by Einat Segal
And I lost Shawn.
Landon is right behind me. I can’t hear him because he walks as quietly as a phantom, but I just know he’s there since we’re both headed toward biotechnology. I’m nervous having him at my back. But not in a bad way.
As I round the corner toward the corridor that leads to the biotechnology lab, I hear someone say, “There she is!”
I ignore this.
“That’s her,” someone else says just as I reach the door of the classroom.
I turn my head, curious to know who everyone is talking about. Landon is indeed right behind me and wearing an equally confused expression. But I instantly look past him because Esmeralda is running up the corridor. “Sophie!” she cries with her eyes as big as the eyes of a doe.
Then suddenly Shawn jumps out of the biotechnology classroom. Is this something he’s cooking up? What’s he up to and why? He grabs my arm. “Fee, where were you? Everyone was looking for you!” Is he angry or something? Why is he yelling?
“Shawn? What’s the big ide—”
“Sophie,” Shawn says. He never calls me Sophie. Actually, we aren’t even speaking. He shouldn’t be calling me anything. “You have to go to the principal’s office now.”
Why is he so pale? He begins dragging me in the direction of the school offices. I shake off his hand. “What the fuck is going on?” I yell. I’m yelling. My voice is very high. It echoes down the corridor. Everyone turns to stone. Everything is cold.
I know.
No, no, no.
No! No! No!
I stop. I take my phone out of my bag.
Thirty-eight missed calls.
No. No way.
Stop! Everything, stop.
Shawn grabs my arm again. “Just come to the principal’s office, okay?” he says in a trembling voice. He can’t keep his cool. His eyes are tearing up. Don’t be such a crybaby, Shawn!
As if through magic—it isn’t magic—Esmeralda materializes on my left, grabbing my elbow. She’s helping Shawn steer me toward the principal’s office. Her mouth is firmly shut. But her eyes are like watery planets.
I shake them both off. “I can walk, goddammit,” I croak. And walk I do. Briskly. For the slight chance that this isn’t a complete nightmare. For the slim hope that it’s a false alarm. For the tender wish that this isn’t really happening and I’ll soon wake up.
When I enter the school offices heading toward the principal’s office with Esmeralda, Shawn and Landon following me like a herd of sheep, I pretend that the school secretaries don’t all stop what they’re doing to look at me with pity in their eyes.
Nobody says anything as I march over to the principal’s door and knock. I open the door before I hear an answer. Our school principal, Mr. Alan, is sitting at his desk. He’s black, thin, youngish, with high energy and a dash of awesomeness. Next to his desk, with her arms crossed, stands Fran Baker, the old, annoying, completely not awesome school counselor.
I pause at the door. They both stare at me.
“I see you were found,” says Mrs. Baker. She sits down in a chair by the principal’s desk.
Mr. Alan wears a somber expression. “Sophie, come in. Have a seat.” He gestures to the chair facing him. I look over my shoulder. Landon and Esmeralda are standing side by side, with Shawn sitting in one of the plastic chairs in front of the secretariat counter with his face buried in his hands and his shoulders shaking. They’re not going anywhere.
I shut the door and sit down.
Mr. Alan twines his fingers together on the desk and looks at me. “Sophie . . .” he says. He clears his throat and looks at Mrs. Baker, who looks back at him. “About half an hour ago, we got a call from Robert Henderson, your dad’s . . .”
“Boss, he’s my dad’s boss,” I say in a very level and reasonable voice. There’s a ringing in my ears. Like the sound you hear after an ambulance passes you in the street and the siren is too loud, it almost gets burned into your brain. I swallow.
“Sophie, your father had a heart attack this morning.”
Boom goes my heart.
Okay. You can do this. It’s not the first time. Last time was bad too. We pulled through. I exhale. “Which hospital did they take him to?” I ask. Reasonable. Clear. Controlled.
Good.
Mr. Alan hesitates.
