college in August, Dad came with me a few more times. I thought about stopping, but actually, I really liked going. I didn’t mind going alone. I guess it helped to be able to talk about it openly, to be around others who understood. Recently, Flor started to go with me.
“ELEANOR, DARA IS ON THE PHONE!”
I walked over to my desk to pick up the phone. We used to have only one phone in the whole house. It was in the kitchen with a cord long enough to reach the family room and even the front hallway. Then, we got cordless phones a few years ago. One in the kitchen, one in Shirley’s bedroom and Gret and I have one in our bedrooms. I used to love how—depending on the channel—you could hear bits and pieces of neighbors’ conversations. There was always some static, but I’d dig out all the wax in my ears just to hear whatever I could. My imagination would always fill in the rest.
“Hey,” I said.
“You okay?” Dara asked. “You just ran and—”
“Sorry.”
“Want me to come over?”
“Nah.”
“Why do you think he—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.
“Yeah, okay. I mean, I guess it’s extra scary because your mom . . .”
“I really don’t want to talk about it.”
THAT NIGHT, SHIRLEY TOOK ME TO the mall to get my hair evened out, whatever that means. I asked her if I could dye it. Up to that point, I was only able to use sun-in and my hair was already blond, so I didn’t really see the point—though that didn’t stop me from using it. Maybe Shirley felt bad or too tired to disagree, but whatever the reason, we went to the beauty supply store on the second floor, got some bleach and manic panic—I couldn’t believe it!—and headed home.
“It fades,” Shirley said, when we got home. “That’s why I didn’t battle you earlier. And . . .” she paused, “ . . . I understand why this is extra hard, Eleanor. But you know I am better, right? I’m not looking to leave anytime soon. I love you. That has never wavered.”
“Yeah, I know. I love you too. If it’s okay, I’m gonna try this out.”
“Please use an old towel,” she said. “And put paper towels on the counter, in case anything drops.”
Before the bleach. Before the cranberry-fizz-colored hair dye. Before I started to mourn my dull blond curls. I grabbed the heaping pile of my hair and put it into a plastic Food Town bag. I figured next time we visit Grandma’s grave, I can bring her some. I know how much she loved it.
After the bleach. After the cranberry-fizz-colored hair dye. After I started to mourn my dull blond curls.
“Well, next time we lose each other in the mall, I’ll easily find you,” said Shirley.
“Ugh, is it awful?”
“Well, it certainly looks different from this morning, but it’s not terrible.”
I feigned a smile.
“Is your homework all done? You ready for school tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I don’t know, I . . . Shirley, can I . . . can I ask you something?”
“Eleanor, you know how I feel about you calling me that. Go ahead.”
“I feel like there must have been so many bad days. So, what turns a bad day into what you desperately hope is the last day? I mean, what makes someone decide: today I kill myself. Maybe yesterday sucked, but today is just too much.”
“I certainly can’t answer that for James, but for me . . . oh honey, I got to the point that I thought you and Greta would fare better without me.”
“You thought dying would make our lives better?”
“I know. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“And now?”
“Now, with medication and—”
“But you were on medication. That’s what you—”
“Better medication, more regulated. And going to therapy again has really helped. Brinna even mentioned me trying some group therapy. We’ve been making great headway and she feels like being around others could be really beneficial.”
“It could get you to meet people,” I said, trying to be optimistic.
“You have, right?”
“What? At the support group? Yeah, I mean, everyone is super nice, I guess. Didn’t exactly go there to make friends, but . . .”
“But it gives you the opportunity to understand a little more. To know it’s never about the survivors. To understand mental illness.”
“Yeah.”
Shirley threw her hand into my hair and tousled the tiny amount left. “I like this. Like Debbie Harry or something.”
“Who?”
* * *
“THERE IS JUST NO WAY TO prepare for something like this.” Ms. Raimondo stood in front of us, as she always does, but she looked different today, like her veins somehow wilted and all the blood inside vanished. I guess we all looked like that today.
James was dead.
“As your homeroom teacher mentioned, there are grief counselors who will be here all week into next, and you can go to them to process what’s going—”
“Like instead of going to class?”
Ms. Raimondo just stared at Harris blankly. “Like because you need to.”
“As I was driving to school today,” she said, “I had all these words for you guys, but I guess I . . . lost them.” She sort of smiled, as though part of her mouth didn’t get the memo that it was supposed to lift. “It’s difficult to know what to say when . . .” The rest of her words vanished.
I don’t know how to feel. I just know I want to feel anything else but this.
“So, here’s the thing,” she paused. “We’ve been reading and taking apart poems in this class and addressing the complications of language, the feeling of being shut out or angry or emotional. There are times that it is just so hard to make sense of it all.”
“Like Shakespeare?” Tiffany added.
“Sure,” she smiled with her whole mouth. “Listen, I want to put aside today’s lesson and introduce something else. Who here keeps a diary or journal of some sort?”
A few hands tentatively rose. I used to keep a diary many years ago and then lost interest. It was mainly just secret crushes or complaining about unfair rules. I guess not as riveting as I hoped it would be.
“Starting
