by Xenia Ruiz
The days following Tony’s death were shrouded in haziness as I went into automatic pilot, making arrangements to transfer his body to Chicago, for Eli’s discharge and subsequent assistance at home, and for the funeral. On the outside, I appeared to be the picture of rationality, the strong woman, a faithful believer who didn’t question God. Internally, I was deteriorating slowly, day by day. When Eli broke down and said he couldn’t live without his brother, I told him he would. While everyone cried and mourned around me, it was I who comforted them.
It gave me a little comfort knowing that Tony was saved the year before, but it wasn’t enough to smother the pain of what his loss would mean in my life. Everyone said it would, with time. But I knew my wounds would not be healed with bandages or medicine or time, I didn’t care what anyone said. I knew that every time I looked at his pictures, every year on his birthday, whenever I thought of him, I would be reminded that he was dead and he would never graduate or marry or give me grandchildren or grow old. And I knew these things only had merit in this temporary world we called life. I knew they were insignificant things compared to the greater glory, but he was my son and I wanted to hold on to my memories of him, the dear things I would never have, for as long as I could. I knew no matter what, there would always be a hole in my heart.
At the funeral, there were family members I hadn’t seen or heard from in years, many of Tony’s classmates from college and high school. The church was filled to capacity, and it seemed everyone had only good memories of Tony. I vaguely remembered Johnny, teary-eyed, hugging me, his words of condolence undecipherable. Many of my coworkers came, including Dana, Rashid, and the dean. I was so calm and quiet, I scared Maya and Simone, who tried everything to get me to talk. Through it all, I kept it together, even consoling Anthony’s mother when she collapsed at Tony’s casket. Tony had always been her favorite.
My Aunt Titi, who comforted me and Maya during the difficult years after our mother’s death, came up to me at the burial site, after everyone else had long drifted away. I hadn’t seen her in a couple of years since she left for Puerto Rico to care for my sick grandmother. She was booked on a flight back to the island that night.
“Estoy muy preocupada por ti,” she said, and at first, I found it difficult to translate the words into English in my muddled mind. It took me a few seconds to interpret the words: I’m very worried about you.
“Why?” I answered in English.
“I haven’t seen you cry at all,” she said, switching to English. “You need to cry, mija.”
“I’ve got the rest of my life to cry,” I said. I didn’t know why I had yet to cry. Perhaps I was too angry. Perhaps I was afraid if I started, I would never stop.
After the repast, Maya and Simone offered to stay and help me clean the house into the night. I knew the minute I fell asleep, I would dream about Tony, and when I woke up, his death would be more real. Since Eli’s room was in the finished basement, we switched my bedroom with his, to make it easier for him to get around in his wheelchair. Thankfully, Tony’s room was in the converted attic; I wouldn’t have to pass it by since I had no reason to climb the stairs. Eventually, I would have to clean it, but that day would not come for a long time.
“Alex agreed to go to counseling,” Maya said, making my bed. “We found this husband and wife team who do marital therapy. They both have Ph.D.’s and they’re Christian. And they’re a biracial couple, which is the main reason Alex agreed.”
I was scrubbing down the walls, something I hadn’t done since I moved in.
“Eva, did you hear what I said?”
“I heard you, hon. That’s nice.” Although I had my back to them, I could feel them giving each other looks and gesturing behind my back.
“Did I tell you I’ve given up Zephyr and Ian?” Simone announced. “Cold turkey. I told them that I had to find out what the Creator had in store for me. They both said I had lost my mind. But I told them, ‘on the contrary, I think I just found it.’” She laughed.
“Isn’t that great, Eva?” Maya asked. “I think Ms. S’Monée’s on her way to getting saved.”
“Now, I didn’t say all that,” Simone said.
I should have been happy. My sister had decided to save her marriage while my best friend was trying to save herself. It had taken my son’s death to make them see what was precious and important. Because of my loss, every mother at TCCC would hug her child just a little tighter at night, every father would be less harsh the next time he had to discipline his child. My loss would serve as a lesson to anyone who had taken life for granted. Death had a funny way of scaring people straight.