“This morning?” I ask before he can speak. My voice sounds like the creaking hinges of an old door. That doesn’t add up. If he had a heart attack this morning, why am I only hearing about it now? Unless . . . unless . . . “What . . . what . . .” I can’t complete the sentence. My lips are trembling too hard. I hiccup air.
“Sophie,” says Mrs. Baker. She reaches over and takes my hand.
My arms feel numb from my shoulders to my palms.
“I’m so sorry, dear. Your father passed away.”
* * *
It’s like I’m watching myself crying from somewhere outside my body. The tears just come like rain falling from the sky, but they have absolutely no impact on me. They don’t dent even the surface of what I’m feeling. There’s a complete separation between my body and spirit.
I spend two nights at my maternal grandparents’ house. Each of my aunts offers to take me in until my mom arrives, but it’s enough to hear Aunt Hannah’s howling sobs over the phone to lock my decision. I need the relative sanity of the other side of the family. Grandpa Shlomo and Grandma Haya are very quiet and give me lots of space. They’re not touchy-feely people like my father’s side. I sleep in my mom’s old bed. I eat. I cry.
I sleep. I eat. I cry. I sleep. I eat. I cry.
Hush, hush, hush. Everything is quiet like library silence. Fluffy and soft, like the white noise inside a train. My senses are numb.
My mom can’t get a flight before Thursday night. She arrives early Friday morning. I keep imagining myself in her shoes. She’s alone in another country. Alone in the airport. She’s sitting alone in that plane. That makes me cry more. You know, I think my family’s perfect. My parents have a good relationship.
Had. Was.
My family was perfect.
My parents had a good relationship.
Every time I wake up, my eyes are almost too swollen to open. But even though my tear ducts are bruised, it doesn’t stop the tears from coming. They’re meaningless. They’re silent. They fall and then they stop and then they fall again.
There's a physical pain in my heart. I can almost feel it. What my dad felt when he died.
Seeing my mom when she arrives is the worst. It’s when my heart actually does something besides beat lamely in my chest. It was a good choice to come here. My mom needs her parents. My mom needs her parents. My mom needs her parents . . .
I need my parents.
She walks in with her suitcase, and I just sit on the bottom of the steps where I always sit. She gets down on the floor in front of me and grabs me, her body shaking. We don’t say anything. We just hold each other, gasping air between sobs. We hug tightly, but it isn’t tight enough. We can’t smother the pain.
Mom then has to make the last arrangements for the funeral. I think my aunts left some things for her on purpose, just so she’d have something to do. The funeral is scheduled for Sunday. I wish it were sooner, but it can’t be sooner because of sabbath. Mom and I decide to stay at my grandparents’ house until then.
* * *
There are a hell of a lot of people in the funeral home. My dad’s body is in the plain brown casket. Luckily, being Jewish, that wooden box stays closed forever. My mom and me and Dad’s mom, Grandmother Sally, and all my aunts are given thick black ribbons to hang around our necks, which the rabbi helps us tear a little using a small razor. It’s symbolic. According to the Jewish mourning traditions, we’re supposed to tear our clothes, but everyone’s dressed too nicely for that.
Then Rabbi Rosen talks about my dad, and Mom goes up and gives her tearful eulogy. I couldn’t put anything together. I don’t have anything to say to anyone. A lot of people hug me and are
sorry for me. I look at their faces, and they all look the same. But when I’m not hugging other people, Mom and I cling to each other, and when Mom can’t hold me, Esmeralda and her mom, Tina, hold me from both sides. It’s like if I let go, I’ll fall into a dark abyss and won’t know how to return.
The drive to the cemetery is surreal. It’s like the feeling I got in elementary school when I was sent home early with a fever. The sun is bright; it’s still morning. I’m both wide awake and drowsy.
Beneath the bright spring sun, we watch my father being lowered into the ground. Why do we do this? I’d much rather there was never a funeral. Rabbi Rosen says the prayer, rough-sounding words in Hebrew that I can’t understand. I try not to look into the hole in the ground. I look at all the people gathered here today. And a little way away, standing apart from everyone and almost hidden between the gravestones, is Landon. My mom is the first to throw in a small shovelful of dirt. The thud of dirt hitting the wooden casket sends a shock through me. Then my grandma, and then my aunts, one after the other. Finally, it’s my turn. When I take up the gilded handle of the ornamental shovel, it’s the first time I realize this is actually happening.
