Grief Girl (4 page)

October 24, 1983

T
racy's boyfriend, Chris, arrives in the early morning. She must have called him.

Tracy was scared to introduce him to Dad. She knew Dad would be furious when he found out her boyfriend had sun-bleached long hair and wore tie-dyed T-shirts and rode a motorcycle. But finally she did it, and now Chris is almost like one of the family. He went fishing with Dad a few times and they really bonded. Dad even bought him a radio for Christmas.

Mum loved Chris instantly. “He's a gentle soul,” she said.

We walk outside, get in the car, and drive to the hospital to see Dad. For once I don't want food.

It's a long drive, at least an hour. Why couldn't they have been run over in a nicer, cleaner suburb closer to home? What am I thinking? Why do I care?

Chris is driving Tracy's hotted-up bright red VW Beetle. I wonder if anyone else out there in one of those cars is feeling what we're feeling. I wonder if we've passed someone on their way to the hospital to visit their dad after their mum has just died. I feel numb.

There's not much to say when we see Dad. He's groggy and just cries and says he's sorry before falling asleep. So we stand and watch him. He's in intensive care. It's all white and sterile but noisy and messy, like there's too much crammed into one big room. There are machines and cords everywhere. Most of the people in the beds look like they are fighting to stay alive.

Dad's got tubes everywhere. Circular white electrical pads are stuck to his chest. He's as white as the brightly lit room, with dried purple blood on his head that they haven't washed off yet. When I lean in close, I notice that Dad smells like a hospital, where everything's decaying but covered up with cleaning fluids.

All of a sudden there's a code blue or red or whatever and we're told to go outside while they deal with the man next to Dad. We stand out in the waiting room with all the not-so-urgent bloody, messy people waiting to be seen by a doctor.

When we're allowed back in, we talk to the nurses. I wonder if any of them is the bitch who hung up on me last night. These nurses do seem nice, though. Maybe they're just rude when they can't see your face. I can tell they feel really bad for Dad. They fuss over him and seem genuinely concerned. Besides the fact that his legs are completely crushed, I think they know his wife just died. But he's alive and out of danger, they say.

He may be in a wheelchair for a very long time, but “He's not going to die, Erin,” a nice nurse tells me after I ask her for the tenth time.

Dad's not going to be awake for a while, so we decide to go and pick up Trent from Auntie Evelyn's.

As we start to walk out, we hear yelling down the corridor. “Where's Ronnie? Where's our Ronnie?” It's Grandma and Grandpa–Dad's parents.

“He's asleep,” I tell them, and they push me out of the way and keep walking.

         

On the drive to Evelyn's, Tracy tells us what happened.

“Last night Dad told me they were crossing the road to go to a fruit stand when a speeding tow truck came out of nowhere and hit them,” she says staring straight ahead.

We drive in silence.

         

As soon as we see Trent, everything seems worse. He's delicate and small. He turned three only a week ago. Hopefully he's too young to completely understand what's going on.

Evelyn looks how we feel. Like someone's jumped out of nowhere and punched her in the face.

“Oh God, oh God” is all she manages to mutter before we leave.

At first we don't say anything to Trent. We wait for him to ask, which he does when we get to the car.

“Where's Mummy and Daddy?”

I'm trying not to cry, and I think Tracy and Chris are too.

“Mummy's not here,” Tracy tells him.

After a long pause I say, “She's gone…um…gone to heaven,” not knowing if it's the right thing or if I'm screwing him up for life.

“Oh. When is she coming back?” he asks.

“Oh, Trent, Mummy loves you so much, but when you go to heaven, you stay there with God,” Tracy says with tears streaming down her face.

He looks at us without saying anything. For the rest of the trip I pretend things are normal. I ask all about what he did at Evelyn's. I even laugh at something.

“Do you think he understands?” I ask Chris later, when Trent has fallen asleep in his car seat.

“No, I doubt it,” he says, as unsure as I am.

I wonder if Trent's little heart, probably the size of a golf ball, feels it. What does he feel?

         

As soon as we're home, the phone starts ringing. One of the first calls is from Ronald and Peter—Mum's younger brothers. Although they're my uncles, I've never called them that. They're too young and cool. They're coming here with their wives, Gai and Frances. They live out where Nanny's grave is. The grave Mum and Dad were visiting only yesterday.

Before they get here, I start wondering. Do I buy them something to cheer them up? Do I give them a sympathy card or flowers? Does one griever do something like that for another griever? Peter did that for me when Nanny died. Even though Nanny was
his
mother and only my grandmother, Peter went out and bought presents for both Tracy and me. He said he wanted to cheer us up, and he did. I got a hardcover Muppet Show book, which I read from cover to cover, over and over again, and Tracy got the Rod Stewart album
Blondes Have More Fun.
I couldn't believe that Peter would think of us when he himself was in mourning. He's amazing.

