsing the plate. “I’m just saying.…”
A few seconds later, I felt warm hands on my shoulders. “Honey.” Mom spoke softly and smoothed my hair with her fingers. “Sometimes a suicide is just a suicide. It’s a terrible thing. A cruel, unfair, and heartbreaking thing. But it happens.”
I knew she was talking as much about Granddaddy as she was about Jordan. I’d heard this speech before. My parents had been quick to accept the “official” cause of his death as a self-inflicted gunshot wound. I had not.
It had been five years, but I still remembered every detail of the night he died. I was home from college for Labor Day weekend and had the TV on in the kitchen. My parents weren’t yet back from their gig in Williamsburg, and Ryan was hunting with his dad, so I was alone eating a frozen Amy’s enchilada meal when I heard Rafe Richardson on Channel 7 announce:
Albert Ellison, longtime obituary writer for the Richmond Tribune, has been found dead from a single gunshot to the head in his home in Tuttle Corner, Virginia. He was sixty-seven years old. Ellison led a storied career writing obituaries for such celebrities as Joe DiMaggio, Princess Diana, Johnny Cash, King Hussein of Jordan, Kevin Newman, Betty Page, and Ronald Regan, among others. But he was perhaps most famous for his series on the twenty-eight schoolchildren killed in the Bridgeport school shooting in 2009. Ellison wrote a complete, individualized obituary for each child murdered that day. When some of the obits were denied due to space constraints, he famously paid out of his own pocket for a four-page spread in the Tribune to run them all. His body was discovered by a neighbor earlier this morning. Authorities are investigating the cause of death but do not believe foul play was involved. In other news.…
But there was no other news. Not for me. Not ever. Sheriff Joe Tackett ended up closing the case out as a suicide three days later, which was ridiculous. I pleaded with him to investigate his death as a homicide, but he wouldn’t listen. He said all the evidence clearly pointed to a self-inflicted gunshot wound: gun held at close range, angled slightly upward, burn on the side of his temple, gunpowder residue on his hands. They said it was textbook. Except for two things: Granddad didn’t own a gun, and he wasn’t suicidal.
After Tackett shut me down, I went to Granddaddy’s best friend and colleague for over forty years, Hal Flick, and begged him for help. He knew Granddad better than anyone. He had to know Granddad would never have killed himself. But Flick wouldn’t discuss it. Wouldn’t listen to my theory that maybe something he was working on got him killed. Wouldn’t use his connections to look into it more deeply.
“Let it go, Riley,” he’d said to me the last time I’d seen him. He shook his head sadly and said, “Let Albert rest in peace now.”
But I didn’t. I wrote a scathing op-ed about the shoddy police work by Sheriff Tackett, citing all the inconsistencies and details that made me certain my grandfather had not killed himself. Flick tried to talk me out of publishing it, said I’d regret it, but I didn’t listen. And the then-editor-in-chief was all too happy to run it, knowing it would be widely read. People in small towns love it when one of their own goes off the rails. It ran in the Sunday edition of the Times and was the talk of the town for a solid month. But since I had little more than my own gut feeling to back up my claims of foul play, everyone, including my own parents, thought I was just a young woman overwrought with grief. They suggested I took his death personally since we were so close. Ryan was the only person who believed me, or at least didn’t look at me like I was crazy. Instead he held me tight and told me to give ’em hell. It was one of the things that made our bond so strong. And his leaving so painful.
“Mom, that’s not what I’m saying.” I wriggled free from her grasp and ducked back toward the table to begin clearing up.
“Good,” she said. “Because you’ve been given a great honor to help the Jameses write Jordan’s final tribute.”
“And I know you’ll do a bang-up job!” Dad smiled at me. I rolled my eyes. I swear if you cut my father, he would bleed maple syrup.
“Why do you think she asked me?” I said, voicing the concern that had been gnawing at me ever since my conversation with Mrs. James.
“Because you’re a talented writer,” Dad said. “You were Dad’s prodigy!”
