Folie à Deux (2 page)

Death cannot touch me yet. All four of my grandparents are alive and I knew my great-grandfather well until he died just two years ago. Frank says, “I came to find you. Let’s go.”

I walk into the guidance counselor, Mrs. Beecher’s office to see Kevin sitting in a single chair across from her, two other friends kneel beside him. Kevin has his head down, he is silent. He almost looks to be praying until a sob escapes. Boys don’t cry in my world. The last time I let anyone see me cry was the day my mom dropped me off for CCD and I was so scared that all I could do was bawl. That was first grade.

I’m unable to grasp what I see. This is Kevin, who constantly informs everyone that he’s a brown belt in karate. Kevin, who taught me everything I know about weightlifting. All the girls think he is cute, conceited but cute. He has a German Shepherd, befitting the machismo identity he is cultivating. Kevin, who wears his toughness like a second skin, takes advantage of his size and intimidating personality, hits me when I do something he dislikes, and when I don’t do as he demands. Laughs when he gives out ball taps and titty twisters and nobody protests, save a few other kids who play tough. He gets away with this because he is Kevin.

And now he’s crying. Helpless, against the backdrop of his father behind him, sunglasses hiding his own tears. Kevin’s sister, Amanda is holding her dad’s arm, but he offers no solace, too stunned himself. I’m not prepared for the grief of right now. My mind is flipping between two different channels. I’m absorbing
every essence of the moment, the guidance counselor’s futile consolation, Kevin and Amanda releasing sobs at an almost simultaneous pace, the expressionless look on Mr. Sumac’s face and two other friends looking exactly as I must. I see their effort to avoid eye contact with anyone, looking to each other for support.

On the other channel I see myself in Kevin’s seat, the same two friends kneeling before me and my siblings standing behind. I imagine the surviving parent trying to plan out the rest of our family’s life solo. Without any hesitation, when I snap out of my daymare, I kneel down next to Kevin and take his hand.

This is also taboo but on the day Kevin cries I may as well hold his hand. With my index finger, I swipe his cheek as a tear collects at his eyelashes and rolls down. I say the only thing that anyone ignorantly says at such a scene, “It’ll be ok.” This moment is so far from ok that no one in the room knows how to articulate the gravity. I immediately regret and resent my attempt on Kevin’s behalf. But the land of tears is strange. Kevin never looks up thankfully, but his sister won’t stop staring at me. The look on her face begs me to take away the pain. How I wish I could but I’m barely holding my own composure. I’ve never felt so alone in a room full of other people.

Mrs. Beecher rescues us, “Ok, boys thank you for coming. I’d like to have a moment alone with Kevin and his family. Please ask for a pass at the front desk.”

My heart finally stops racing once in the hallway and although I’ve been here countless times before I feel lost, as though I’ve never laid eyes on this part of the school. The other guys all go in the same direction while I stand still, unable to move. I stumble toward a bench, no, I see the auditorium at the other end of the common area and I think I should sit in there to have a moment alone. The perceived significance of this decision freezes me and
I stand immobile, solitary in my grief. As I process to fight the paralysis, my French teacher from freshman year, Miss D. greets me from behind, “Bonjour Jacques. Ca va?”

I‘m silent. She turns serious upon seeing my expression and puts her hand on my shoulder, “Oh my goodness what’s wrong? You’re white as a sheet.”

On the verge of tears I say, “My best friend’s mother just died.”

Her hand moves from my shoulder to rubbing high on my back, “Oh no. What grade is he in?”

I never notice before today that she has colored contact lenses that make her irises purple. I wonder what her real eye color is, pretty sure it isn’t violet. She asks other perfunctory questions before offering, “I have a free period now and my classroom is empty. You could sit with me.”

She speaks these words softly and with so much care that refusing her is impossible. She leads us through the stairway doors toward her room. I hear the beads she’s wearing click together as she walks and instinctively, I move to the beat.

Her room has two entrance doors, opposite one another and she closes both. I’m reassured by the privacy and her undivided attention. I cry but am unsure why. My mind is back to channel surfing. Firstly, life is unpredictable, followed by the crippling reality that I could have easily been in that grieving chair.

In the second feed I see Kevin crying and his father helpless. I see Amanda looking at me in despair and feel the naked exposure with which all of us in the room were struggling. As I begin to cry harder I feel Miss D. sit behind me and put both of her hands on my shoulders. The physical contact only unleashes more tears. I hear an audible “Shhhhh” followed by the same mistake I made, “It’ll be ok.”

She also uses the more generic grown-up statement, “She’s in a better place now.” I’m not sure what that means to accomplish because Kevin and Amanda need her and what place could possibly be good enough to leave her children?

Miss D. says sweetly, “The bell will be ending 4
^th
period in five minutes but if you’d like, I’ll find an empty classroom for you. Unfortunately, I have a class coming in next.” I look at the clock wondering where the last forty-five minutes have gone because I just sat down.

After composing myself, I tell her, “I’ll be fine. I can skate through the rest of the day.” I control my emotions better than expected but break down when I say the words to my wrestling coach, “Kevin’s mom died and I need to go home,” despite his, “Take all of the time you need.”

All day long I hate being in school with this burden, but as eighth period nears the thought of leaving is equally as daunting. Once I leave life progresses. I need to attend a wake and a funeral and worse yet, I need to reach out to Kevin. Right now the thought of making that call brings incomparable waves of nausea. There is a certain comfort in knowing that I’m still linked to the beginning of this day and this morning she wasn’t dead. Being a part of today means that I have a link to her life and my life before all of this sadness that I don’t want to surrender.