Peter's always joking. Whenever he comes over for dinner, he does everything he can to drive Mum crazy. He taught me how to flick peas with a spoon so they'd land wherever I wanted. He teases Mum over her obsession with her crystal and china and fancy dining room set.

“Oh no, Bev, I've spilt gravy on the velvet!” he says, his eyes twinkling.

Mum loves her “baby” brothers, even though they're grown-ups now. She thinks they're two of the best people on earth.

Why am I talking about Mum like she's still here?

Peter's wife, Frances, is from Holland. She's long and lanky and Mum calls her Frankie, which makes her feel special. She loves Mum. With her strawberry-blond hair and tiny freckles, she's the poster girl for clogs and windmills. She and Peter are a really cute couple.

Ronald and Gai look kind of strange together. Almost like brother and sister. They both have the same short brown frizzy hair, like steel wool. (Ronald even has it on his back, which I try my best not to look at.) Ronald's a lot like Dad in the humor department. He's always up to mischief. In every family photo Ronald is giving Mum rabbit's ears. Gai is short and serious, like a bulldog. Humor isn't really her thing, but I like her okay.

So anyway, they're all here and it feels kind of nice.

         

We get sent lots of ugly flowers. The kind you only send to dead people because no one living should have to look at such crap. The house is full of unattractive carnations. Vases of flowers line Dad's bar (he would not be thrilled to know this).

Hello! Don't forget for one minute why we're here. We're the flowers that say your mum's dead. Remember?

They're laughing at me.

I'm living in a funeral home.

         

We're all walking around the house without a purpose. Trent walks from room to room like he's looking for something. He doesn't say what. But we know.

It's all a blur. One day blends into another.

People have been to visit, but I don't remember who, except for Auntie Connie and the other neighbors. Auntie Connie comes every day with a casserole or roast. Venise comes with her sometimes, but right now there's nothing regular to talk about, so seeing her feels weird.

“You've got to eat and keep up your strength,” Auntie Connie tells us.

“Thanks, Auntie Connie, we will. Thank you so much,” Tracy says each time.

We end up with a freezer full of casseroles.

I love Auntie Connie's Greek food and am shocked that I don't want to eat it. Other people who visit are hungry, though, and thanks to her, we don't have to cook.

I walk around the house with my head down. I've never noticed before how ugly our carpet is. It looks like squares of green puke. Imagine eating a meal of spinach, peas, and beans. Now follow this up with some yummy green jelly with mint ice cream on top. You've eaten yourself silly, so silly that you're sick all over the floor. Look down—that's what our carpet looks like.

I feel like my head is blocked. It's like someone has turned the sound down. It's that sound when you're underwater in the pool and the voices above the water are muffled and the clearest thing you can hear is your heartbeat. Mine is louder than anything else, until the phone rings.

That phone won't stop ringing. I want to pull it out of the wall. I should have that night—no phone, no news. Leave us alone, but don't leave us alone. Tracy looks at me, knowing it's her turn to answer it. We've each spoken to at least ten people today and it's only lunchtime.

“Oh, hello…. Yes, I know…. Okay. Thanks…. Thank you. That means a lot…. Okay, bye.” Tracy delivers her monologue into the receiver. I know what the person on the other end is saying, because they all say a version of the same thing:

“Hi, Erin. Oh it's awful, just awful. How are you and Tracy holding up? If you need anything, anything
”—(they say things twice for effect)—
“please just call. We're here for you. Well, we'll speak to you soon. Don't forget to call if you need us. Bye now.”

“Can't we just disconnect it for a while?” I ask.

“No, we might miss a call from the hospital,” Tracy says, as if that should be obvious.

“Oh yeah, I didn't consider that,” I say. I feel like a thoughtless brat.

         

The house is slightly more bearable with family staying here. It's not so quiet and still and dark and cold. There are even moments of laughter when we talk about Mum. I hope that's not wrong. I hope God doesn't punish us.

Gai and Frances are trying to encourage Tracy and me to eat by saying “Think of Trent,” but we know Trent will be all right as long as
he
eats. Tonight they've heated up two of Auntie Connie's casseroles and have set the table. They've put Mum's favorite tablecloth with the big English flowers on the table, and her special crystal glasses have been taken from the cabinet. It doesn't feel right for us all to eat at Mum's dining table without her.

We make a toast “to Beverly.” Why do they call it a toast when Mum's now toast?