It was almost midnight when we finished. They tried to spend the night but I pushed them out the door. They knew that when my mind was made up, there was no changing it.
Eli had fallen asleep on the sofa bed, so I didn’t disturb him. Still avoiding my own bed, I decided to clean out the drawers of the dining room hutch. In the bottom drawer, I came across the sympathy cards and letters where I had tossed them as they came in, without reading them. I couldn’t read the words, “I’m sorry for your loss” without reading, “I’m glad it wasn’t my child.” I opened them one by one, scanning them quickly. There were cards from neighbors, coworkers, parishioners, Cara and Rashid, even one from Johnny.
And then there was a padded envelope from Adam. Maya had mentioned that she got a call from Adam and I half-expected him at the wake or funeral. When he didn’t show, I was disappointed, but at the same time relieved because I wasn’t ready to face him. Inside the envelope, there was a gift wrapped in Christmas paper with brown-skinned, curly-haired angels. I didn’t have to open it to know it was a CD. There was also a brand new, clean copy of his book of poems. On the title page of the book an inscription read: Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all. Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised. Below that, he had signed his name in Spanish: Adán. On the dedication page, he had written: I am so sorry about your son. I miss you. Call me. With a composure that was becoming a typical and normal emotion for me, I placed everything inside the envelope and put it back into the drawer.
Day by day, Eli became morose and distant, and it was evident that he was taking Tony’s death especially hard. He barely spoke to the point of muteness, never asked for anything, and responded in grunts or monosyllables whenever I tried to initiate conversation. If some news update or feature about the shooting came on, he would quickly change the channel. He unbraided his hair but wouldn’t let me rebraid it, nor would he untangle it. Getting him to bathe and shave was a battle. King sensed that Eli was not the same master who played and teased him. He barked constantly at the wheelchair for the first few days, before settling down at Eli’s feet whenever Eli sat listlessly in front of the TV, or followed him as he rolled aimlessly throughout the house.
It was hard to tell if Eli’s weekly visits to the therapist were helping since he wasn’t speaking. I also had sessions with Kahinde, the therapist, who was a faith-based counselor. Although she couldn’t divulge the specifics of their conversations, she assured me that Eli’s moods were normal considering what he had been through. She diagnosed Eli with posttraumatic stress disorder and said it could be months before his mood would change or he was back to normal, with God’s help, of course. Kahinde insisted on concentrating on my own therapy sessions, but when I told her I had already accepted Tony’s death as God’s will, she decided I was in denial. Since she was the expert, I didn’t disagree with her or argue when she insisted on extending my sessions.
Anthony stopped by more often to visit Eli, which seemed to lift his spirits, especially since Anthony had never visited the house. We talked very little about our past together, concentrating on the topic of Eli’s recovery.
The week after Tony’s funeral, Anthony and I were having coffee in the dining room, talking quietly while Eli slept, something he was doing a lot of lately. It had been years since we had talked face-to-fa
ce. Most of our conversations had always been over the phone or from car windows when dropping off or picking up the boys when they were younger.
“I think he needs to go back to school,” Anthony said.
“When he wants to go back, he’ll go back. And I doubt he wants to go back there.”
“A lot of the students have gone back.”
“A lot of the students didn’t get shot.”
“The sooner he goes back, the better off he’ll be.”
“I see. He should just pretend nothing happened,” I said, my voice rising.
“No, Eva, that’s not what I’m saying. But he can’t let this incident define his whole life.”
His statement made me angry, something I had reserved for my son’s killer. As selfish as it sounded, I wanted the world to stop for a while and acknowledge my son’s death. It didn’t seem fair that everyone was going about their daily lives when Tony no longer could.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not one of those people who thinks life should go on,” I told him, abruptly clearing the table. “I think he should be as angry and as sad for as long as he needs to. I’m sick of people acting like getting shot is something we have to live with! Like, oh well, it’s a sign of the times.” I stopped because my voice was quivering and I didn’t want to get hysterical in front of Anthony. “Did you forget his brother was killed?”
