In the Muslim religion, you’re not allowed to freak out at funerals. No wailing, shrieking, beating your chest, scratching your face, pulling your hair, tearing your clothes, breaking things, swearing or blaming God. I didn’t scratch my face or tear my clothes, but I did an awful lot of wailing, and I tried to break the coffin open. It’s a good thing I’m not Muslim. They only mourn for three days after someone dies— except widows, who are supposed to mourn for four months and ten days. People probably mourn a lot longer if they loved the dead person, but three days is all that’s required. Then it’s back to life as usual. If you’re Muslim, you believe the dead person is going to their afterlife, and you’re not supposed to be sad about that.
It’s like how Christians believe in Heaven. There’s no set time for mourning in Christian churches. But we’re not Christian, either, so it doesn’t matter. We’re not anything. We don’t know what to do.
I should go make dinner now. Dad said he would make it, but that was an hour ago, and nothing’s cooking. I do a lot of the work Mom used to do at home. I feed Sammy and do the dishes and laundry. I shrunk every pair of Sam’s pajamas by washing them in hot water with his sheets. I don’t understand why they make pajamas from cloth that shrinks. When a kid pees the bed every night after his mom dies, it makes sense to wash all the dirty stuff together in hot water. Now Sammy’s running around in pajamas that are too small, and it’ll be years before Dad gets off his butt to go buy new ones.
Aunt Laura came over yesterday to return a pie plate Mom brought to her house at Easter. She said she’d come back soon and take us pajama shopping. Maybe by then I’ll have some strong feelings to write about.
I
’m starting to think maybe Dad put the snake in Mom’s car. On purpose. Maybe not to kill her, but to stop her from going out. He was ticked off that she was going to work on a Saturday, because it meant he had to stay home and babysit. That’s what he called it when he looked after us—babysitting. Like he was getting paid for it.
The police suspected Dad at first, but they couldn’t prove anything. Babysitting isn’t much of a motive. And a snake isn’t much of a weapon. It’s not something you’d see on
America’s Most Wanted
. But I think the police didn’t dig deep enough. Parents always have secrets they throw at their kids when it’s least expected. Like, “Hey, kids, I’m building a time machine to disappear in. Have a nice life.” I just know in my gut that he’s to blame.
Maybe he thought Mom was going to leave us to be with some other guy. That happened to my friend, Ameer. His father kicked his mother out of the house because she was dating some other guy. He didn’t try to kill her, but he yells at her in the mall whenever they cross paths. I saw it once, when Ameer and I were buying soccer shoes. His mom came out of the jewelry store and stopped dead in her tracks. She smiled at Ameer, but then his dad started freaking out so she ran away, clutching her purse and looking terrified. Ameer’s dad kept yelling at her even after she’d turned the corner. I didn’t understand a word he screamed, because he wasn’t speaking English, but everybody in the mall could guess what he meant. Ameer never said a word. He just stared at the wall of sports socks. He hasn’t mentioned his mother once since she moved out. I think he’s still in shock over the whole thing.
My friend Simpson was totally surprised when his parents divorced. His dad came home from work on a Friday three months ago and said he had big news. Simpson said his mom was excited, like she thought his dad was going to tell them he’d booked a family trip to France. Then his dad announced that he had a girlfriend who was pregnant and he was going to marry her. And that was it. He left. The next day a moving truck showed up. That’s the thing that bothered Simpson the most—the truck showing up on Saturday morning. It meant his dad had planned to leave long before he told Simpson and his mom. You just don’t know what parents are up to.
Maybe Dad thought Mom was going to leave us to be with some other guy, so he wanted to kill her. A lot of men kill their wives, and I bet it comes as a total surprise to their kids. Some Darwin Award winners are men who tried to kill their wives, but ended up killing themselves because they were too stupid to think of a plan that would work. One guy threw his wife out the window, but she grabbed the power lines and saved herself. Then the guy jumped out the window to try to knock her off. How stupid is that? He crashed into the street, dead. And really, he deserved to die. It’s wrong to kill someone, especially your wife. Then you wouldn’t have anyone who loves you.