I want to be sick but there's nothing in my stomach to bring up. So I cry instead.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” I blubber.

“Oh, Erin, it's okay. We all feel like crying,” Frances says, getting up to hug me.

I want her to and I don't want her to. I'm strange the past two days. I feel like I want someone to hug me, and then when they do, it repulses me. I gently wriggle out of her hug, pretending I need to get a tissue.

I feel guilty knowing Dad's in the hospital tonight being spoon-fed mush from a plastic TV tray. No wonder I can't eat! When we visited him this afternoon, there was a plate by his bed with nothing eaten off it. That's not like Dad. Maybe if he were here with us, he'd eat something.

Everyone's impressed with Auntie Connie's cooking. Even Trent's eating, and he's been Mr. Fussy lately. I move my food around on my plate and put my fork to my mouth every now and again for effect. Tracy doesn't even bother pretending, and we all know by now not to mention it. If she hardly eats when life is normal, there's no way she's going to eat now.

October 26, 1983

M
um's been gone for three days, and it's Tracy's eighteenth birthday. I'm not sure what to say to her. A happy birthday it is not.

“Tracy, it's your birthday today,” I say quietly.

“Thanks for reminding me, Erin,” she snaps.

Peter and Ronald ask Chris what we should do for her birthday, and Chris says we should just keep quiet about it.

Tracy had big plans. She was going to go out with Chris and all their friends. I wonder if she'll ever want to do that again.

October 28, 1983

T
racy won't let me help her organize Mum's funeral. She's sitting at the table with stacks of papers from the funeral home. It doesn't seem right that she should do this alone, but she won't have it any other way.

“I don't need your help with this, Erin. I'm the one who knows best what she would want.”

“But I want to help,” I tell her, sitting down and picking up a glossy pamphlet about coffins. Apparently, there are lots to choose from.

“I'm fine!” she says, snatching the pamphlet back.

“Just forget it.”

An eighteen-year-old daughter shouldn't have to do this for her forty-one-year-old mother, but I suppose in a way Tracy's not really a teenager anymore.

“Will you at least let Ronald and Peter look at this stuff when they get home from food shopping?” I ask.

“Okay. All right. Now stop being such a pain and let me do this,” she says, getting annoyed.

So I go into my room and think about flowers, then coffins, then dead bodies, then dead bodies covered in dirt, then skeletons, then maggots.

I wish she'd just let me look at the pamphlets.

October 30, 1983

I
t's a week since the accident and I'm going back to school.

I'm going back to school because I don't know what else to do.

I'm going back to school because I don't want to be here.

I'm going back to school because everyone says I should.

I'm going back to school because I have to put one foot in front of the other.

I'm going back to school because I'm noble and wise. I'm strong. I'm to be admired.

“Look, she's going back to school! How very brave of her!”
they'll all say.

I'm going back to school because sooner or later I have to. I have to prove to myself that my life isn't over, that I have a choice. If I don't go back to school, I'll fall so far behind I'll never catch up, and life will never get better. I'll forever be the girl without a mother. It will ruin everything.

I'm going back to school and I have no real reason why.

I'm going back to school and I didn't sleep a wink. Every time I try to close my eyes, I see rotting flesh and skeletons and Mum lying in the middle of the road. It's so overpowering. Why can't I get this out of my mind? I didn't sleep and I look like shit. In a way I'm secretly pleased. I know it's wrong, but I can't help it. The black circles under my red eyes are a great effect. If I went to school looking too good, they'd think I was over it, just like the movies. They'd think I was over it and expect too much of me. I don't even know what to expect.

I don't know how the hell I'm going to cope in front of everyone.

I hope not too many people know.

It's weird putting on my ugly traffic-light green school uniform for the first time since it all happened. It feels loose and baggy. I would've killed for that before. Why did it take a tragedy for me to lose weight? I put my shoes on and they feel like someone else's. I put another girl's books in another girl's bag. Brush my limp blond hair that looks thinner than ever before. I didn't think that was possible. I'm disappearing before my very eyes. Am I really here? Is this all really happening?

Get moving, that's the trick. Got to keep busy.

Now all I have to do is walk up our little hill, get on the bus, get off the bus and walk up the long, long hill to school.

When we come, when we come

To the school on the hill

Proudly we come with our hearts and our hopes held high

With a faith that is strong we blah blah blah blah blah blah blahhhhhhhhhh.

I always fake it from there because I'm not sure of the words. A school song is like a national anthem. You're supposed to know the words. I've always thought our school song was dumb. Singing it to the tune of that Elvis song “Wooden Heart” doesn't help things either.