It was impossible to get an honest answer out of my dad if it meant implying I wasn’t the best in the world at something. I ignored him and looked at my mom.
“I’m sure she’s just overwhelmed,” she said. “And you girls were so close—remember you had that cute column together?”
“Yeah, but I hadn’t seen in her years.”
“Maybe that’s why? Your memories of Jordan are from a more innocent time. Before whatever happened happened, you know?”
I nodded, but that explanation didn’t fully satisfy me. I had a feeling that whatever the reason Mrs. James had for wanting me to write Jordan’s obit would end up coming back to my granddad. It seemed like most things in my life did.
Dear Ms. Ellison:
My name is Regina H, and I will be your personal romance concierge here at Click.com, your electronic gateway to love! On behalf of everyone at the company, I’d like to congratulate you on the smart choice to join thousands of other top-tier singles who are looking for the best way to forge lasting and meaningful relationships using today’s latest technology!
I’d like to thank you for filling out the twenty-three-page questionnaire, uploading the requisite photos, and setting up the monthly auto-debit. I’m thrilled to report that your hard work has already paid off! A highly eligible Click.com member has already placed an arrow in your quiver! #thatwasfast #yougogirl
Ajay257 is a desirable prospect by any measure! A criminology professor at Cardwell College, Ajay257 enjoys hiking, biking, and spending time outdoors. He is an animal lover (prefers dogs) and recently moved to Tuttle County. He says he is looking to meet a nice girl he can spend time with. #awwww
It is in that spirit of fun and adventure that Ajay257 would like to take you on a date to King’s Dominion amusement park. #howcuteisthat Please let me know if you would like to accept. I urge you to remember that in the “Additional Thoughts” section of the questionnaire, you specifically said it was time you “got off your butt and rejoined the land of the living.” #hereisyourchance
I look forward to hearing from you.
Best,
Regina H, Personal Romance Concierge, Click.com
CHAPTER 4
It seemed absurd to be on a date—at an amusement park no less—one day after finding out about Jordan’s death, but there I was. I’ve always hated amusement parks, with their nausea-inducing rides and incessant cheer, but when Ajay257 asked me out, I said yes, because that is what someone who is leaning into life would do. I told myself Jordan’s death was a sign for me to live life while I had the chance. I told myself maybe I didn’t really hate roller coasters. Maybe I really loved them and was just holding myself back?
Turns out, I really hated them.
Riley Ellison, twenty-four, shelf clerk at Tuttle Corner Library, perished while riding a rollercoaster aptly named the Hurler while on a blind date at the King’s Dominion amusement park.
The date had started out promising. Ajay257 was true to his profile picture—cute, with olive skin, dark eyes, and hair that had been styled into place with just the right amount of gel. If there was one thing I could not abide in a man, it was too much hair gel. I watched him wait for me in front of the ticket office, and he looked nervous, which I found reassuring and even a little emboldening. It was that false sense of swagger that landed me on the Hurler. I should have known better.
“You
ready?” Ajay asked. I nodded without looking at him; I kept my eyes straight ahead. As the car began its slow ascent, I couldn’t help but notice it was getting harder to breathe. I took a deep breath. Yes, there was definitely a slip-through-your-lungs quality not present at lower elevations. I wondered if anyone ever asphyxiated from the air being too thin at the top of a ride?
Ellison had a previously undiagnosed condition that prevented her lungs from processing the anemic air molecules found at higher altitudes, like those at the crest of Hurler Hill. Tragically, her death could have been prevented if she would have simply been honest in her online dating profile.
“You’re gonna love this,” Ajay said.
I suppose it’s possible he sounded so confident because on my Click.com profile I checked the box next to, “I have a need for speed.” Which isn’t exactly true. The truth was I had a need for air. Thick, dense air found approximately five feet, four inches off the ground. I must have had three-legged-race PTSD when I filled out that profile.
There were two teenage boys sitting behind us. Teenage boys are like wasps when it comes to sensing fear, and they zeroed in on mine. One kid said loudly to the other, “Remember when that lady fell out at the top of the second loop last year?”
