For I Could Lift My Finger and Black Out the Sun (14 page)

11

The clouds spread thick, damp, and grey along the sky on the day we buried my father. Holly wore a black dress that perfectly matched her hair and offset her pale skin. But she sat in her wheelchair looking away, as if uninterested. We knew she probably didn’t understand what was going on at all.

My mom wept uncontrollably. It was hard, as a kid, to figure out your parents most times. They seemed infinitely, impossibly older, adult and all-knowing. The one thing parents almost never seemed was…
young.
As I watched my mom shudder with heaving sobs, I realized how young she really was. How unexpected this was. How she had planned to spend many, many more years with my father. And how fragile she could be.

It made me hate myself for what I’d done.

Blame. People like to hand it out. But of course, no one knew I was to blame. How could they? I wasn’t in any of the cars, wasn’t even there at scene until the crash was over and done. A lot of people actually pitied me. I’d witnessed my own father’s death. That no one knew I caused it made their pity even worse. I was angry at the people who pitied me. But the friends and neighbors and teachers and counselors considered my anger a
coping mechanism
. The spiral of my guilt and anger, combined with other people’s compassion and sympathy for me, seemed to have no end. The more they
cared,
the more I
raged
.

The three high school kids, Roger, Lawrence, and Zach, were never charged with any wrongdoing. Roger claimed his brakes had failed momentarily, and when they inspected his car — that old green rust bucket — they found it had so many existing and potential mechanical problems that they believed his story. I suppose that was for the best. I can’t imagine I’d have felt better knowing Roger had been charged in my father’s death when I was really to blame.

Once the police had concluded that the accident was solely my dad’s fault, they even considered slapping him with a couple of posthumous citations: speeding, reckless driving, failure to give way to an emergency vehicle. When they called with that news, my mom screamed into the phone. I think I learned more curse words from that one conversation than I had in my entire preceding 14 years. But Mom’s anger was a front. As soon as she hung up, she fell to the floor of the kitchen and cried, for what seemed like hours.

I should have been just another kid unhappy about the start of the new school year. In retrospect, those days put the whole
I hate going back to school
argument in perspective. I would have been happy just to be in class. As it was, my mother kept us out the entire first week. On Wednesday, we buried my dad.

Sitting in the front row at the funeral services, I clenched my fists, open, closed, as a local pastor spoke. I guess one benefit of organized religion is that they know what to do when bad things like death happen. My family wasn’t particularly religious, so it was actually one of our neighbors who called in the pastor. Otherwise, I guess we would’ve all sat around the coffin silently, wondering what the hell to do.

My shoulders tensed; my fists kept opening and closing. The air itself felt stifling, like it was constricting me, falling over me like a heavy blanket. It was hard to breathe.

Then a hand lightly grasped my shoulder, and a voice whispered to me. “It’s gonna be okay, John.” It was my Aunt Cindy, all in black except for the white hanky she used to dab at her wet eyes.

At that moment, what I wanted to do was push her away, push everyone away. But I waited until I was able to force a weak smile. She squeezed my shoulder twice, then took back her hand, turning again to face the pastor.

Looking across the top of my father’s coffin, I could see Bobby and his parents. I’d sort of expected Bobby to be there, but his parents were another story. When Bobby and I hung out, we never did so anywhere near his parents. And they certainly didn’t interact with my parents, ever. The fact that they wore their best Sunday outfits and came out for Dad’s funeral was both nice and another contributor to my guilt.

I made eye contact with Bobby, and he looked at me, a blank expression on his face. We were just kids, after all. We might have something strange inside our bodies, but we still had no idea what to do in these sorts of social situations. The whole day was a blur, but I don’t think Bobby and I ever spoke.

I was so wrapped up in myself, my anger, and the weight of my new burden, that I didn’t see it right away. Neither did Mom. Aunt Cindy must have known that my sister and I would need extra attention on that terrible day. Because she saw it first.

When Aunt Cindy stepped in front of me, in front of Mom, my first reaction was
how rude!
What the hell was she doing, stepping in front of a grieving family at a funeral? I turned my head to follow her, and saw her rush to Holly’s side.

Holly was convulsing. It was like a wave, from her feet, upward through her legs, her body, outward to her head and arms. A seizure. Aunt Cindy knelt beside Holly, held her arm, checked to be sure she wasn’t choking on her tongue. For a full minute, Holly shook.

Then finally, Holly’s head tilted forward, and her body gradually became still. Aunt Cindy stayed where she was a few moments more, then rose back to her feet, giving me and Mom a sorrowful glance.

In the heat of the moment, the heaviness of the day, I guess we had all forgotten what Holly’s seizures had been foreshadowing in those days.

Like the wave that rolled up Holly’s body moments before, a wave rippled under the land, from the trees in the distance, across the green hills dotted with white tombstones. The blue canopy that had been erected to shield the mourners from the strong late-summer sun shook and danced. The pastor, our friends, our family, they all bobbed and moved, staggering about, trying not to fall.

The world around us shuddered from the strong earthquake, like the ground had turned to water and we were ships bouncing madly on the high seas. Unable to do anything more than hold on, I stared straight ahead at the shiny brown coffin perched on the simple metal stand, the box that held my dad’s body, thinking only one thing.

Oh my God, please don’t fall over. If Dad can’t keep his life, at least let him keep his dignity.

12

For days, the house was quiet. Holly watched TV sometimes. Mom made meals when she needed to, and did a lot of cleaning, but I think that was just a distraction. Still, it was obvious where her mind was. She’d move a paper on the countertop, something simple and innocuous, but it would have Dad’s name on it and she’d start to cry.