I'll never forget the day Elvis died. I hardly knew who he was. He was just some handsome, shiny-black-haired man who seemed to spend all his time singing and kissing girls in Hawaii. Anyway, there I was standing in line outside in the heat waiting to go into my third-grade class when a teary-eyed teacher came out and said Elvis had just died. I stood there and cried. I'll never know why I cried for Elvis. Maybe because Dad looks a bit like him—the fat seventies Elvis, that is.

And here I am years later crying again and thinking about that stupid school song and actually buying into what it says. I must really be losing my mind, finding meaning in our school song. What a nerd! Secretly, though, I am trying to hold my heart up, and I do have high hopes and all that bullshit. I suppose I just keep thinking that if I get back into my normal routine, all this will be over.

I have to say goodbye to Trent. I don't want to leave him. What if I go to school and he thinks I'm never coming back? What if something happens to him while I'm gone? I get this feeling that as long as I keep my eyes on him, he'll be all right. I'll be there to make sure nothing bad happens to him. Maybe I could take him with me for show-and-tell. My own walking, talking cherub-faced doll.

Peter tells me he'll drive me to school. I don't have to walk up that hill. I don't think I could do that today.

         

When I walk through the metal front gate, my school looks bigger than I remember it. The eucalyptus trees surrounding it look taller. I feel smaller.

I walk inside to go find Julie. We spoke last night on the phone and decided to meet by our lockers.

Everyone is looking at me. I can feel it. They're averting their eyes, but they're looking. Maybe death sticks to you.

Do they all know? How could they?

They'd better not know. I don't want them to feel sorry for me.

I imagine people whispering.
“There's the girl whose mother just died. She was hit by a tow truck!”

I keep walking down the hall. I wonder if they're thinking,
Look at her. She's a freak.

Finally, I spot Julie.

“I don't know if I can do this,” I whisper.

“Let's just stick together all day. And if it gets too bad you can always leave,” she says with a sad smile.

I catch a glimpse of the stupid Christians. We have quite a few of them at school. I can just imagine what they're saying in their lunchtime God group.
“We should pray for her. That'll help.”
Fuck off, you morons. It's too late. I already asked. There is no God. Actually, I don't know what I believe anymore.

It's amazing how when people are trying hard not to look at you, that's when you feel them looking at you the most. I feel like a minicelebrity, a celebrity of the tragic, suffering kind. Drama, not comedy. Although sometimes it feels like a joke. Is this how famous people feel? I've always dreamed of standing in the spotlight, but this isn't quite the stardom I was searching for.

And the award for best performance in a suburban tragedy goes to…Erin Vincent! Wild applause, possibly a standing ovation.

I'd like to thank my parents for obvious reasons (a little ironic laughter there); my supporting cast of mourners, I couldn't have done it without you; and…(a bit choked up here) and above all I'd like to thank God, my creator, for making all this possible! Oh yeah, and I should dedicate the award to Mum, that's always a tearjerker. Oh, and I shouldn't forget a tear or two myself. Noble, stoic tears, of course.

Here comes Mrs. C-J, my religious studies teacher, bounding down the corridor. She's got on her big smiley smile and her elastic-waist jeans. Why do Christians have no sense of style? Does she ever
not
smile? It must be a lot of pressure to have to look like you're basking in the Lord's glory all the time. Religious studies is actually one of my favorite classes. I always catch her out with something God got wrong. There's always a question that stumps her. When that happens, she says, “Oh, that's God's will.”

I'd like to read God's will sometime.

“Hi, Erin, we're so glad you're back with us. How are you?”

“Oh, just peachy keen. What do you think?”
I want to say.

“Good, thanks,” I say.

All of sudden I want her to hug me even though she's always annoyed me with her goody-goodiness. What a pathetic, needy wimp I've become!

“Now, I want you to know that everybody cares and is here for you. We've all been praying for you, Erin. All of us, the whole school. We had a special prayer in assembly on Monday.”

“What? You mean everyone knows?”

“Yes, Erin. There's nothing wrong with people knowing.”

Oh great, now they'll all think I'm pathetic. I'm so angry. No, I'm fucking furious. How dare she! The absolutely most important thing for me is that no one know so they don't pity me, and she's taken that away without even asking.

“Who told everyone?” I ask angrily.

“Erin, it's been on the news.”

I want to scream, but like a big fat sucker who's all “boo hoo” and no “fuck you,” I just smile and say, “Thanks for praying, Mrs. C-J, that's really nice and thoughtful. I do feel funny that everybody knows, though.”

