Five Nights at Freddy's: The Silver Eyes(21)
The man at the podium introduced himself as the school’s principal. He said a few things about loss, and community, and the fleeting preciousness of youth. He talked briefly about Michael’s kindness, his artistic talent, and the impression he made, even as a small child, on everyone he met. It was true, Charlie reflected. Michael had been an unusually charismatic child. He wasn’t exactly a leader, but they all found themselves wanting to please him, to make him smile, and so they often did the things they knew he wanted to do, just to make him happy.
The principal finished, and introduced Michael’s parents: Joan and Donald Brooks.
They stood at the podium awkwardly, each looking from face to face in the crowd, as if they were not sure how they had gotten here. Finally Joan stepped forward.
“It feels strange to be up here,” was the first thing she said, and a murmur of something like agreement swept quietly through the crowd. “We are so grateful to all of you for coming, especially those of you who came from out of town.” She looked directly at the front row, talking to Charlie and the others. “Some of Michael’s friends have come from all over, and I think that is a testament to who he was, that ten years later, with your lives on new paths, moving on to a whole stage new stage of life—” So close to the stage, Charlie could see she was about to cry, tears wavering in her eyes, but her voice was steady. “We are grateful you are here. We wanted to give Michael a legacy, with this scholarship, but it is clear that he has already left one, all on his own.” Marla grabbed Charlie’s hand, and Charlie squeezed back.
“I want to say,” Joan continued, “something about the families who are not here. As we all know, Michael was not the only child lost during those terrible few months.” She read out four more names, two girls and two boys. Charlie glanced at Marla. They all knew there had been other children, but Michael’s death had loomed so great in all their lives, that they had never even talked about the other victims. Now, Charlie felt a pang of guilt. To someone, those little girls and boys had been as vital as Michael. To someone, their losses had meant the end of the world. She closed her eyes for a moment. I can’t mourn everyone, she thought. No one can.
Joan was still talking. “Although their families have moved on to other places, those young boys and girls will always have a place in our hearts. Now, I would like to call to speak a young man who was particularly close to my son. Carlton, if you would?”
They all watched in surprise as Carlton stood and climbed up behind the podium. Joan hugged him tightly, and stayed close behind him as he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. He cleared his throat, looking over the heads of the crowd, then crumbled the paper up again and put it back in his pocket.
“I don’t remember as much about Michael as I should,” he said finally. “Too much of those years is a blur; I know we met when we were still in diapers, but I don’t remember that, thankfully.” There was a soft titter through the crowd. “I do know that as far back as I have memories, Michael is in them. I remember playing superheroes, drawing, which he was much better at than me, and as we got older I remember… well, playing superheroes and drawing. What I really remember, though, is that my days were always more exciting when he was in them. He was smarter than me; he was the one always coming up with new ideas, new ways to get in trouble. Sorry about those lamps, by the way, Mrs. Brooks. If I had jumped the way Michael said, I probably would only have broken one.” Donald laughed, a gulping, desperate sound.
Charlie shifted uncomfortably, and pulled her hand from Marla’s with an apologetic half-smile. Their grief, naked, was too much to watch. It was raw, an open wound, and she could not stand to look.
Carlton came back down to sit with them. Michael’s grandmother spoke, and then his father, who had recovered enough to share a memory of taking his son to his first art class. He told the crowd about the scholarship, for a graduating senior who has demonstrated both excellence and passion in the arts, and announced the winner of the first one, Anne Park, a slight Vietnamese girl who came quickly up to the stage to accept her plaque, and hugs from Michael’s parents. It must have been strange for Anne, Charlie thought, her honor so overshadowed by its origins. But then, she realized, Anne must have known Michael, too, however much in passing.
After the ceremony, they went to say hello to Michael’s parents, hugging them and making sounds of condolence. What did you say to someone who has lost a child? Can it be any easier? Can ten years make a difference, or do they wake up each morning as fresh with grief as the day he died? On a long cafeteria table by the stage, pictures and cards were collecting slowly—people had brought flowers, notes to Michael’s parents, or to him. Things they remembered, things they wished they had said. Charlie went over and browsed through them. There were pictures of her, and the others, as well as of Michael. It shouldn’t have surprised her—they were all together constantly, as a group or in rotating groups of two and three. She saw herself in the middle of a smiling pose; her, Michael, and John, all covered in mud, with Jessica beside them, still perfectly clean, refusing to go near them. Charlie smiled. That looks about right. In another, a five-year-old Marla struggled to support the weight of her newborn little brother, with Lamar peering suspiciously at the tiny thing over her shoulder. Some of Michael’s drawings were there, too, crayon scribbles professionally, incongruously framed.
Charlie picked one up, a drawing of what she supposed was a T-Rex, stomping through a city. It was actually, she realized now, almost amazing how talented he was. While she and the others were scribbling stick figures, Michael’s drawings looked realistic, sort of.