did I let Sally and Eric to go the beach alone? Why didn’t I go with them? Surely I could have saved Eric from that horrible accident—if only I’d been there. Why was he taken from me? What did I do to deserve this? What did he do wrong? Why wasn’t I allowed to say, Ügoodbye”?
I can’t stop scorning myself for not giving him a hug before they left for the beach. It’s stupid. I was washing dishes at the time and my hands were wet. I was too worried about dripping water on the kitchen floor to give my son his final hug goodbye…and now I’ll never be able to hold him again. Why didn’t I just take the time to embrace my child?
When will these incessant daunting questions stop plaguing my every thought? At times, I think I’m going mad. Might be easier if I did. At least then I wouldn’t be aware of the immeasurable pain I’m in.
I’m a horrible mother! A good mother would have kept her son safe. A good mother would have saved him. A good mother would have been there with him as he lay dying: to hold him, to hug him and to comfort him. Why wasn’t I a good mother? How can I do right by Sally, after so completely failing her brother? I can’t. She’s better off if I just stay out of her way.
I know Eric’s death isn’t Sally’s fault, but…. Why did Sally let them ride an eight-foot wave? She should have known better. As the older sister, she should have seen it coming and protected him. I am a horrible mother. I just realized that deep down I do blame Sally for the loss of my son.
At a time when they should be drawing on one another for strength and comfort, Sally and her mother fall into the pit so often visited by those overwhelmed with grief. They grow further and further apart. They speak to one another only when necessary and spend little time together, avoiding the house that reminds them of their terrible loss.
Just as Mr. McFee’s violent temper had never been discussed, Eric’s death is their elephant to ignore. It takes its toll on Sally and her mother. Since the day of the accident, neither has been able to bring herself to face Eric’s bedroom. Instead, they close the door. This allows them to fool themselves into thinking that perhaps Eric will come bounding out of his room in his goofy manner at any moment. But they both know better. His contagious laughter will never again liven their house.
We’ll never see his twinkling green eyes or feel the warmth of his embrace.
These are the realities that neither can bear to accept, so Eric’s room remains sealed—unaltered—as if a shrine. Their loss and shame is never faced.
Collectively, mother and daughter come to realize that it is better to keep his room shut and ignore it, than to face their shattered emotions.
Sally’s mom cannot bring herself to go home after work, following Eric’s death, and finds herself volunteering to work longer hours. She runs meaningless errands to avoid the inevitability of returning home.
Sally cannot stand how everything—school, house and neighborhood—reminds her of Eric. She begins hanging with the druggie kids from school in an attempt to block out her pain and loneliness.
I hate being alone. These druggies have reached out to me. They accept me and it feels good to be wanted. And their drugs numb my pain.
Their leader, Grease, presents a proposal to her. “We’ll let you in our group. But you have to prove your allegiance.”
Sally asks, “What do you want me to do?”
Grease looks her straight in the eye and responds, “Shoplift.”
It is almost the end of the school year. Sally is seventeen years old and lured by the numbness the drugs will offer. Feeling confident that she can pull this off without getting caught, she does not back down from Grease’s penetrating gaze and replies, “All right.”
During lunch, Angel and the other druggies drive Sally to the market. They wait in the parking lot by their car as she goes inside.
Sally nervously walks up and down a few aisles, summoning courage to go through with her initiation.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s not too late. Just turn and walk out the door. But then I’ll lose my new friends. Come on. Stop being such a coward. Suck it up! You can do this.
Sally approaches the bins of nuts and dried fruits.
Ah, hell, if I’m gonna do this, I might as well stick to being healthy.
She fills two bags and then walks towards the back of the store. Placing one of the bags in her oversized purse, she heads towards the front of the store and drops the remaining bag on a shelf.
If anyone saw me, they’ll think I just changed my mind about buying the stuff.
Sally walks out of the store to the percussion of her heart pounding in her ears. “I did it,” she mumbles under her breath.
Not twenty feet outside, she hears rapidly approaching footsteps and knows, without looking back, that they are headed for her. She hears a male voice call, “Hey, hey, you, miss. Stop, I need to talk with you.”
Oh, my God! What have I done?
Back inside the store, Sally’s terrified eyes fall upon the shoplifting forms neatly attached to the steel clipboard. Threateningly placed atop is a shiny pair of adjustable handcuffs. The steel badge nearly jumps out at her, screaming Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, Officer O’Reily, 61610.
That’s gonna be me—nothing but a number. Just a number— entered into some steel-shelled computer, lost amongst millions of other faceless, nameless numbers.
Her gaze drops from his badge to his ominous gun.
I hate guns.
Sally shivers. Clipped to the left rear of the officer’s holster belt is a second set of handcuffs. Seeing them causes another shudder to roll through her.
“Stand up, turn around and put your hands behind your back,”
Officer O’Reily commands.
Silently, Sally does what she has been told. He places the cuffs on her wrists: first, one on the left and then the other on her right. The cold steel edges bite into her flesh. She marches obediently down the stairs from the staff lounge with her hands securely clasped behind her and is then paraded past onlookers.
This is so humiliating. I know these people…and they know me.
She is escorted down the frozen foods aisle, through an unattended register and out the door to the awaiting squad car where she meets another steel enemy, the protective grate between the front and back seats of the vehicle. Sally feels trapped by all the steel.
Stupid! Why did I agree to this? I’m not a thief.
She sees her new friends acknowledge her when the squad car begins to roll out of the parking lot. Their simple gesture warms her heart and eases some
