With reluctance I follow them to Jay’s truck. He drives us to the old Walker Junior High building where Ellie would be in school. Before I can protest, I realize what they’ve brought me here to see. Out front the chain-link fence is filled with turquoise ribbons, each one tied against the wind. Students have left cards and flowers, stuffed animals and band posters.
“All in Ellie’s honor,” Beth says. “They knew her favorite color.”
“They’ve tied ribbons to their backpacks too,” Jay adds. He parks and leads us to the memorial. The teens have written hundreds of letters and poems for my Ellie. Beautiful lyrics and messages, all expressing their love.
“I’m not sure how I feel about this,” I admit. “I don’t want the kids to think suicide is a good thing. I don’t want them to follow her example, expecting to be honored somehow.”
“Vivienne agreed,” Beth says, reminding me that Viv is heading the grief counseling here for the students. “So she has the kids sign a pledge before they can get a ribbon.”
“A pledge?”
“Yep. They have to promise Ellie that they’ll learn from her mistake.”
“That’s a good idea,” I admit.
Beth nods. “They pledge that every time they start to think life isn’t worth living, they’ll think of Ellie and the promise they’re making to stay alive. To not waste one single second, and instead to live as if they’re living for both themselves and for Ellie. Every step they take, they can think, This is for Ellie. Every challenge they tackle, they can think, I’ll do this for Ellie. They’re promising to choose life, Amanda. Every one of these ribbons shows they’re choosing to live.”
I can no longer hold back my tears. I lean into Jay, and hold Beth’s hand, and sob.
We’ve spent a couple hours at the school, reading the cards and letters, accepting sympathy from Ellie’s friends, and thanking the handful of grief counselors who have been brought in to help the teens cope with this terrible loss. I explain again and again that the last thing I want is for the kids to think of suicide as a viable option, a way out that brings glory. Thankfully, the counselors are setting the students straight about that, reminding them of how many people are hurting today because of Ellie’s choice. They are advising that taking your own life is never the right decision.
Leaving Viv at the helm, I finally give in to Beth’s urging and head for the funeral home. With clear skies and temps in the seventies, I wish Ellie could see this beautiful day.
I try my best to do as expected, but choosing Ellie’s tombstone proves to be the hardest decision of my life. I shiver as the hollow tones of the funeral director’s voice echo through the parlor.
“What would you like the inscription to read?” He points to a wall of sample plaques, as if the choice should be easy. Like buying a toothbrush or a pair of socks.
How can I possibly sum up my child’s life with a few purchased lines? I want to tell him to place a solid boulder at the grave, plain and unmarked, to prove no words will suffice. No standard quotation or polished phrase will do. Nothing I say will ever be enough to measure my love for her. To show the worth of Ellie’s life.
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head and hold my hands in the air. “I can’t do this.” I turn and walk out of the funeral home as quickly as I can. Jay follows. Beth joins us a few minutes later at the truck.
“It’s too soon,” I tell them, apologizing for my behavior. “I’d rather plant wildflowers than put some generic marker in that space. I just can’t do it.”
“No reason to rush,” Jay says, starting his truck and driving us back to my house. “We’ll be here when you’re ready. Take your time.”
Jay drops us back at home, where Beth stays with me until Raelynn swings by after school. I scrub banana pudding from the aging mint-green Tupperware. The label crinkles and curls beneath my sudsy sponge, but no matter how hard I wash, the damage has soaked too deep. The woman’s words can never be erased: “I don’t know how you stand it, Amanda. Knowing your daughter is in hell.”
Her cruel confrontation crawls through me. I can stand no more. I fall to the floor, dropping the bowl and splashing the soapy water across my chest. This is how Raelynn finds me, curled on my kitchen rug. The faucet is still running.
“I can’t stand any more of this pain, Raelynn. I can’t.”
She scoots down to the floor and sits beside me, holding me as I weep. “What have I done? What have I done to deserve this?”