“Dude, they were scraping her off the pavement for months. You can still see the stain!”
A tiny whimper escaped my throat. Ajay leaned toward me and whispered, “Don’t listen to them.” But he was smiling, like he thought they were funny or something. The desperate, rapidly fading swagger inside me waged one last battle and forced out a chuckle like, Ha! This is all so fun! And funny! And who cares that we are about to plunge to our deaths? Fear, bile, and hot dog churned in my gut. In my quest to lean into life, I had downed a hot dog and a beer minutes before getting on the Hurler. Not the wisest choice for a sometimes-vegan with a nervous stomach.
I snuck a glance at Ajay. He was definitely a cutie—very masculine looking with his five o’clock shadow and squared-off jaw. He wasn’t all that tall, maybe five-ten, but he was solidly built and lean, the kind of body of someone who stays active but doesn’t necessarily lift weights. And he looked younger than he did in his picture online. I tried to imagine walking into a criminology class and finding this guy as the professor. I bet he had a lot of female students asking for extra tutoring. And I’d bet any one of them would have traded places with me on that roller coaster. If only.
Our metal death box finally lurched its way to the top and then stopped. The evil geniuses who design these torture traps love this part: the interminable moment when you know you are about to be plunged into oblivion but you are powerless to stop it. My lungs went into overdrive, desperately processing the too-thin bird-air, in and out, in and out, in and out. If I got lucky, maybe I’d pass out and miss the whole thing.
The seconds ticked by, and I knew that if I survived, the only thing that awaited me after fifty-seven seconds of sheer torture was the humiliation of vomiting in front of Ajay257. He looked over at me, his dazzling smile not quite as wide as it had been before. He might have been catching on that I wasn’t one hundred percent into this. “You okay?” he asked.
I was so not okay. I was paralyzed by fear. I couldn’t even look at him, but I think I shook my head no just as the punk behind me leaned forward and said, “Huh? I wonder where this screw came from?” With that, the car jerked forward and we were off.
Dear Miss Ellison:
I was sorry to hear of your less than enthusiastic response to your date with Ajay257. Roller coasters can be frightening, despite the 47-inch height requirement. As you requested, I sent a communication to Ajay257 expressing your apologies for all the crying and your extended stay in the ladies room. You will be relieved to know that he didn’t hear you when you screamed “I hate you” during the second loop-de-loop. He thought you said, “I hate this.” I assured him that’s what you meant to say! And you should know, he declined your offer to reimburse him the $39.99 for your ticket to the theme park and the $20 you offered for his dry cleaning bill. #chivalryisnotdead! Please note that I corrected your profile to select the box “I prefer to keep my feet on the ground.” That should help with any further date-planning mishaps!
I am also writing with the exciting news that another Click.com member has recently put an arrow in your quiver! An avid Star Wars fan, BenjiC3PO enjoys cosplay, screen printing T-shirts with “bad ass” sayings, and writing fan fiction online. But those aren’t the only things he is interested in. He also lists Harry Potter, The Lord of the Rings, and playing Magic: The Gathering under “Other Interests.” BenjiC3PO has asked me to tell you that he’d like to take you to a park not so far, far, away and prepare a magical feast for you to share under the stars. #hiswordingnotmine
If you’d like to accept BenjiC3PO’s offer, please let me know, and I can coordinate a mutually agreeable time.
Best,
Regina H, Personal Romance Concierge, Click.com
CHAPTER 5
So far, my plan to change my life was not going well. I’d vomited on the first date I’d had with a new guy in more than seven years, and instead of reconnecting with my old friend, I was writing her obituary. I told myself that if there was anything good to be found in the wake of Jordan’s death, it was a reminder that life was fragile, fleeting, and a gift not to be wasted. Her dying the way she had both strengthened my resolve to fix my life and terrified me, because if someone like Jordan James couldn’t make it in this life, what hope was there for a girl like me?
