Counting by 7s(32)

I’m not sure that I can breathe. The air is sticking at the top and the bottom of my lungs.



They put me in the front row.

Workers from my dad’s union organized this event and three people are speakers.

I do not hear a single word that they say.

On an easel next to the podium is a poster-size picture of my mom and my dad taken back when my dad had hair and when my mom was skinny.

They have their arms around each other and they are laughing.

I know this picture.

It sits at an angle on my mom’s bureau in a frame made from seashells.

I remember when I was younger asking my mom why they were so happy in the photo, and she said because they knew one day I was coming into their lives.

It wasn’t logical, but it made sense.



After the service everyone is given white balloons and we are ushered outside.

The helium-filled inflatables say JIMMY AND ROBERTA in chunky purple letters.

The idea is to release them while some guy in a suit (but also wearing sandals with white socks) sings about love being the answer to everything.

I watch in horror.

I know for a fact that the latex lumps will end up tangled in electrical wires.

They will find their way into rivers and streams, and even travel for miles out into oceans, where they will choke fish and endanger marine mammals.

But I cannot find my voice to do anything about these future calamities, because it is someone’s idea of inspirational to release the bobbing weapons.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a toddler refusing to let go of his helium prize.

His parents finally manage to pry the ribbon from his clenched fist.

As the four-year-old sobs in agony, I know that he is the only one here who understands.



A small article with a postage-stamp-size photo of me is in the local paper, and a fund is started for my future education.

My father’s employer makes a generous contribution.

There are other people on the list of donors, but they are only names I’ve heard in passing, not associated with faces that I would easily recognize.

The only person I know is Jairo Hernandez from Mexicano Taxi Company.



I write Jairo a thank-you note and he calls Happy Polish Nails. It’s two and half weeks after the accident. I used the stationery from here, so he took a guess that they might know where I am.

Pattie is surprised that a man wants to speak to me.

I explain he is an old friend. He is a friend. And a lot older than me. So I’m not lying.

Jairo asks how I’m doing, and then he says: “I want you to call me if you need a ride somewhere.”

I say:

“Thank you. I will.”

It is quiet for a long time but I know he is still on the phone line. Pattie is watching me so I nod and try to look like I’m listening to more than silence. I finally say: “Did you enroll in school?”

He says:

“I haven’t done that yet.”

He then asks:

“How is school going for you?”

I could just say fine, but it feels wrong, so I say: “I’m taking a break from that.”

He says:

“Me too.”

I add:

“But I’m going to the library today. Maybe that’s some kind of start.”

I hang up the phone, and later in the afternoon I ask Pattie if I can go to Beale. She says yes.

Once inside the building, I go upstairs and find the spot behind the doughnut chair. I crawl back there, but I don’t sleep at first. Instead, I watch the world from this protected place.

The library has regulars.

A lot of them talk to themselves.

But they do it quietly because quiet is enforced here.

After a long nap, I go back down to the first floor.

The computer room is the most popular space in the building.

I’m surprised, but a lot of the people who I think might be homeless (from the amount of things they are forced to leave downstairs at the front desk) go online.

I can see that they check their Facebook pages.

I watch these people click through pictures and view the same kind of videos as the bored-looking teenagers who show up once school is out.

I’m not sure why this is reassuring, but it is.



I go outside and sit on the steps.

I’m not waiting.

I’m just being.

Time exists only in my mind.

For someone grieving, moving forward is the challenge.

Because after extreme loss, you want to go back.

Maybe that’s why I don’t calculate anything now. I can only count in the negative space.

I’m on a different planet now.

I only speak when I absolutely have to.

Otherwise, I do my best to be invisible and stay out of the way.

No matter how hard they try, other people do not understand because I’m incapable of communication.

And that is why the deepest form of pain comes out as silence.



Mai, when she’s not at school, or with her friends, talks to me about her life.

I listen. But I don’t answer.

I spend most of my day with Pattie.

She’s there for me.

And just being there is ninety-nine percent of what matters when your world falls apart.



I know for a fact that Quang-ha hates me.