My mind spins with ways to end the hurt.
“Amanda. Look at me.”
I do as I’m told. Once Raelynn’s got eye contact, she hands me a pill. “This is from Dr. Martin. Take it.” Then she stands and gives me a glass of water. I swallow it down. “It’s going to help you sleep. Get us through the night. I’m not leaving you alone.”
“You told me, remember? You said if your boys ever did anything like this, you’d have to follow them out. You couldn’t live through it. Remember? You said it. You understand, don’t you? It’s so hard, Raelynn. I can’t do this.”
I’m crying again, and Raelynn convinces me to move to the sofa.
“Why’d she leave me, Raelynn? Why’d Carl leave me? Why does everybody I love leave me?” As I say these words, my entire life flashes before me. All the abandonments. Every one of them.
Raelynn takes my hand. “I’m not leaving. I’m right here. And so are Beth and Preacher and Jay. We’re all here, Amanda.”
“Maybe Carl’s right.” I continue spewing my deepest hurts. “Maybe all I ever do is make things worse. Maybe their problem was me. That’s what he told me, Raelynn. All along it was me. Maybe if I had just left them alone . . .”
“Amanda. That’s a lie. And you know it. He’s filled your head with lies.”
“But what if I drove my own husband away? What if I pushed Ellie into this? What if it’s my fault? And Sarah too? It’s all my fault!” I am heaving, gasping for air. And then, just like that, I am asleep.
Hello Sparrow,
The Man is yelling again. We’re stupid, Bridgette’s fat, I’m too skinny. He makes fun of our hair, our makeup, our clothes. But the worst is when he says nobody is looking for me anymore. That everybody thinks I’m dead.
What if he’s right? Mom and Pop may not even live in Walker anymore. For all I know, they went off to be missionaries again. Somewhere far away. Maybe they adopted some kids and started a whole new family. What if they forgot all about me?
If I close my eyes, I see my mom standing in the front yard. The Christmas lights are on. She’s holding a plate of cookies, telling me to hurry home.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
“Your clients keep calling,” Vivienne says over the phone. “It’s been a month. They miss you. So do I.”
“I’m sorry, Viv. I don’t have it in me anymore.” Beanie gives me her hungry meow, so I stand to fill her bowl.
“You have to come back, Amanda. Your clients need you.”
I rub Beanie’s neck as I give her the food. This draws a purr. “There’s a professor over in Hammond. She’s expressed interest. I’ll give you her number. Maybe she’ll want to buy me out.”
“Amanda, you’re not hearing me. I don’t want another partner. You can take it slow at first. But come back. Please. Be here.”
“I know you care, Viv.”
“More than you know,” she counters. “Besides, it’s how you’re wired, Amanda. You help people. That’s what you were born to do. You know as well as I do, healing others is the best way to heal yourself.”
“Listen, Viv, please. I can’t be responsible for another person’s life. Never again.”
“Well, you can’t sit around all day in that house either.”
“Jay has a friend with a real estate business, off Sherwood. He said I can work in the back. They need somebody to handle the paperwork. No stress. Just a way to keep my mind busy and bring in a paycheck. I can’t go much longer without one of those.” I am feeling more and more resentment toward Car
l.
“Okay.” Viv sounds unconvinced. “I’m not sure that’s the best job for you, but it’s better than sitting alone all day. Know this, though. I’m not going to look for a new partner. We’re a team.”
Hello Sparrow,
It’s been more than two years since Bridgette took me in New Orleans. I’ve been thinking about Ellie and Nate. I wonder what I would be like if I could be a regular kid in school with my friends.
This makes me sad. So I’m going to count my blessings.
1. I have my sparrow. (Thank you, Sparrow!)
2. I have never gotten pregnant.
3. Bridgette brings me clothes and helps me fix my makeup.
4. I am learning to cook. And she’s buying better groceries now.
5. I can go outside in the yard now, even when no one is with me.
6. I can listen to music.
7. She still wears the gold cross pin. Maybe she’ll help me get out of here one day.
8. My feather hasn’t broken.
Hello Sparrow,
When I go home, I will do all the things I miss.