“Erin, we
care.
There's no shame in people knowing,” she says, secure in the knowledge that she's done an incredibly good deed for a motherless child and now has a higher seat in the staff room of heaven. Well, that's what she thinks! What about what I think? Is that irrelevant now? Do I have no say in anything from now on? It's still my life, isn't it? I should get to choose who knows what. Keeping it to myself was the one thing I thought I had control over. The one thing I thought was mine.

“But I really didn't
want
anyone to know,” I say.

“They'll all just feel sorry for me.”

She'd better
not
try to hug me.

I hate her for making it such a big deal. I hate her for butting in where's she's not wanted, yet I don't know how I'd feel if she didn't. It shows she cares, I suppose. Although, she is the religion teacher, and Christians are supposed to care—it's in their job description. Maybe she's just doing her duty.

“I've got to get to class,” I say, and storm off for effect.

I can do that now, walk away from a teacher in a huff. They'll be too scared to say anything. It's like I've been given a special license. I wonder when it expires?

         

I'm in my homeroom and I want to cry, but I won't.

The room seems much bigger than before, and there's nowhere to hide. I stare at the walls. Deep breaths, Erin, deep breaths. You can do this. Prove that you're stronger than most people would be in your position. Prove that you're someone special.

I look around. Homeroom is full of girls from every grade. It's a new thing they're trying, to see if we can all bond and become a better school community. We sit in silence for fifteen minutes every morning and read whatever we want. I love the reading part, but I don't think we'll all bond this way, with our heads in books. I'm reading
Flowers in the Attic.
I love it. It's about three children with a mean mother who locks them in an attic. Why don't
those
kinds of mothers die?

I have now read the same sentence three times. Concentrate. Concentrate. Are people looking at me? Concentrate, for God's sake. Not that I'd do anything right now for
God's
sake. He can get lost.

         

Math. My worst subject and teacher. What a fabulous start to a simply marvelous day!

Mrs. Pike doesn't seem so bad today. She's usually so official and uptight, like she has a protractor up her butt, but today she's almost smiling. The muscles in her face are actually moving. Even her straight brown hair looks different, long and loose instead of glued to the top of her head in a bun. She almost looks human.

“Welcome back, Erin.”

I don't believe it. She spoke to me like I'm a real person, not just a brain with numbers waiting to be added and subtracted. See what your mother's dying gets you?

         

There's a group of six of us friends who sit together at lunch: me, Megan the ballerina, Lorraine the runner, Linda the netball player, Meredith the activist, and Julie. Julie and I like to act stupid at every opportunity. It makes school more interesting. Her nickname is Speck. I don't know how it started except to say she looks like a tiny speck. She's even shorter than me, which is saying something. She's as skinny as can be, with a face that's round and square at the same time, and her short brown hair has curls that go every which way. Her forehead's so high you could write a story on it.

Julie's the smartest person I know. I walk away from a situation thinking of all the things I could have said, but not Julie. She walks away relishing the things she
did
say. She's quick and she makes me laugh, which I think I'll be needing a lot of now. She's probably the reason I can even think of getting through today.

I'm walking with my friends along the beige corridors, on the beige linoleum floor, from class to class. I'm in a daze and don't really hear anything the teachers say. I just copy down what they write on the blackboard and keep to myself. Except in science. My teacher, Mrs. Stockbridge, welcomes me back with a hug and gives me a warm smile. She makes everything seem like it might be manageable.

I try not to think bad thoughts. I absolutely must not cry. I don't want people to think I'm weak. But I am. I cry in economics and geography. I hate these subjects, so maybe that has something to do with it. Who cares about money and rocks at a time like this?

Tracy and Trent are picking me up from school so we can drive straight to the hospital to see Dad.

The VW Beetle is in the school parking lot and everyone looks at it, not because it's the grief girl's car but because it's so cool you can't
not
look at it. I feel proud to walk toward it. It's like saying, “Yeah, my mother's dead, but I'm no loser.”

         

I didn't really notice this before, but the hospital Dad is in is like a five-star hotel.

When we walk in, I try to pretend I actually
am
in a five-star hotel.

I'm waltzing down the rust-colored carpeted corridor. I'm not in a hospital. I'm off to my penthouse suite—although the smell makes the lie more difficult to believe. And then I see Dad. He looks disgusting. Not like a hotel guest in a plush bathrobe. Sure, he's now in a room by himself, but he's wearing a paper hospital gown. His crushed legs are under a blanket. I don't know why they leave that caked-on blood around his head. It looks like the almost-black red color of my nails. I decide to change my nail polish as soon as I get home.

Lies we tell Dad:

“You look so much better today.”

“We're doing great.”

“Don't worry about Trent. He's fine.”