More people come up and hug me. Among them, the Hendersons. Bob looks very pale and frail, as if even a small breeze can make him lose his balance. I was told my dad died after he locked himself in his office, and that Bob was the one who ordered that the door be broken down, knowing that his dead friend would be found inside.
A very teary-eyed Shawn tries to give me a chummy sort of hug by simply draping one arm over my shoulders. I guess he’s self-conscious about what happened between us. But my dad just died. I’m not having this half-assed hug from him. I turn my body and wrap my arms around his torso, burying my face in his chest, leaving him no choice but to hug me back. He does just that, one arm hooking tightly over my shoulders and upper back and the other hand pressing my head to his chest.
Yes, like that, Shawn. Hug me tight. Please, I want to be smothered.
I close my eyes and listen to his beating heart. He strokes my back and my hair. His breath catches in his chest with his every sob.
I reluctantly let him go when it’s time to go.
“The family will be sitting shiva in the deceased’s home until Friday afternoon,” announces Rabbi Rosen. “Family and friends are welcome to come and mourn . . .”
This is happening. Everything has changed.
I don’t have a dad anymore. He’s gone. He’s really gone.
I don’t meet this realization with tears. I’m cold. As cold as the ground. As cold as this grave.
As cold as death.
* * *
The shiva doesn't refer to the Hindu god, but to a Jewish mourning tradition. I don’t know how it’s supposed to go in a proper Jewish house since we’re not even remotely religious, but it basically means that our house is open for several days to people who want to mourn my father. There’re a lot of people coming and going, a lot of talking, and a whole lot of food. My aunts and cousins keep the platters coming, keep everything running, and keep the house clean. They won’t let my mom do anything. A lot of people who weren’t close enough to come to the funeral show up. All the band kids who I never talk to beyond things required for practice come to visit me one day. Some of my teachers and the school principal, Mr. Alan, grace me with their presence in my living room on Wednesday—it’s as awkward as it sounds.
Shawn and Esmeralda hang around every afternoon. The three of us sit in the basement, and surprisingly enough, the dynamic isn’t weird. Esmeralda and I can be pretty mean with our jokes toward Shawn, but he always spins it in his favor. A few times, I get distracted enough to laugh.
“I really liked Steve,” Shawn says to me Thursday evening. Esmeralda had to babysit her baby cousin, so she couldn’t come that day. Tomorrow is the end of the shiva, and on Monday, I go back to school. “You know, I got to know him through golf Sundays. I was so bored. But Steve made it fun. He taught me how to play. He was really good at it but always lost on purpose so that my dad’s ego wouldn’t get bruised.”
I snort. “He’s such a suck up.” I say this fondly. I still forget to use past tense about my dad.
“I know suck ups. Steve wasn’t one. He just didn’t care about winning or losing. He liked to play, and he knew that if my dad lost too many times, he’d quit playing.”
My dad was a great guy. I don’t need anyone’s stories to know this. He was like a big, dorky teddy bear filled with good intentions. He managed to live with my mom and me and be happy about it.
Suddenly, something inside my head pops. I get up from the couch and storm up to my mom’s sewing cabinet. I pull out the scissors—the very same scissors I used on Ashley Glick.
“Fee?” Shawn asks, alarmed.
I look around myself. In the far corner by the washer and dryer is a basket with clean yet unfolded laundry. I get down on my knees before it, pull out one of my dad’s shirts, and start cutting it.
“Fee? What’re you doing?” Shawn doesn’t dare approach me when I’m armed with scissors in a cutting frenzy.
I throw aside one cut shirt after another. All my dad’s. He’ll never wear them again. A noise escapes my throat, something between a growl and a whimper. I cut. I cut. I cut.
