The Suicide Year

by Lena Prodan

"About what?"

  "She was trying to kill herself."

  Mrs. Foster sucked a long breath between her teeth. “I should.” She shook her head and sighed. “I know I should. But who would I tell?” She slipped onto the couch beside me and wrapped her arm over my shoulder. “Poor baby. Poor, poor baby. Why do you want to die? You have your whole life ahead of you."

  "I don't want it."

  "Listen to me. I know it's hard to be a teenager. But these years end. When you're away at college, you'll see how different life can be. You don't have to see your parents after that."

  I said, “I guess so,” because I wanted her to think she was helping. She just didn't understand that I wasn't trying to escape Mom and Pop. I was trying to escape from being me.

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  Chapter 25

  I stared at the ceiling in my bedroom without seeing it. The pill that dissolved on my tongue must have stayed in my stomach, because I was too sluggish to get out of bed the next morning. It felt different from my usual depression though. At least I could sleep, but I couldn't seem to fully wake up.

  Pop was talking on the phone in his bedroom. He slammed the receiver down and stomped downstairs. I heard the front door slam. I heard the car leave.

  It took me hours to work up the will to go downstairs. I ate half a cup of noodles and felt like puking it back up. Convincing myself to walk back up the stairs was even harder.

  The fitted sheet on my bed had long since sprung from the corners. The wrinkles hurt my ribs when I lay on my side. I was still considering fixing the sheet when I heard the front door open.

  Two people walked up the stairs. They went past my door to my parents’ room. Not much later, two people stopped at my door. I thought of a million things I could do to fix my bed or room, but didn't. Pop pushed the door open, but stayed in the hallway.

  "We're going to be gone a couple days,” Pop told me. Mom stood behind him. Her lips pressed tight together, almost invisible, but her eyes dropped at the corners as if she was exhausted.

  I hadn't said a word to Pop since I found out about Mom. I enjoyed the power of the secret and had been savoring it. I'd fantasized about how I was going to confront them. A casual hint dropped over dinner. Or even better, shouting their secret in public and seeing the humiliation and fear in their eyes. It would be like ripping a scab of a pus-filled wound. But seeing Mom at my door, I couldn't wait.

  I propped up on my elbow. “I know—"

  "Your idiot cousin Sheri blew her brains out. Selfish little bitch. Ruined her daddy's truck. Now we're expected to go to her funeral. We'll be back in a couple days. No parties while we're gone.” Pop slammed shut my door.

  I blinked. I missed my chance. I—

  Sheri killed herself.

  I couldn't get my head around the words.

  Sheri was dead.

  Blew her brains out.

  Sheri was dead.

  I heard suitcases thumping down the stairs. Heard the door; heard the car start. The dog jumped up on my bed, turned a couple circles, and settled at my feet. The house got dark.

  I had no idea how I was supposed to feel. Happy for Sheri? Jealous as hell that she seemed to do everything better than I did? Sad for her parents? Annoyed that I was older and should have been the first to do everything? I tried to settle on bitterly jealous, but then I started crying and felt like a pathetic jerk.

  For hours, I groveled at God's feet, begging him to forgive me for being mean to Sheri, for not being more understanding, for failing to see her misery. I should have known. Maybe if I'd made an effort to be friendly, or at least talked to her. I groaned when I realized that God knew how spiteful I'd been that Grandma paid more attention to Sheri than to me. I was such a selfish shit.

  And I was fat.

  And ugly.

  And had a future ahead of me too dismal to live through. A college I didn't want to attend; a major I was doomed to fail.

  Lucky Sheri—her dad loved her enough to keep guns in the house.

  If only I could stop thinking long enough to just act. That was always my problem—too much thinking. My MENSA brain worked against me every time.

  Sheri put the shotgun into her mouth and pulled the trigger. I could imagine the taste of heavy metal and the scent of oil, but I couldn't see getting over the fear of fucking it up—being left alive, but paralyzed, with only half a face, or no top to my head. I could have never stepped down on the trigger with my big toe. I couldn't have stopped thinking long enough to do it. Sheri did. She was the ultimate success. She shut off her mind, and then blew it into red splatter that would never have to think again.

  I sat up on my bed and extended my arms in front of me. Sheri sure had a lot more balls than I did. I'd seen those scars across her wrists. She picked up the knife and made the cut. Knowing how much it hurt, she did it again. Fuck. How could she? I couldn't make myself face the pain.

  I glanced down at my pristine forearms. Blue veins forked like lightning at my wrists on either side of a thin tendon. That wasn't the right place to cut. I knew that much. Down, not across. That's where Sheri made her mistake.

  If only I could peel off my skin. Underneath boobs and slit had to be the real me. There had to be a way to escape. I just wanted out.