Anthony glared at me, his chin sticking out and trembling. “He was my son.”
My heart softened for him, but only for a moment. I exhaled and lowered my voice. “He’ll go back when he’s ready.”
Anthony got up and when he moved toward me, I looked at him like he was crazy. “Come here,” he said, his voice low and gentle. It had been twenty years since his voice had pacified me and a part of me wanted to collapse against him, find comfort in his embrace. It didn’t take much to please me back then.
“No,” I said sharply.
When he advanced, I retreated and he backed off, shaking his head. “Still Tough Diva-Eva,” he scoffed. He didn’t understand; it wasn’t his arms I wanted to be in.
I took a family medical leave from work, partly because I didn’t want to go on with “business as usual,” but mostly because I was afraid Eli would hurt himself, although he never specifically threatened to do anything. For the most part, I continued going to church, but my heart wasn’t in it. I sang and clapped during praise and worship, going through the motions. Once, during spiritual emphasis week, I caught my reflection in one of the church’s mirrors and I was amazed at how normal I looked, as if nothing had happened. Tough Diva-Eva. Eli, who had always viewed church as a social gathering where he could flirt with church girls, refused to go at all.
At the gym, the punching bag became the killer, the NRA, all the senseless, stupid violence that threatened the world on a daily basis, and forever changed my life and that of my sons. Ordinarily, I didn’t like to sweat, but as it trickled from every pore, it was as if my body were weeping, compensating for my dry eyes.
New Year’s Day came and left. All of the TV channels ran stories about the year in review, featuring the shootings at ISU as one of three major incidents of gun violence that had occurred. I couldn’t watch any of it. I couldn’t understand how the parents of the murdered students could talk to reporters about their personal pain, crying on camera for all the world to see. It all seemed so sadistic. I turned down all requests for interviews. One reporter was especially persistent, speaking to me in Spanish as if that would make me open up to her. My patience worn, I finally told her in Spanish, “When your son is killed, then we can talk.” She stopped calling.
After a few weeks, Eli’s moods did change—for the worse. He became angry and nasty, prone to sudden outbursts of violence. Whenever King climbed the stairs to Tony’s room and whined at the door, Eli yelled or threw objects at him. Out of the blue, he would punch the walls or anything in his way, making dents in the refrigerator, dishwasher, and a hole in the pantry’s faux wood door. With his hair turning into untamed dreadlocks, he began to look like a deranged homeless man.
Finally, after he punched yet another dent in the fridge, I confronted him, gripping the armrests of his wheelchair and leaning into his face, his wild, untamed hair hanging in his apathetic eyes. “Look, if you want to hit something, you can come to the gym with me and we’ll hit the bag together. But do not take your anger out on my house. I know you’re angry, but making me angry is not going to make your life easier.”
“Leave me alone!” he snapped, trying to wheel the chair around me. I held on to it. He screamed louder, “Get out of my face!”
“If you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine. But don’t scream at me, okay?”
He bit his bottom lip and looked away. I knew he was on the verge of breaking down into tears and he was trying hard not to do it in front of me, so I left him alone.
As I walked away, I heard him mutter under his breath, “I told you I didn’t want to go away to school.”
I stopped, and turned languidly around to face him.
He was glaring at me through his snarled hair with a hatred in his eyes I had never seen. He had always been the good-natured one, who could make me laugh with his mischievous smile, a smile I hadn’t seen in weeks.
“You should’ve let me join the air force like I wanted. This never would’ve happened. Tony would still be alive.”
I stood paralyzed, as his words sunk in. I couldn’t think of a response to defend myself or to console him, so I grabbed my keys and left the house. I thought of driving to Montrose, but with the exception of the day Adam and I broke up, it had been my sanctuary and I was in no mood to feel good.