I pull up the next shirt. It’s mine, but I don’t care anymore. Just let me cut something. The next thing I get in my hands is my dad’s sweatpants. I cut and cut, but then the scissors meet difficulty. They won’t cut. I roar and throw them aside. They skid across the polished concrete floor. I yank the cloth with both hands and pull and rip.
Then I go back to the shirts I already cut and rip those too. I rip until I have strips of fabric, and those I try to rip more. I scream when there’s no longer anything I can tear.
Shawn approaches me, kicking aside the scissors to the farthest corner of the basement. He doesn’t say anything but simply crouches down and tries to grab me into a hug.
I shove him away and turn my back to him. He pulls me into a hug again, forcefully. I fight him, but he’s strong. I grow lax in his arms, but I’m still panting. Raw rage burns my insides.
“Let go of me, Shawn,” I say.
“Promise you won’t hurt yourself.”
“I said, let go.” My voice is very low.
Shawn lets go quickly; he even moves back. I turn on the floor to face him, and he’s already on his feet, looking at me warily.
“Ugh. You make me so mad!” I shout.
“You’re not mad at me, Fee.”
“Yes, I am! I’m mad at you!” I get to my feet. He takes a step back. Coward. “You pushed me into a corner and dumped me because you’re such a lame-ass pussy. You didn’t give me any time. You just got scared! I’m so, so mad at you.”
“Fine, you’re mad at me,” he says, pushing his hands into his pockets. “But not just me.”
“It’s only you! Why would I be mad at anyone else? I’m yelling at you, Shawn!”
He looks at me but says nothing.
That makes me even angrier. I pick up the whole laundry basket and throw it across the room, scattering clothes everywhere. Then I pick up whatever I can find, which is mainly more clothes, and try to throw them at Shawn but miss.
“Fine!” I yell. “I’m mad that asshole! Dr. Brooks. He should be sued for malpractice. He should have performed a CABG instead of just a heart cath! It didn’t solve the problem, and he shouldn’t have believed my dad could shape up his life!”
I yank off the bedcover from the bed and crumple it and throw it on the floor. I throw both pillows at Shawn, which he bats away with his arms. “I’m so fucking mad at the fucking tobacco companies!” I shout. “I hate them! I’m so angry they exist! All they do is destroy people’s lives. And cigarettes stink and there’s nothing cool about them. They’re just a heap of bad gross shit! I hate that people buy them! And smoke them!”
I take off my shoe and try to throw it at Shawn but miss by about three feet, and then I try to t
ake off the other shoe and trip myself. I sit on the floor and start beating it with my hands. “I’m so mad at my dad!” I sob, tears blurring my vision. “Why wouldn’t he listen?” Ouch. Hitting the floor hurts. My blows become weaker. “He didn’t take himself seriously! He didn’t care enough. He kept lying to me and kept being irresponsible. How could he do this to Mom? How could he do this to me? I should’ve been harder on him. I shouldn’t have let him off the hook even once. I should’ve . . .”
I don’t know what I should have done anymore. I stop. My mind is blank, and I’m crying again. But this is me crying this time, and I’m inside my body and my tears are frustrated and helpless. Shawn slowly steps up to me and kneels. This time, I let him gather me up into his arms.
When I’m all cried out, I doze off on the couch, watching Shawn tidy up the basement. He pats my hair when he’s done. I open my eyes to look at him.
“I have to go,” he says with his hands in his pockets, nodding toward the stairs.
“Okay,” I say sleepily, and begin getting up, but he stops me.
“It’s fine. I know where the door is. You don’t have to show me.”
“Okay,” I say, and lie back down.
“Bye, Fee.”
“Shawn?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for . . . what you did.” I can’t say this much louder than a whisper. “You rock. Really. Like a man.”
“I am a man, Fee.”
“You know what I mean.”
He smiles. “You’re right, I’m pretty awesome.”
* * *
Later, I get up to my room. From under my pillow, I pull out the torn black ribbon I received at the funeral home and hang it on the latch of my window. Yes, I’ve been sleeping with that under my pillow, and no, I don’t know why. My head’s clear for the first time in forever.