A Tragic Kind of Wonderful(54)
“You think he’s in heaven?”
“Maybe. I don’t know where that is, though.”
I smile.
“I don’t believe in heaven anymore,” Zumi says. “People keep telling me how when you die you get to be with everyone you love, but it doesn’t add up. Your mom loved your dad, but then he died, so if she falls in love with someone else and gets married again, when they all die and go to heaven, who would your mom be with up there?”
“Both of them?” I say.
Zumi leans over and swats me. “Maybe a threesome’s not everyone’s idea of heaven!” She sits back again and sighs. “Everyone can’t get what they want if they want different things. What if … what if you want to be with someone, but they don’t want to be with you?”
“Maybe heaven isn’t about getting everything you want,” Connor says. “Maybe it’s about not wanting anything anymore and being happy about it.”
“That makes no sense,” Zumi says.
“It’s Buddhism. You should know—”
“Because I’m Asian?!” She leans over to whack him but can’t reach and she falls across my outstretched legs.
“No, because we spent two weeks on it in sixth grade, remember? If you don’t want things, you won’t be unhappy about things you don’t have, and you won’t be worried about losing things you do have.”
“Yes, professor,” she says, still sprawled out. “But I love pizza. If I die and go to heaven, and instead of getting delicious pizza all the time, I just stop wanting pizza, that’d be hell.”
“If hell has pizza,” I say, “it’s probably nice and hot.”
“There’s no pizza—that’s what makes it hell.” Zumi rolls over and lies faceup, head on my thigh. “Either nothing comes after, or it’s nothing good, or it’s nothing like we want it to be.”
“Nothing is the best answer,” I say. “Sleeping is good. Sleeping in is better. Sleeping forever can’t be that bad.”
My eyes are getting itchy and wet. I better do something …
I twirl some of Zumi’s hair around my finger. “Sit up.”
She does and squeezes between my knees, her back to me. I can’t see but I don’t need to. I braid her hair tightly because I know I can’t tie it off and it’ll just slacken, but that’s pretty, when it’s braided but loose. I take my time. Zumi’s hair feels good sliding between my fingers.
“You’ve never had anyone die, have you, Mel?” Zumi whispers.
I don’t trust my voice and just keep braiding her hair.
“I hope you never do. Take it from Connor and me. It really sucks.”
HAMSTER IS RUNNING
HUMMINGBIRD IS FLYING
HAMMERHEAD IS THRASHING****
HANNIGANIMAL IS CRASHING/MIXED
The Golden Gate Bridge is often encased in fog or low clouds but not today. It’s all burned off now. The sky around the deep orange span is cloudless and the kind of bright blue no crayon can deliver. It’s so beautiful it crushes me. It hurts my eyes and my wheezing chest.
Nolan and I broke a lot of rules the day we came here together: no switching buddies, no climbing on anything, no leaving the group, and others, too. Every third grader had a sixth-grade buddy for the field trip, and of course they wouldn’t assign Nolan to me—they won’t put siblings together—but once we got off the bus we secretly switched buddies and then us Hannigans ducked away to break the biggest rule of all.
It was so pointless, eating bag lunches at the café below the south end of the bridge for half an hour without getting to go on it. The teachers said the field trip was to visit the Exploratorium, not the bridge, and eating lunch there was only a treat while we were nearby. Supposedly we didn’t have enough time and walking on it was too much to deal with given our numbers and chaperone ratios. But that’s what made it easy for Nolan and me to slip away and scramble up the stairs, sticking to the west sidewalk, out of sight of the lower tourist areas. We wanted to walk all the way across but we completely misjudged the distance. We only made it as far as the south tower.
Today, as I walk toward the pedestrian entry, there are two cop cars parked here at an angle. Two women in uniform stand together, drinking coffee. They’re not going to let a crying girl walk onto the bridge. I force myself to cough, and keep coughing, as I pass them. They have no problem letting someone with the flu on the bridge and they’re happy to turn away and keep their distance.
When I’m far enough to stop coughing, I do, and the crying doesn’t resume. My whole body aches. It was more like a seizure than just crying, my screwed-up brain off the rails. It’s a huge relief to stop. All around me the sky is bright, the air crisp, and there’s enough wind to kick up the whitecaps far below me. It’s spring break lots of places so the bridge is busy.
After a few minutes of trying to walk calmly and not start running again, I reach the south tower. I drop to my hands where Nolan and I sat together and scramble around till I find it. Scratched in the concrete, by the curb at the base of the tower, are faint letters less than half an inch high, so no one would notice and remove them.
N A H
I sit down, cross my legs, lean back against the tower, and look out over the Pacific, listening to rumbling cars pass behind me. I put my hand on the initials, to feel them, to protect them, and to shield them from the curious eyes of people walking by and looking down at the crying girl sitting on the bridge. Hot tears run down my face but the sobbing doesn’t start again. I bask in what I came for, an oasis of desperately needed peace. I can feel my heart slowing down.