I sat with Holly a lot. She didn’t seem to judge me, at least nothing like how I was judging myself. I wanted to comfort Mom, but I was so…
responsible
… I just couldn’t manage it. How was I supposed to say I killed him? My own dad. Her husband.

Late one morning I sat on the couch, staring at the TV, which wasn’t even on, when the door bell rang, stirring my mother from the kitchen. She walked to the hallway, then paused. She was looking away, but it seemed like she was steeling herself. Trying to put on a normal appearance. She’d been doing that a lot. To all the people who came offering sympathies, some carrying a lasagna or another meal for us to reheat. Finally, with a sigh, Mom opened the door.

It was Bobby.

“Hey, Mrs. Black, I’m… well, I’m real sorry. I, uh.” He paused, not sure what to say. My mom let him off the hook.

“Thank you, Bobby. Please come in. How are you?” she asked, nothing but polite, although I imagine she didn’t care a bit about whatever his reply might be.

“I’m fine, thank you. Is… is Johnny available?” he asked. I leaned forward on the couch so he could see my face, and he smiled and waved, relieved to get out of the crucible of talking to a widow. “Oh, hey, Johnny!” I managed a slight wave in response. “You wanna hang out for a bit?” Even where I was, how I felt about everything that had happened, and about myself, I really appreciated Bobby at that moment. Sure, we fought, but he had become like a brother to me. I nodded, slowly.

“Sure, Bobby. Let’s go to my room.”

* * *

There was an awkward silence as we sat, him in the chair by my desk, me half flopped on the bed.

After several long minutes, he spoke. “So. Johnny. I, I really don’t know anything smart to say, but, you know, I’m… sorry. I can’t believe what happened to your dad.”

I nodded as tears came to my eyes. I looked away, embarrassed.

So Bobby continued, trying to break the ice. “I mean, that accident… It’s so…
random
.” He tossed up his hands in a gesture.
What’re you gonna do?

It wasn’t his fault. Not his fault at all.

But I got so incredibly angry.

“It isn’t
random
at all,” I spat.

Bobby said nothing. I didn’t know if he was thinking about what I had said, or if he’d just run out of ideas. But after a couple of minutes, he came back to it. “Sure it is, Johnny. It’s called an
accident
because it happened by
accident
. I know you’re really upset, and you should be, but it was just an accident. Coulda been anyone. Coulda been
my
dad.”

I clenched my teeth. “It
wasn’t
an accident.” I was full of rage. I could see Bobby pull back. Was that fear in his eyes?

“What’re you talking about, John?” He spoke low, unsure, leaning away from me.

I almost told him then, but I couldn’t. I shook my head, hard. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Hey, man, I know I don’t have any right to try to assume how you feel,” Bobby said. “But we’re friends, and so I can try to help, right? I mean, do you want to get outta here and just, you know, do something? To get your mind off it?”

Do something other than smother myself with my own guilt? At that moment, nothing sounded better. Timidly, I asked, “Like what?”

Bobby thought about it for a moment. “We could… hang out at the warehouse…?” He said it innocently enough.

But I snapped.

“The
warehouse
? You mean, the place just down the road from where my dad died? The place where you shot yourself?
That
warehouse?” I stood up, furious.

Bobby put up his hands, palms out. “Hey, sorry, it was a bad idea…”

“You’re right. It was a
terrible
idea. If I hadn’t gone to the warehouse the last time…” My voice broke. “I wouldn’t have kil—” I stopped myself before I could say it.

Bobby didn’t miss it. He frowned. “You wouldn’t have… what?”

I put my fists up to my eyes, anger and pain and sorrow, all together. “Nothing!”

Bobby stood up, right in front of me. “You wouldn’t have
what
, Johnny?”

I couldn’t hold it back any longer. It came out in a rush, like the air from a popped balloon. “I wouldn’t have
killed my father
!” It was a loud whisper. I couldn’t hold in my emotion, but couldn’t bear the thought of my mom overhearing.

Bobby took a step back. “What’re you talking about?”

I pounded on my chest with each statement, each admission of guilt. “
I
made Roger drive into the intersection, right in front of that cop car. I did it for spite — to try to get back at him! To try to get him in trouble, after what he did to me!
I did it with my mind
.
I
did it! That’s why my dad had to swerve! That’s why he crashed! That’s why he’s
dead
! He died because I was mad that a couple of jerks dumped a beer on me! He died because I have these
damned things I can do
!” I thought for a moment, looking down at my hands. “Because I have these
damned things inside me
.” I went to the desk, and Bobby cringed back.

Opening the top drawer, I pulled out the scissors that were kept there. Not kid scissors with safety blades. My parents trusted me with real, sharp scissors. My parents trusted me. My
dad
had trusted me.

I clutched the scissors in my right hand and stabbed at my left arm, a harsh cut that should have opened a huge gash in my arm.

Instead, my arm sluiced away, and I was left unharmed.

Boy, that made me mad. I mean, even more mad.

I stabbed and slashed, mercilessly, at my own skin. I wanted the
thorns
out of me.

But nothing worked.

I couldn’t hear him, but Bobby was talking to me. Not shouting, talking. Finally, he put his hands on me, and one or two of my slashes misfired and would have hit him, but of course, his skin moved away, too. I saw the futility of it all.

And I heard him, at last. “Johnny. Stop. Johnny. Stop. Johnny.
Stop
.”

So I stopped, the scissors thudding to the carpet.

God damn it
, I thought.
This is a curse
.

I’m cursed to live.