1. Swim.
2. Ride my bike.
3. Jump on the trampoline.
4. Have a crawfish boil.
5. Put up our Christmas lights and decorate the tree and hang our stockings.
6. Try out for cheerleading and basketball and choir.
7. Study hard and make all As.
8. Go to all the LSU games—tailgating!
9. Get a puppy. Maybe a golden retriever.
10. Climb trees.
11. Go to Mr. Jay’s camp.
12. Water ski.
13. Make cookies with Mom.
14. Build stuff with Pop.
I’ll keep Ellie and Nate with me all the time. There are so many things I can’t wait to do.
Hello Sparrow,
Guess what? Bridgette surprised me today and gave me a Bible. She didn’t understand why I was crying, so I told her I was just so happy. That made her laugh.
I showed her my favorite verse, from when I was a kid. I’ll write it here for you too.
He will cover you with his feathers. He will shelter you with his wings. His faithful promises are your armor and protection. (Psalm 91:4)
Here are some of my new favorite verses:
Don’t be afraid of those who want to kill your body; they cannot touch your soul. (Matthew 10:28)
For I can do everything through Christ, who gives me strength. (Philippians 4:13)
After you have suffered a little while, he will restore, support, and strengthen you . . . (1 Peter 5:10)
Part 3
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never extinguish it.
—JOHN 1:5
Chapter 24
October 2007
AFTER RUNNING A QUICK BRUSH THROUGH MY HAIR AND SLAPPING on a smudge of Chapstick, I head for Baton Rouge. I am numb as I navigate the congested interstate route I’ve taken every single workday for nearly a year since Ellie died. Other commuters manage coffee cups and cell phones while they drive. They seem stressed, worried about things that mean nothing to me anymore. I join their Monday-morning crawl all the way to Rod and Reel Realty where I park my fuel-efficient Civic between the rows of oversized four-wheel-drives. Once inside, I get right to work, managing the phone lines as callers hope to find their dream hunting and fishing properties across our bayou state.
Five days a week I enter this glass-walled office and become nothing more than an anonymous voice, directing calls to the agents and listening in as they wheel and deal. I leave them to their reindeer games while I file MLS information, plug each home into the database, and upload photos for online viewing.
The job is low-stress but it keeps my brain busy, and that helps me avoid the constant cognitive cycle, a mind gone mad with trying to reason it all. How one minute I was a doting mother, a faithful wife, and an idealistic social worker who believed wholeheartedly I could make this world a better place. And in a blink, I woke up to find a cheat as a husband, a child in the grave, and a low-paying job that barely makes my mortgage. I never thought my story would come to this. But here I am, closing myself off behind the glass.
Since Ellie died, sleep has become a challenge; long nights and bad dreams toss and turn me through the lonely hours. Today I can barely stay awake. I answer phones and watch time tick. As soon as the clock signals lunch, I head outside for a dose of fresh air, hoping to walk myself awake.
Usually I avoid the tiny park across the street, all those playful mothers and happy children. But for some reason, today I turn toward the swings.
Sure enough, there’s a playgroup having a picnic under the pavilion. Kids run around rambunctiously while their mothers pull grapes and sandwiches from Ziploc bags. One of the moms looks up from a wicker picnic basket to notice her young son climbing the monkey bars. “Wait!” She’s on her feet, rushing beneath him, just in case he falls.
That’s what mothers do. We promise our children we will be there to catch them, to get them through their weaker moments and build their confidence until they are strong enough to go forth alone.
