See You at Harry's(36)

I slam my fists into the water again, stepping in deeper.

“I need him back!” I scream. “Give him back!” I push myself forward into more cold. It takes my breath away and I am choking. “Please give him back!”

Strong hands grab my shoulders and pull me toward the shore.

“No! No!” I scream, trying to break free. “Let me go!” I swing my fists.

The arms fold around me.

“I can’t! I can’t!” I scream. “I can’t!”

I can’t live. I can’t act like life can keep going on without him. That all will be well. It won’t! Nothing will ever be right again. Nothing.

“It’s OK. It’s OK now. Let it out.” My dad’s voice is quiet and calm in my ear.

But there is nothing to let out.

Nothing.

I am empty.

He wraps me in the blanket and buckles me in the backseat, and we all drive back home. Sara guides me to the upstairs bathroom and runs a hot bath for me, then leaves me alone. I undress and pull back the shower curtain. I already put Charlie’s bath toys under the sink, but there are still traces of him here. Fingerprints of bathtub paint that haven’t dissolved with the water yet. I touch them, careful not to smudge them in any way. I can feel the panic rising in my chest again, but I swallow it back down. I pour the bubble bath Charlie loved in the water and swish it around. It smells like Charlie when he first comes out of the bath and runs around naked from room to room, a devilish grin on his face as he shakes his bare bottom at us and runs off again with naked Doll dangling from one hand.

I put my soap-covered hands to my face and cry again. Cry and cry until I get so used to the smell I can’t smell it anymore, and I have to open the bottle and breathe it in. Breath after breath after breath.





THE DAY BEFORE THE FUNERAL, my mom finally comes downstairs. She’s wearing my dad’s sweats, and her hair is stringy and gross. She stands at the kitchen counter and holds herself up by leaning on her elbow against the counter. My dad gives her a cup of coffee, and she sips it quietly. Her face is grayish, and her eyes seem sunken in.

She doesn’t look like our mom. She looks like a ghost of her.

I had hoped when she came down, she would wrap us up in her arms like she used to do with Charlie. And she would tell us she was here, just like when she’d come into my room at night when I woke up from a nightmare. “I’m here,” she’d whisper. “I’m here.” Until I fell back to sleep. But now I think those arms would pass right through me. It makes me feel as empty as she looks.

When she finishes her coffee, we follow her out to the living room to wait for the minister, who is stopping by to talk to us about Charlie and what will happen at the memorial service. We don’t belong to a church, so Mona recommended him.

My dad greets him at the door and they talk quietly for a minute, then they come to talk with us. The minister is huge like my dad but quieter. Calmer. I wonder how many times he’s had to come to a house like ours. To say words no one wants to hear.

The whole time, my parents sit on the couch and stare at the coffee table. Sara and I are squeezed into my mom’s chair, and Holden stands behind us. The minister’s eyes dart from one of us to another as he talks. It seems like he’s been trained to do this. To make eye contact with everyone in the room. Each time our eyes meet, I feel like he can see inside me. Like he can see my guilt. I’m glad when he leaves.

All day, people stop by with casserole dishes for the service tomorrow. My dad stands in the doorway to accept them.

I’m so sorry. We’re so sorry.

We hear the words over and over through the open door. They are supposed to comfort. I know that. But I want to scream at everyone to shut up. What are they sorry for?

In the afternoon, my dad and Holden make several trips back and forth to the restaurant to bring the food over there. None of us want it. Instead, my mom and Sara make plain pasta, and we all try to force it down. My dad tells us what the plans are for tomorrow, but no one responds. I keep waiting for my mom to look up. To look at us. Look at me. But she doesn’t. Maybe it’s because she can’t. Maybe it’s because she knows it’s my fault.

The next morning, Sara wakes us all up, and we take turns in the shower. I don’t own any skirts, so Sara lends me one of her Indian print ones. It’s too long, so I have to roll it up at the waist. I wear a dark blue blouse with it. Standing in front of the mirror, I don’t recognize myself. My hair hangs limply to my shoulders. I look frumpy. Sara comes into my room with a brush and offers to pull my hair back for me. When she’s done, she leads me to the mirror again. Somehow, with my hair up, I look taller. Older.

“You should pull your hair back more often, Fern. You look pretty.”

I don’t want to look pretty.

Sara looks older, too. She has on a long, deep purple skirt with a black ballet-style top. She wears a pretty shawl over her shoulders that Mona knitted for her for Christmas last year. When our eyes meet, she looks down, and for a second, she looks just like my mom last night. And I realize why they can’t look at me. Because they think it’s my fault. Because they know it is.

I follow Sara downstairs to join the others. My mom looks small. She’s wearing another Mona shawl. She looks like she’s hiding in it. My dad wears an old suit that looks too tight. They are both pale and distant looking. Holden hands me my coat and helps me put it on. I feel Charlie’s fireman in my pocket and bite my bottom lip. I don’t want to cry today. I just want to be a stone.