Tears of a Tiger (13 page)

Dear Andy,

Well, this stupid counselor woman said to write this dumb letter to you. I don't see what for. It's supposed to make us feel better. But how can we feel better if we still don't understand
why
? Hey, man, life ain't perfect, but it's
life
! Remember right after the accident when we realized we wasn't going to die? In spite of all that noise and fire and death, we looked at each other, and real quicklike, we
smiled
. You know why? Cause we were
alive
. And we were glad. Of course we felt horrible because Rob was dead. I will never, never forget him, or that terrible night. And we felt guilty too—guilty that it was our stupid behavior that caused it, and guilty that we had lived and he had died. I been able to deal with the guilt—day by day it gets easier to handle. But
you
—you never got out from under the blame you put on yourself.

We didn't die in that accident for a reason. B.J. says it's because the Lord needed Robbie up there and he needed us down here. (I guess you know B.J.'s gotten real religious lately.) I don't know about all that—all I know is that if there
was
some special reason why we didn't die in that crash, then you just blew it.

Robbie's death was an
accident
. Somehow I can deal with that, but what you did—it just don't make no sense to me. You're making everything so rough for the rest of us. Rhonda and Keisha—they cry every time you look at them; and me and B.J. try to hang together, but nothing is fun anymore. I probably never will figure all this out. I know my life will never be the same. But I also know that dying don't fix nothing. It just makes things worse. I don't know what I'm here for, but I'm here to stay, and I got the guts to keep on living and find out why.

I'll miss you, Andy, and I'll never forget you, but when me and Rhonda is married and got six kids, you won't be there. And when B.J. is preaching to a church with 5,000 people, you won't be there. And when Keisha is a famous fashion designer with a Ph.D. in chemistry, with all kinds of fine-looking dudes around her, you
still
won't be there.

So later, brother. Say hello to Romeo and Juliet for me. Tell them I think they were stupid too. They didn't get to go to the Senior Prom either.

Your main man,
Tyrone

Dear Andy,

You know what really pisses me off? You! You're a coward and a sellout! You decided to end your life, without saying good-bye to anybody, without asking anyone for help. You deserted your friends and family—the people who love you the most. Suicide is the coward's way out. Brave men face their problems. So what does that make you? I don't want to face my problems either. So what does that make me?

Do you know what courage is? I guess you don't. Do you know that the courage it took at that moment—to actually blow yourself away—was more than enough courage to keep on living? It takes courage for me to get out of bed every morning, to put up with my stepfather's beatings, with my house that stinks of pee, with my face that looks at me in the mirror each morning and reminds me that the scar is still there. But I smile back at my face and I grab a bag of potato chips and my basketball and I head out for school. Because I have courage. I'll be here next week. Where will you be?

I hate you for leaving me here. I hate you for making me feel like this. I hate you for making me cry. And I hate you for making me face death again so soon.

Gerald

Dear Andrew,

You don't know me very well. You probably don't know me at all. I was in your English class this year. I sat on the other side of the room, near the door. I'm the one with the torn book bag and the nondesigner jeans. I used to sit there and watch you—cracking jokes with the teacher, charming the girls with that freaky smile, and laughing when you flunked one of those pop quizzes. And I envied you. Oh yes, I envied your easy, careless ways. Sure, I got good grades. (You once stood up and led the whole class in a cheer for me because I was the only one who got a perfect score on the Macbeth test—I know you don't remember that—I'm one of those kids who's easily forgotten—but I'll never forget it.) I wanted to be like you—popular and likable and well known. I never realized the price you were paying for that mask you were wearing. I'm glad I found out—I like myself a lot better now.

Marcus

Dear Andy,

I have some questions for you. Everyone has been asking why—why did you do it? Why now? Why didn't you ask for help? But I've got some harder questions for you.

What were you thinking while sitting in your bedroom with that shotgun? Who did you think would find you? Did you have someone particular in mind? Your dad? Your mom? How about your little brother, Monty? He's six years old. Did you think what an effect this would have on the rest of his life? Did you think about the blood?—on your bed, the wall, the floor? Did you know the blood dripped through the floorboards through the ceiling of the living room? That's how they first discovered what you had done. Monty asked your mom why there was blood on the ceiling.

I'm not through with you. Your mom found you, or what was left of you. Did you think about her? Could you feel her pain as she walked into your room, and saw your body draped across your bed, a gun still clutched in your hand, and shattered segments of your head spread across a room which looked as if it had been painted with blood? Do you know what blood
smells
like, Andy? Your mom does. She'll never forget it. Part of her died that day too.

And so did I. I was there. I had come to bring your chemistry homework because you weren't at school. When she screamed, I ran upstairs. From that point, it's like a terrible videotape that keeps rewinding, that won't erase. The blood, the screams, the tears, the frantic call to 911, the ambulance, the police, the body bag. Then the numbness, more tears, the disbelief, and the questions. Then more tears, the wake, the funeral, and the pain—the pain that will not go away.

So, tell me,
What
were you thinking?

Rhonda

Dear Andy,

You can't be dead. But I went to your funeral. I felt your coffin. It was warm and woody, but you couldn't have been in it. I wanted to open it, to knock and call out your name, but I didn't dare. I went to the cemetery. I kept thinking, Everybody here is dead…they're all dead! Thousands and thousands of dead people—people who would never come back. And then I really did call out your name, and I finally cried. I wept for you—because you weren't supposed to be with all these dead people, because you can't, you just can't be dead.

So, I guess the pain is over for you now. You have moved to the place where there is no pain, and I guess that's good. But the pain left by your absence is like a wound in our hearts that will not heal. Nobody understands why you decided to end your life when you had so much to live for. So you're out of it and we have to stay here, feeling your pain as well as our own. It really isn't fair, you know.

Some people say (and don't get me wrong—you know how often I go to church), well, they say that killing yourself is a sin and you'll go to hell for it because you took a life that had been given by God, and you can never ask for forgiveness for that. But I can't bear that thought, so in your case I hope God is forgiving. I hope God understands that your heart was good, but your pain was so powerful. (Of course, with that smart mouth of yours, God may be sorry and kick you out!)

I love you. Take care. Wait for me….

Love,
Keisha