I can see the passing days as it slowly starts to even itself out. I feel like whatever has been growing inside me has gotten louder in these two weeks. And maybe some things are finally ready to come out.
Oh, and I guess Dara and I are still fighting. We spent the rest of the bus ride in silence.
Tuesday, November 2 (later)
Dear James,
I threw out that mix tape I was listening to the night you pushed me. Actually, I thought I had already. I didn’t want to be reminded of that night. But when I was looking for something under my bed, I found it. I pulled out the thread, watched it unravel and get immediately tangled. Then I threw the tape in the garbage can in my bedroom. I think it’s time for a new one. New music. Maybe I’ll make you one. One I would have given to you if we were friends.
Wednesday, November 3
Sometimes school feels like a rerun of a cancelled television show. We see the same people in the same mint green hallways wearing the same outfits having the same conversations. It’s not that nothing happens, it’s just that we so quickly forget what came before all this.
Thursday, November 4
Aggie asked if I wanted to come over to her house this weekend and I wanted to scream out YESYESYES, except I’m spending this weekend at Dad’s. He’s been out of town a lot lately and we haven’t spent a full weekend together in almost a month. Dad used to be my favorite parent and I guess he still is, but I don’t see him very often. I bet you liked your mom best. She seems really nice. Oh! Shirley and I are going over to your house for dinner on Friday night. Really weird. Can you even imagine if you were still . . . well, I guess if you were still alive I wouldn’t be going there. I never would have met your mom. And I certainly wouldn’t be writing you these letters.
I thought Shirley was doing better, but the other day she didn’t even get dressed and I’ve learned that’s a sign. Maybe she just felt like being lazy. I mean, if it were up to me, I’d stay in my pajamas all day. I’d even go to school in them, who cares?
Friday, November 5
Dear James,
Last night Flor and I went to group. On the way there, I asked her how her date from last week went. In the time I’ve known her, she’s never gone on a date before, or at least she never mentioned it.
“We went to an Italian restaurant near her house. They serve family style.”
“What’s her name? What’s she look like? Will there be a second date?”
“You’re rather interested, aren’t you?” she said, smiling. “Her name’s Theresa. I met her at the library and we just started chatting. She’s taller than me, more slender. Dark hair. Glasses.”
“You think you’ll see her again?”
“We saw each other a few days ago. We’ll see how it goes.” Flor smiled in a way I hadn’t seen before. She looked truly happy.
“I’m worried about Shirley,” I blurted.
“Eleanor, there’s no need. She’s—”
“She didn’t get dressed at all the other day. When I got home from school, she was watching her soap operas. She looked like she hadn’t moved from the couch all day. I don’t know. I feel like I need to pay extra attention to these things now.”
“I understand being worried but give her a chance to have bad days. She’s human.”
“I guess.” I wandered my eyes toward the moving landscape out the window. McDonald’s, bank, jewelry store, another McDonald’s, Wendy’s, strip mall, strip mall, strip mall, tree.
“So . . . anyone catching your eyes these days?” Flor never asked about my dating life, mainly because I’ve never been anywhere close to having one.
“Maybe a little, but—”
“Oh? What are they like?”
James, I wasn’t thinking this then, but I do think it’s interesting that Flor never used a he or she.
“I don’t know. I don’t really want to talk about it. Not yet, at least.”
You probably don’t care about this and would much prefer to hear about your mom. It seems she finds group to be really helpful. She even told the group that she started seeing a therapist, which I guess is a big deal because she said she’d never seen one before. She’s still hoping your dad will come join the group sometime, but so far, it’s just been her.
She asked if I like fried chicken. I bet your mom is a really good cook.
Saturday, November 6
Dear James,
Your house smells like cooked carrots and pine trees.
Shirley and I got there a little early. Your mom was still in the kitchen, frying chicken. I offered to help, and she let me whip the potatoes with the electric beater. She even gave me an apron to put on, which she said was yours. Her and Shirley talked a bit while I whipped, but of course I was listening the whole time.
“Burt is at church. He is meeting with a couple tonight who are getting married in a few weeks and they’ve been having counseling sessions. He sends his regrets.”
“How is he . . . coping?” Shirley asked.
“We’re both just without words. I haven’t even been able to go in James’s bedroom. I don’t want to open the door. I don’t want his smell to escape.” She blushed. “I went in right after and then . . . he’s just . . . he’s everywhere.”
James, there is so much I wanted to say. I wanted to tell her how I used to be afraid to go anywhere near Shirley’s bedroom while she was in the hospital—we found her in her bed. That every time I even looked in the doorway, it was like replaying that day all over again. But I didn’t. I just mixed the potatoes and let them talk.
“Helaine, if you ever want to talk, I am here. So is Eleanor, of course.” She looked at me and I tried to force a smile.
“Actually, I wanted to see if Eleanor might want some of James’s tapes. Eleanor, I remember during group that you mentioned you liked the Nirvana band. James was quite enamored, to put it mildly.”
“Oh, uh, yeah. Sure.”
“His bedroom is just up the stairs to the right.”
“I thought . . . I thought you didn’t want to open his door. I mean, it’s fine. I don’t need to—”
“Just close it when you’re in there and then when you leave. It’s okay, dear.”