I’m pretty sure Mom loved Dad, because she used to dance with him in the kitchen while she was making soup. That was the only thing she ever cooked: a hundred kinds of soup with cheese biscuits. They were all weird soups, like carrot and orange, or mushroom and black bean, or garlic and squash— nothing Sammy and I would ever eat, though the biscuits were good. If Dad came in to see what Mom was cooking—maybe he was hoping it would be something other than soup—she would put her hand on his shoulder and dance and smile like she loved him so much. So normally he wouldn’t try to kill her. But if he thought she wanted to leave him, and that she’d be dancing and smiling with some other guy, then maybe he would. I know she’d never leave me and Sammy—she’d come back for us, even if she had some other guy—but she might have left Dad.
What builds the case against Dad is that Mom’s job came with life insurance that gives Dad two years of her salary. Which is one hundred thousand dollars times two, and that’s a lot of money. I know this because I’ve been snooping through the mail. Maybe Dad killed Mom for the money, and also for vengeance because of some other guy.
I used to be sure that Mom and Dad loved each other, but Simpson says you never know for sure. He heard his dad say that he never loved his mom, not even for one second. It’s hard to believe you could live with someone for thirteen years and have a kid with them and kiss them goodnight every single day and never love them for one second. But what do I know?
If Mom’s death was actually a murder, it wouldn’t qualify for a Darwin Award, even if it’s a stupid way to be murdered. I checked out the Award requirements. To win, you have to show an astounding misapplication of judgment. For example, a woman on a bus trip wanted a cigarette, but she wasn’t allowed to smoke on the bus, so she jumped out. And since the bus was moving, she astoundingly misapplied her judgment and got crushed under the wheels.
Crashing into a tree is pretty astounding too. But a phobia makes you scared out of your mind, like you truly believe your life is in danger. So Mom doesn’t deserve a Darwin Award. She was a university professor and very smart. She should have had even more kids, because she had such good genes. She should have donated her eggs to other people who weren’t as smart as she was.
I went and sat in Dad’s room for a while, because it feels like Mom’s still there. I was snooping a bit, and I looked in her drawers. She had pictures from work tucked away. In one picture she had her arm around a man who looked like he adored her. Maybe she was dating him, and Dad found out. I saw that same guy crying at her funeral. Dad looked at him funny, like he recognized him. Or maybe he suspected him. The guy was crying like he had lost his best friend. He didn’t freak out like me—but he had dark skin and hair, so maybe he’s Muslim and he tried not to wail and tear his clothes. He was definitely weeping, which you’re allowed to do if you’re Muslim.
I freaked out again this morning when Aunt Laura came over with groceries and told me everything would be okay. I threw the groceries down and stomped on them. Aunt Laura got mad and left, so I had to scrape a dozen squashed tomatoes off the floor. It was totally gross. I freaked out because I hate the words
Everything will be okay
. Mom’s death is not a broken cup we can clean up. I know you can make most things better, even really serious things. If you fail a grade, you can make it up. If you lose your job, you can find another one. If you go to jail, you can do your sentence and get out. But dead is dead. There’s no way to make it okay.
Aunt Laura got mad and called me a spoiled brat, which is pretty harsh given the circumstances. She yelled, “You’re not the only kid in the world who ever lost a parent!” She’s forty years old, and Grandma and Grandpa are healthy as can be, so what does she know?
I was being a brat because I thought I could get away with it. I’d never have stomped the groceries if I thought for a second I’d have to clean them up. I freaked out at Aunt Laura once before, and she let me get away with it. It was two days after the funeral. She came over to cook dinner and said, “Don’t worry, Josh. Everything’s okay.” Obviously it wasn’t, because Mom was dead and Dad was talking about building a time machine, and he wasn’t joking. I threw the frying pan across the room and started screaming. She didn’t say a word that time. She just took a new pan from under the stove and kept slicing vegetables.
In the Jewish religion, the week after the funeral is called
shiva.
That’s a totally different Shiva from the Hindu god of destruction. During the Jewish
shiva,
the mourners stay home while people visit them. The visitors aren’t supposed to speak unless they’re answering a question, so they don’t annoy the mourners with stupid small talk. The mourners don’t have to ask questions if they don’t want to. They can totally ignore the visitors if they feel like it, and the visitors are supposed to just accept that. The mourners aren’t supposed to freak out and throw frying pans, but the visitors aren’t supposed to say everything’s okay, are they? But we’re not Jewish, so it doesn’t matter.