Throughout the day at work, I stole moments of down time to jot down notes and questions for the obit. I desperately wanted the finished product to reflect the feisty, take-no-prisoners girl I’d known back in school. The girl who came to our third-grade class the day after being diagnosed with diabetes and announced, “My doctor says my pancreas quit working. So now I have to get shots every day, and I can’t drink soda, which is no big deal because I don’t like soda that much, and I’m not afraid of needles.”
Mrs. James had called me that morning to let me know Jordan’s funeral wouldn’t be until next week because they were waiting on Mr. James’s mother, who was recovering from surgery and couldn’t travel till then. When I asked her when she wanted the obit to run, she said, “In a town this size, the weekly newspaper isn’t giving anybody breaking news, honey. It’s more about having a permanent record. I’d rather you take all the time you need to make sure it feels right.” I was relieved to hear her say that. I knew I had a lot of information gathering to do to illuminate the woman Jordan had become and do her memory justice.
Tabitha came into the back room as I was gathering my things to leave just before five o’clock. “Listen, if you don’t have anything going on tonight, could you stay to finish up the bio section?” Tabitha knew that I didn’t exactly have an active social calendar and she liked to take advantage of it when she could. I’d stayed late several times in the past few months for her because I’d figured it was better than going home to an empty house.
“I can’t tonight.”
She turned to me, a wry smile on her sharply angled face. “Don’t tell me you actually have a date?” Tabitha loved to tease me about being single while simultaneously throwing in my face her engagement to Thad, her ultra-snobby doctor boyfriend whose family owned half the land in Tuttle Corner. Thad told me we could move onto his father’s estate once we’re married. Thad says I’m the most beautiful librarian he’s ever seen. Thad can do thirty push-ups with me sitting on his back!
“Nope. No date,” I said, my mind flashing back to Ajay257.
“Then stay. It’ll free me up to concentrate on some of our bigger-picture issues, like the interlibrary-loan cooperation plan.”
I sighed loudly. Tabitha wore me out with her I’m-more-important-than-you attitude. “Tabitha, do you remember Jordan James from high school?” I waited until she gave me a small nod. “Well, she died two days ago. And her mom asked me to write her obituary, so I’m a little busy.”
Tabitha’s mouth froze into a small “o” shape. I knew it was cheap to throw Jordan’s death on her like that, but it felt good to shut her up for once.
“I didn’t know you two were so close.” Her voice was softer now, contrite.
“Well,” I cleared my throat, “you don’t know everything then, do you?”
Tabitha looked down, and guilt settled upon my shoulders. Not only had I used Jordan’s death to justify not working late, but now I’d misrepresented my relationship with her to make Tabitha feel bad. Even if she was a self-important know-it-all, it still wasn’t right to exploit what happened with Jordan for my own purposes.
But before I had a chance to apologize, she said, “My mom told me she’d passed away but didn’t know exactly what happened. Was it her diabetes?”
For some reason, saying suicide felt like a betrayal, like I was giving too much of Jordan’s private life away. I knew she’d find out what happened eventually, but I wasn’t going to be the one to say it. I averted my eyes and muttered, “I’m not sure. They’re still looking into it.”
When I got to the Tuttle Times office, I was greeted by Kay Jackson, the paper’s managing editor. She looked like your typical mid-market newspaper journalist: tired, stressed, and heavily caffeinated. She’d moved down to Tuttle from Delaware, and though she’d been here for four years, she was still considered the new kid by many. I had never met her before, but she seemed nice enough to me.
Kay talked quickly as she walked me back to Julia’s cubicle. “Such a shame,” she said without looking back. “Good kid. Good reporter.” As we walked, she pointed out the departments in one-word descriptions, which was apt, as most were one-desk departments. “Classifieds. Crime. City. Obits.” These days, the obits that ran in the Times were almost always sent in by family or funeral homes, which made them, technically, death notices and not true obituaries. Dwindling sales and budgets forced many smaller papers to cut positions for obituary writers. But every now and then when a person with strong ties to the community died, they’d write an original or, in the case of someone famous, pick one up from the AP wire. I’d actually seen only one original in the past five years; it had been Granddaddy’s.