As soon as I arrive home I call my mom and tell her the sad news. I don’t know how I expect her to react because my own mind is swirling. Her questions are equally as dutiful as Miss D.’s. The where and when are natural but she asks about the cause of her death, to which my response is the same. What is missing is condolence. I don’t expect her to know exactly how I hurt or that I cried today. I could tell her that all day long I was thankful to have my mother, but I think it’s her place to offer sympathy.

After moving the conversation to something benign like dinner, we hang up. I call my dad hoping that he might help, but he doesn’t. He asks, verbatim the same questions as my mom which saddens me anew to repeat, except he adds, “Hang in there bud, it’ll be ok.”

My loneliness drives me to dial the only other person with whom I have a connection to this sad day. I call Kevin but Amanda answers. I should ask her how she is but that’s an asinine question so after, “Hello,” I hurry through, “Can I speak to Kevin please?”

He says, “Hello,” barely above a whisper and I ask what I was unable to ask his sister. He responds, “Fine.” I want to cut him slack because his mother died today, but all I can think is how upset I am too yet I can’t find anyone to comfort me. My parents arrive home and within minutes everyone is carrying on with life. I’m silent through dinner, don’t even attempt to do my homework and lie in bed long before bedtime, unable to sleep. Not until after I hear my parents go to bed does my mind begin to slow. I don’t remember my last thought but the first of the new day is how early my alarm sounds.

I feel different entering the building, out of place. Something has changed that I have not had nearly enough time to digest. I’m thrown back into the flow of life grossly unprepared, peppered with stares, less forgiving than yesterday. Today is different. Kevin’s at home and no one mentions his name. Nobody asks how he is or if I spoke to him or any of the things over which I’m obsessing. When I walk out of my first period class Miss D. is standing at the door.

She asks sympathetically, “How are you, Jim?”

I mumble, “Ok, I guess.”

She frowns, “Come to my room before you go to lunch.”

I don’t ask why but she was nice enough in class last year and a big help yesterday so I don’t think I’m in trouble. Still I wonder what she may want.

When I enter her room a few hours later she comes around her desk, approaches me and asks again, “How are you?”

She still has purple irises. She stands close and smells good. She asks, “Didn’t you sleep well? I can see it in your eyes.”

Her sincerity borders on overbearing.

I feel inexplicably guilty when she wonders what I’m doing after school and I tell her, “Wrestling practice.”

She suggests, “Why don’t you speak to your coach to see if he would allow you to be late?” With a dismissive wave of her hand
that implies no power is greater than hers she tells me, “Come to my room after school and I’ll take care of whatever else.” The rest of my day I’m not so upset that no one seems concerned about Kevin, someone is taking an interest in me. Now I’m being cared for too and selfishly, I want to ride the wave.

I arrive at her room after hurrying from my locker, avoiding eye contact with anyone else. I feel pampered when she tells me, “I spoke to your wrestling coach and he said its fine for you to miss practice.” She closes the doors and we sit on adjacent desk tops. She is close enough that I notice her perfume again when she asks softly, “How are you?”

I tell her a little bit about what I’ve been thinking, expressing how unfair it is that Kevin’s mom died and she will be able to see him neither graduate nor marry. Maybe because of how close I am to my grandparents I can’t shake the fact that she will never meet her grandchildren. “God has a plan for all of us, Jim and this is just part of his plan for Kevin,” she offers.

Her ideas match everything I was taught in grammar school, touching upon infantile comforts. She asks who I’m able to speak to at home when upset.

I lie, “My parents.”

She believes me, “Well, that’s good,” but something in her voice rings doubtful. A moment after, she hands me a post-it note with a phone number written on it. She reads my perplexed expression and tells me, “That’s my phone number. If you need to talk, just call me.”

This is Miss Danza. All the boys fawn over her while the girls try to be her. I’ve heard all of the descriptions about wanting to bend her over the desk and do dirty things, some of which I can’t even visualize. She always looks good in her short skirts or tight pants, never taking a day off from her trendy outfits and
elaborate hair styles. This is the same petite and muscular Miss Danza whose phone number is in my hand. I want to escape this moment because there is so much to process and I have no idea where to begin. I also feel like I want to tell my mom and dad of her kindness, but am unsure they would understand. I don’t know exactly why it would be ill-received but I foresee questions to which I have no answers.

I think I play it cool, “Thank you,” but I’m really grinning from ear to ear.

She tells her own stories of loss finishing with, “Time heals all wounds.” I don’t understand what that means and despite not seeking clarification she explains that Kevin’s family will struggle but be stronger for what they are enduring now. Although the individual parts confuse me, the whole of what she says provides comfort.

Before I leave she reminds me again, “Do not hesitate to use my phone number,” emphasizing, “Do not.”

During an earlier pause in our conversation I told myself, “I will not call her unless she mentions it again.” I play this game because I still think it impossible that her phone number is in my pocket. She outfoxes my escape clause. It seems a bit like overkill to make a kind gesture and then repeat it so many times, but maybe her concern for students is this great.

When I arrive home dinner is on the table. I hear nothing of the conversation because all I can think about is what I am going to say to Miss D. when I call. Should I continue about my sadness or strike up a normal conversation? But what is normal with a teacher who I don’t even have for class this year? In addition to being one year removed, I barely eked out a “B” average when she was my teacher so I can’t talk about French. What could she know about the things that interest me which amount
to not much more than sports and video games? And I really know nothing about her. I finish dinner and run upstairs to my room without saying a word to anyone.

My next dilemma is when to call. I just got home so now would seem desperate. I can’t wait too long because I don’t know what time she goes to bed. I don’t know where she lives so maybe she isn’t even home yet. It nags at me again that my parents won’t be crazy about me talking to a teacher, plus if she lives far away it will show up on the phone bill. I don’t recognize the exchange so the bulk of my predicament remains unresolved as I sit, deliberating on my bed.