  My pulse throbbed at my wrist. Several inches up from that, there was a scar from the bee sting I got in Georgia. That was the first time I'd gone into anaphylactic shock. At the time, it seemed like a big deal, but I knew now that was a mild reaction. Too bad I couldn't find a whole hive of bees to sting me. The second reaction was supposed to be worse than the first. If only I could trust my body to let me die instead of fighting—

  Oh! The answer was beautiful. Like red velvet curtains drawing back in a theater during the overture, I knew exactly how I could do it, and for once, my body would help me out. It was too fucking perfect for words.

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  Chapter 26

  Anyone who saw me walk into town would have never guessed my intentions. Years of unhappiness lifted off my soul. It was amazing that my feet could stay on the ground.

  Perfect. Almost painless. Fool proof. God proof!

  The hostess at the Red Lobster didn't seem to notice my bubbly mood. How could she know it wasn't like real me to grin like an idiot? Time had no more meaning, so I didn't care that they made me wait an hour on the hard wooden bench for my shrimp scampi to go. It used the last of my money, but what did I care? I handed over the wad of lawn mower earnings with a huge, idiotic smile and took the bag.

  The walk home was a blur of bliss. Nothing felt like my fault.

  I sat down at the kitchen table and removed the aluminum dish from the bag. The fork had to be aligned just so with the napkin I never intended to use. A glass of water balanced the visual of the table setting. No matter how hard I tried though, the ritual feel to it simply wasn't there.

  For a moment, I considered leaving a note. Something that would sting, but not too dramatic. Something along the lines of, “Mom and Pop, you finally got what you wanted. I'm gone.” No matter how I worked around the words, though, it seemed tacky. Suicide notes weren't my style.

  I wondered if Sheri left one, and what she said.

  The scene I planned struck my sense of humor just right. Death By Shrimp. I hoped the coroner would write it up that way. The guys at the morgue would get a good chuckle. Maybe, I thought, I should leave a note for them, letting them in on the joke. Nope. If you had to explain it, it wasn't funny anymore.

  I bent back the edges of the aluminum until the clear plastic lid was free all the way around.

  Each shrimp was a white comma in a gold sauce that smelled of wine and butter. All I had to do was eat one, maybe two or three for insurance. It was that easy.

  Oh lord, they'd think I did it because of Sheri. There was no way I'd let them think it was a pathetic “me too” gesture. Or worse, Pop would think I'd done it on accident. “Stupid little bitch,” he'd say, “too dumb
to remember she was allergic to shrimp.” I could write a note telling them I did it on purpose, or that it wasn't about Sheri, but no one would care enough to believe me, and I wouldn't be around to argue it with them.

  Since Sheri was a suicide, would they bury her on sacred ground? And if they didn't, could she become frovoliki? If she came for me, I'd let her take me. But if the shotgun blew off the bottom half of her face, how would she bite me? Shit. Why did death have to be so complicated?

  But it wasn't. It just had to be done right. Every little piece in place. Everything aligned just so on the table. End of fork even with end of knife, napkin pristine white. Glass five inches above the tip of the knife. Those cotillion classes were worth something after all. Everything was perfect.

  I debated saying grace, but there was nothing to thank God for.

  I wiped the condensation ring off the tabletop and got a new napkin.

  Okay.

  Set.

  Go.

  The fork was too close to the edge of the napkin.

  The ritual didn't feel right. I tried to get into the right mindset. I went through every reason I wanted to die: Amanda, my parents, college, the hiking trip, but they didn't add up to enough somehow. I'd always be a girl, though. Still, even that, even God's cruelest joke on me—I couldn't slice deep enough into my body to cut away everything that was female in me, and I couldn't wish or pray it away, so how could I blame myself for God's mistake?

  I picked up a shrimp by the tail and turned it from side to side, letting the greasy sauce drip across my fingers.

  I missed being in love with Amanda, aching when she didn't show up for P.E. or how my entire soul would fly at the sight of her every day. I couldn't be what she wanted. I couldn't be what I wanted.

  It wasn't my fault I was a girl. It was God's fault. Even if I did manage to break into heaven after I died and force God to explain why he fucked me over, what good would the answer do me? He'd probably have a lame excuse anyway. The only answer I'd accept was that he liked to see me suffer. I already knew that, and I'd never forgive him for it.

  Shit, I hated crying. I dropped the shrimp and wiped my fingers on my jeans.

  The dog walked into the kitchen, her nails clicking on the linoleum. She sat near the refrigerator and looked at me.

  Crap. I'd forgotten about her. I had no idea how long my parents would be away at Sheri's funeral, so I filled the dog's water dish until it slopped over the side. No reason to make her suffer. I also filled her food bowl, and then tossed her several treats.

  She sprawled on the floor and watched me with worried eyes, her tail wagging in indecisive bursts.

  Maybe I'd been wrong all along. Maybe I should have prayed to Jesus instead of God. At least Jesus understood what it was like to have a father who wanted him dead.