For me, the first week of mourning was a freakish time warp. Usually I play cards every Saturday at the Dungeon, which is the basement of a gaming shop where they hold
Magic
tournaments. The morning before Mom died, I was at the Dungeon, and I told my friend Pete that my first soccer game was coming up the next day. But Mom died, so of course I didn’t go to Sunday’s game. I just walked around in a daze.
That’s called
aninut
in the Jewish religion, that initial shock of death. It’s the first stage of mourning, and it only lasts until the burial. Then
shiva
starts.
It’s probably a good thing we’re not Jewish because when the next Saturday came, and I’d been walking around the house in a daze all week, Pete called to ask if we could drive him to the Dungeon because it was raining and he didn’t want to take his bike. I was about to tell him I couldn’t go, but Dad said he would drive us because it would do me good to get out of the house. As soon as we picked up Pete, he asked, “How was the soccer game?” And that’s when it hit me that it had only been a week since Mom died. Pete didn’t even know she was dead. It was so weird because it felt like a couple of months, but really it had only been four days since the funeral.
I said to Pete, “I didn’t actually go to the game, because my mom died.” There was silence in the car for a minute, and then Pete said, “Are you serious?” He was looking at me like I was some kind of freak for going out to play cards when my mom just died. I couldn’t explain to him about the time warp and how Dad said it would do me good to get out. It didn’t do me any good. Every time I spoke to someone, I could feel Pete looking at me weird. Maybe he’s Jewish and he thought I should be home ignoring my visitors for
shiva
.
Sammy just came into my room to watch
Scooby-Doo
. He has a
DVD
of his favorite episode with the band Simple Plan. We just rented it from Blockbuster, and he watched it for three hours straight in the living room. Dad probably told him to go do something else, so he brought it up here to watch.
We also rented some
Power Ranger
DVDS
because Mom and Sammy used to get up at 6:30 on Sunday mornings to watch
Power Rangers
together. Sam found an old series at Blockbuster called
Mystic Force
. He says he’s getting up early to watch it tomorrow. Maybe I’ll get up with him to make sure he doesn’t wander off. Sammy talks to Mom pretty much constantly—and obviously she isn’t really there—so for all we know, she’ll tell him to wander off one day, and he’ll just go.
He wandered into a cow field during my soccer game last night. I missed all the July games, but the coach called yesterday to ask me to play again. I’m the top scorer in the league, and they’ll lose without me. The coach didn’t say that though. He said it would help me take my mind off things. I’m guessing Simpson’s mom talked to the coach about how I’m spending the summer mourning in my pajamas, like an extended
aninut
shock period, and she told him to call me. I can’t see calling somebody whose mom just died and asking them to play soccer unless another mom told you it was a good idea.
When I’m playing soccer, it’s like there’s nothing else in the world. It’s truly awesome. Hardly anything feels like that anymore. Sammy says he wants to play too. Since the season is half over and sign-up was in April, I don’t think they’ll let him join. But I’ll ask the coach about it. Sammy could use something to take his mind off things too.
We won our game. I scored twice. Dad read a book the whole time—that’s why Sammy wandered into the cow field. I had to go get him and remind Dad to keep an eye on him. Other than that, it was a great game. I was surprised that Dad drove me. For most games I’ll get a ride with Simpson’s mom, but he’s with his father this weekend, and I didn’t want to ask.
On the way to the game, Sammy was afraid to get in the car. It was the first time he’d been in one since the funeral, and he totally freaked out.
Dad told him the car didn’t kill Mom, but a snake in the car scared her so much that she crashed. I tried very hard to explain how it wasn’t the snake but Mom’s fear of the snake that killed her. Sammy didn’t get it. Now he thinks snakes are evil. This is a real drag because he used to like snakes and now he wants to kill them.
Sam asked, “How did the snake get in Mom’s car?” I had no answer for that. I didn’t say that maybe Dad put it there on purpose. First, I’m not sure it was Dad, and second, Dad was standing there listening. So I lied and said the snake climbed in when Mom left the trunk open.