When I returned later that night after driving around aimlessly, the house was dark and eerily quiet. I had driven by Simone’s place, and then Maya’s house, but the last thing I wanted to do was talk. I then drove by Adam’s building and noticed his windows were dark. I didn’t want to talk to him; I just wanted to feel that pang of desire sweep through me once more, to force myself to remember the feelings I could never allow him to ignite again.
As I walked down the hallway, I heard the faint sound of snipping and found Eli in the darkened bathroom. Flipping the light switch, I watched in horror as he haphazardly clipped his hair, his long tangled brown locks floating to the floor. He hadn’t cut his hair in five years.
“Elias,” I gasped, when I found my voice.
“I was watching the History Channel,” he said in dull, flat tone. “Did you know the Indians used to cut their hair when somebody died?”
I watched him wordlessly as he continued clipping, his eyes distant and dazed, recalling the times I had braided his hair, oiled his scalp, some of our most cherished bonding moments. After a while, I gestured for the scissors and he surrendered them silently, remaining immobile as I finished the job. Then I took the electric clippers and gave him a nice fade. I ran my hand over his smooth new cut, remembering his misshapen newborn head, recalling how Tony’s head felt, the last part of him I kissed. Realizing that it had been some time since I kissed Eli, I bent to kiss his head, but he saw me leaning in the mirror and flinched away from me. Tears filled my eyes but I held them back.
“Cut it lower,” he said. “Like Tony’s.”
In the empty space in my heart, I felt a stab of pain and I clutched at my chest. It was all I could do to keep from bawling when I heard him say his brother’s name.
* * *
As the days went by, things improved somewhat for both of us. There were times when I began to feel some semblance of my old life returning, but then I’d remember Tony was forever gone, that things would never be the same.
One evening, just as I was turning off a news program after yet another story regarding the shootings, I caught a clip of the makeshift memorial students had erected in front of the dorm with stuffed animals, flowers, posters with messages, and photos. As the camera panned the memorial, I saw Tony’s yearbook photo and I literally got sick, making it to the bathr
oom just in time. The last thing I wanted was to remember the site where my son had met his fate.
Eli’s leg was in a cast for six weeks and as soon as it came off, he seemed to come to life. With a brace on his leg, he was able to get around with more ease. Using a cane, he took King on short walks and began to shoot baskets in the yard.
One day, I caught him standing in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom, staring at the scars on his bare torso: one in his chest, one in his belly. I leaned in the doorway and he glanced at me in the mirror.
“Ma, look,” he said, chuckling, and just as suddenly stopped. “They look funny.”
They didn’t look funny to me at all, but it was something that the old Eli would have said, so I took it to heart. Eli was back.
Nights were the worst when I would lay wide awake, praying to God to plug the hole in my heart, as I tried to remember Tony’s face, tried to forget what the last minutes of his life were like before the shooting. Even though I wasn’t there, the image of him dropping to the ground would replay over and over in my mind. It was during the nights that I thought of Adam, how he was also forever gone from my life. I tried not to think about Adam in the same space as Tony’s memory, how Adam had looked at me the last time we were together, how he had kissed me with such tenderness, how good it would’ve been to bury myself in his arms until I fell asleep. One day, I finally opened his gift and found a CD he had burned of Tracy Chapman and India.Arie’s greatest hits. On the disc, in permanent marker, he had written, “To Eva; Love, Adam.” I picked up the phone, telling myself I was only going to thank him, but my guilty conscience won over my gratitude and I hung up. Thinking of him made me feel selfish and wicked. Although Kahinde constantly reiterated that it wasn’t my fault, I blamed myself. If I hadn’t insisted Eli go to ISU, he wouldn’t have been shot. If I hadn’t constantly nagged Tony to watch out for his brother, he never would have come out of the dorm room to check on him when he heard the shots. If I hadn’t given into temptation, God wouldn’t have needed to test my faith. And Tony would still be alive.