  Nah. Jesus was useless too. Despite what the churches advertised, he never saved anyone, not even himself.

  I sat down at the table again. The scampi sauce was congealing. The dog whimpered.

  I knew I should have taken her for one last walk. “Mom and Pop will be home soon,” I promised. Lying to the dog. That seemed pretty low.

  What if my parents were gone for days? The dog would be stuck inside, and no doubt Pop would smack her around for accidents on the carpet. It wasn't fair of me to put her through that. Plus, she might whine, and in the middle of the night, the sound would travel between the thin walls of the duplex and drive the Fosters nuts.

  What if my body started to stink, and the stench wafted into the Foster's half of the duplex? Poor Mrs. Foster didn't deserve that. She tried so hard to fix the unfixable things in my life, or at least make them bearable. Mom and Pop would be pissed off at me, but Mrs. Foster would be so upset. Maybe, I thought, I should write a note apologizing to her. Something like, “You did your best. Don't blame yourself. It's not you, it's them."

  That phrase stuck in my head. It's not you. It's them.

  Maybe all those years I'd been translating everything Pop and Mom said the wrong way. When they said it was my fault, what they really meant was that they were the ones who were screwed up. They were the ones who were sick. They were wrong. It was them. It wasn't me.

  My little world tilted on its axis.

  The circular orbits I'd been trying to force on my world became elliptical paths. Mercury was no longer in retrograde. I felt the cogs align inside my brain, teeth into gears, everything working the way it was supposed to. I had a new model of the universe, one that worked, one that explained everything.

  Of course, I rejected it. Copernicus must have done the same thing when the insane idea of elliptical orbits struck him. He must have told himself that he was wrong. And then his next thought must have been fear—fear of the church, fear of the revolution his work would spark. I wondered if he thought of tossing his proofs into the fire and forgetting that for an instant he'd glimpsed the mind of God.

  That was the part that scared the churches most, I decided, free will. No wonder they preached that independent thought was the first sin. I didn't feel expelled from Paradise though. I was finally glimpsing the gates.

  Like Copernicus, it was too late for me to deny what I'd seen when the curtain was pulled back. The truth had been revealed and my brain wouldn't let me hide from it.

  No one was coming to save me.

  I'd have to do it for myself.

  I had to get out of that house. Mom and Pop would feed off me, drain me, keep me weak, unless I rescued myself.

  The gears churned, and something clicked into place.

  I'd convince Eric, his parents, and my parents, to let us hike the Appalachian Trail after graduation. It was something I'd wanted for years, and I'd be damned if I'd let the opportunity slip through my fingers on the whim of some distant, sadistic deity. When that week was over, Eric would come back, I wouldn't. At least not to my parent's house. I'd beg friends for couches or I'd camp in the woods around the gazebo until school started. Then I'd move into my dorm room. Mrs. Foster was right, once school started, I was free.

  I wiped my face with paper towels until the tears smeared away and dumped the shrimp into the garbage.

  It wasn't me. It was them.

  Those words were like a mantra.

  I liked my new universe a lot better. I belonged there.

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  Epilogue

  Early the morning after graduation, I checked my backpack one last time.

  Everything felt like ritual. They were simple things, symbolic, but of what, I had no idea. Mom sat in the kitchen, read a magazine, and sipped her morning coffee. Sheets of newspaper and a roll of tape sat on the counter.

  My stuff was already packed away in boxes in the garage.

  Pop kneeled on the living room floor in front of the bookshelves, surrounded by boxes. He retired the week of my graduation. The Air Force had no further use for him, so they told us to get the hell out of base housing by the end of the month. Your grateful country thanks you for your years of service. Right.

  The backpack rested against my thighs as I stared out the small window by the front door and waited for Eric. It weighed a ton; my entire life was crammed into it. The coffee maker gurgled. Next door, Mr. Foster sang opera, poorly, as he showered.

  I yanked open the door as soon as I saw Eric's car.

  Eric climbed out of the driver's seat and opened the trunk. His dad waved from the back seat. I crammed my pack into the trunk.

  We stood there as if we weren't sure what to do next. He opened the car door. Homesickness and happiness and fear welled in a rush through me. When the door slammed shut, would it sever me forever from my parents? It couldn't be that easy, and it shouldn't have seemed so hard.

  "Are you okay?” Eric asked.

  "Just a second, I forgot something.” I ran back into the house, up the stairs, and into my room. She was waiting for me, sitting on my stripped mattress, looking forlorn. I dropped to my knees and threw my arms around her, hugging her tight u
ntil she squirmed. I rubbed my face against her fur.

  "I'll miss you. I'm sorry I can't take you with me."

  The dog licked my hand. I gave her ears one last pat, and scurried out of the room before I started to cry. I think she followed me down the stairs. I didn't know for sure, because I didn't look back.

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