A child’s ball crosses my path, and I grab it before it hits the street. Tossing it back to a girl in braids, I smile and watch her bounce away with her friends. Maybe we should have moved to another state and started over. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so set on searching for Sarah. We could have found a brand-new life. We could have focused on healing, not staying stuck in place. Carl never would have met Ashleigh. Ellie would have been a regular kid. We would all be together. As a family.
My lunch break flies by. I spend the rest of the afternoon filing property information. At the five o’clock mark, I leave the office to find Jay standing by my car. “What’s wrong?” I hurry toward him. “Is everybody okay?”
“The gang’s all fine. I just got a call. Suicide. Over in Watson. I’ve been in meetings all day here in town, so I figured since this was on my way, I’d see if you might want to go with me.”
“No, Jay. I can’t do that.” I unlock my door.
“It hasn’t been long, I know, but you can help this family. You know what they’re going through. It makes a difference.” He circles his scant set of keys around his index finger. “Ride with me?”
Viv’s words come back to me: “Healing others is the best way to heal yourself. You help people. It’s what you were born to do.”
I look out toward the afternoon traffic and exhale. “Who is it?”
“Young guy. New to town. Left behind a wife. She’s not from around here either. Her family hasn’t made it in from Georgia yet, so she’s got nobody. She really could use your help.”
It’s been almost a year. You’ve seen other survivors come out to the scenes that soon. Even sooner. They do make a difference. If they can do it, you can do it. Be strong, Amanda.
“Okay,” I sigh. “I’ll try.”
Jay nods and smiles. Within minutes, we are on our way to the couple’s home in Watson. He fills me in on the details. “Twenty-four years old. His wife found him. And the gun.” He switches on his hazards and drives as quickly as he can, especially once he’s crossed back into Livingston Parish.
“Kids?”
“None yet. The wife is pregnant.”
He says this as he pulls up to a well-maintained home off a quaint country lane. Deputies have already draped yellow-and-black crime scene tape across the shaded driveway, and a female officer stands guard at the front door. She greets me by name and steps aside to let me in. I’ve become far too familiar with this scenario. With this despair. Stay here, Amanda. Be present.
Jay and one of his investigators work the scene, snapping photos and taking notes in collaboration with the coroner. Within minutes, funeral home workers are carrying the man’s remains down the hall, zipped tightly closed in the plastic body bag, while others in the room pretend it isn’t happening.
I take my time, looking for the young woman who was reportedly the f
irst to find her husband’s body. The living room and kitchen are filled with unpacked boxes, fresh from the move. Folks are gathered, whispering. I assume them to be curious neighbors, probably some church members or coworkers. I don’t see anyone with the familiar haunting half-dead stare of a suicide survivor. These people are talking quietly, shaking their heads and making assumptions about the events leading up to the act. But no one is pale or in shock. No one here seems to have left the world of the living.
I ease my way toward the minister, and he seems relieved to see me. We know each other from past calls.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “We can’t get her to respond. Maybe you can help.”
I follow the humble pastor into a back bedroom, where a woman is lying on the floor of her closet. Her long hair covers her face in loose tangles. She wears a substantial diamond wedding ring on her left hand. She is dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, but both feet are bare. Her face is tucked tight against her swollen belly, her unborn child likely kicking inside, and her hands are held against the crown of her head, covering her ears. She is doing all she can to disappear. I know this strategy.
With a soft, calm voice, I call her name. She doesn’t answer.
The minister shakes his head and says, “We’ve tried everything. She won’t respond.”
“Any family members here?”
“They’re on their way. She’s pregnant, you know?”
I nod. “When is she due?”
“February.”
This draws a moan from the closet as the woman begins to rock back and forth. I count in my head. She’s about five months along. Maybe the child will give her reason to live.
I’ve been on calls with Jay many times, but not since Ellie took her own life. Not since I wrapped my hands around my own ears and sobbed, wanting death to take me away. But now that I know this walk, I begin by taking off my official social worker hat and being present as nothing more than a survivor. I show my own scars, something my license would never allow.
The Feathered Bone Page 23