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Becca Is Still A Slob

Jill, Becca, and I went Christmas shopping.
Our wallets were not full. I had a total of sixty-three dollars from working (left over after the cute purse, the new jeans, the denim jacket), which wasn’t going to buy a heck of a lot. So we bought Mom silly little gifts from the Dollar Tree like we always do, and we got creative at the discount stores for everybody else.

Becca has been home a week, and I’ve kind of been keeping an eye on her, but she’s fine. Really fine. It’s hard to believe, but she’s settled back in. Her shoes are in a big heap on her side of the closet, and her sweaters are in a pile on top of her dresser, so I guess things
are
back to normal.

Something Like Dinner

When Mom woke up and said, “Crap. Christmas is tomorrow,”
that was a sign that we needed to pick up the slack. Becca volunteered to make dinner or at least be in charge of planning it.

This was what she came up with for our Christmas Eve menu:

•
Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches (for her).

•
California rolls from the world’s best sushi place (for me).

•
Tuna sashimi (for Jill—blobby and gross).

•
Homemade tamales (from Sylvia, for Mom).

•
A perfectly normal dinner.

Mom Spazzes A Little

Her arms loaded with bags
, Mom took one look at the table and started to spaz.

“Oh, girls. This looks wonderful!”

She put the bags down to check out the spread.

“Tamales? Oh, I love your mom, Roman!”

Roman smiled, brushing his hair from his forehead.

“And what is this? Sushi? And some grilled cheese?” She picked up a lid to peek underneath. “California rolls, Stacy? This is really, um, interesting. Thanks, girls. It’s beautiful.”

She hugged Becca and Roman and me, and when Jill came home, we sat down and ate our strange Christmas Eve meal, which seemed perfect for us.

I don’t think our family is like everyone else’s anyway. In fact, I’m sure of it.

Christmas Present

There wasn’t a big pile of presents under the tree
, but we exchanged our little gifts with each other and laughed at how ridiculous they were. (Jill especially liked the striped socks with built-in toe separators that I gave her.) Mom gave us all perfume sets and money for clothes. Then Becca gave us each a sketch she drew.

She gave Mom a drawing of Charles curled up on his little table by the window. He looked like a little angel cat.

“Oh, sweetie!” Mom said with a hand up to her face. She swallowed a couple of times but began to cry anyway—just a little though. Tears of happiness, I think, like she couldn’t believe Becca’s transformation.

The sketch Becca gave me caught me completely off-guard. It was the framed picture of Bobby and Adele, the woman with the bright orange hair. In the picture, the two of them were having a deep conversation.

“Wow, Becca. I don’t know what to say.” I looked at it for a minute, really studied it, and put it aside because it was Christmas, and I didn’t want to go to that unhappy place.

After we opened presents, my phone rang. It was a New York number I didn’t recognize, which usually means it’s a telemarketer, but I answered it anyway since it was Christmas. Time stopped for a second when I heard the voice that I knew so well—that I etched into my brain.

“Hey, beautiful. Just wanted to call and wish you a Merry Christmas.”

My heart skipped a beat. There were a million questions I wanted to ask him.

“Bobby!” I cried into the phone, not even trying to sound calm. “How
are
you?
Where
are you? Oh my God! I can’t believe I’m hearing your voice right now. How
are
you?” I repeated since I hadn’t given him a chance to say anything. I just wanted to breathe him in, I’d missed him so much.

“Sorry I haven’t called you. It’s been kind of crazy.”

He sounded so sweet and gentle, just like Bobby. I stumbled, searching for the right words to say. I mean,
he knew
that
I knew
he tried to kill himself. It was the thing—“the thing”—we didn’t—
couldn’t
—talk about. People talk about the elephant in the room—the idea that there’s this big creature sitting in the corner that nobody talks about; they all act as if nothing’s funny or strange at all. It’s pretty absurd, the whole idea everyone’s too polite to mention it. Bobby trying to kill himself was the elephant in the room in our conversation.

He went on, trying to explain his life to me, condense it down to about fifteen seconds. “My parents found a really good place for me here in New York. It’s great. The best money can buy.” He laughed. “And, you know, it’s far away from my dad. I really need to not be with him—anywhere near him—for a while. I need time to sort things out.”

How sad to feel that way about your own father. I felt so bad for him.

“What about Jimi?” (For some reason, all I could think about was him being so far from his dog.)

“That’s the beautiful thing,” he said, sounding upbeat now. “When I get out of here, my mom’s gonna send him to me—just put him on a plane and ship him out. I can’t
wait
to see him.” He paused. “I really miss you, beautiful. I’ve thought about you a lot.”

“I miss you too.” And I
did
really miss him. My voice started to crack, and I felt the knot forming in my throat, but I didn’t want him to hear me cry. “So, Bobby, when will you be coming back?” I tried to say this casually; I tried not to let him hear how important this was to me.

He got quiet. “See, uh, the thing is, my uncle’s got a car dealership in upstate. He told me he’d give me a mechanic’s job, train me and everything. So…” long pause, “…I’m not planning to come back. At least for a while.”

I tried not to let him hear the disappointment in my voice. At first I was just a
little
hopeful, now I felt crushed, deflated. But he didn’t
have
to call me. I could have gone the rest of my life never hearing from him again, yet he called. He cared enough about me to do that.

“Um, take care of yourself, Bobby. Okay?” I was starting to cry now—couldn’t seem to control myself—and I wanted to end the call before he heard me blubbering like an idiot.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said, trying to reassure me. His voice was so tender, like he was concerned about
me
. “You know something, Stacy? You’re a special girl, you know that? I just want you to know that.”

“It’s just that I really miss you. So much.” I was sobbing, not even bothering to hold back anymore.

“I know. I miss you too. Hey, I’ll be back for your graduation, okay?”

My graduation. In three and a half years. I wiped my eyes, trying to get hold of myself.
Would he still remember me then?

“Promise?” I asked, pushing him.

“I promise. I’ll see you around, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Merry Christmas, Stacy.”

“Merry Christmas.” I could barely get out the words.

“Hey, I almost forgot—you’ll be getting a package in a few days. Sorry it didn’t make it in time for Christmas.”

“What is it?” I demanded (because I’m not good at waiting for surprises). I forgot about being miserable for a second.

“Can’t wait, huh?” He laughed a little. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes! Yes, I do.”

“It’s a CD I made of me playing, just for you.”

Wow. I didn’t even know what to say, and now I was sad again, ridiculously sad, because I wouldn’t be seeing him for such a very long time.

“I can’t wait. I’ll listen to it as soon as I get it.” My voice was cracking again, and I didn’t want to talk anymore. “Bye, Bobby.”

“Bye, Stacy. Be good.”

Click. Over. Tears washed my face.

I don’t know why. Here’s a guy I knew for about five minutes. I mean really, it was—what? A few weeks out of my life? Yet I felt like we had this connection, like this little energy that somehow joined us together, and I don’t think I’ll feel that way about anybody again, I just know it. And I think of that one perfect kiss, the single perfect kiss I’ve had in my life. It was sweet and quick, lasting just seconds, but it was perfect.

How often does a person have a perfect kiss in their life?

So I have three and a half years to wait. I’ll see him in three and a half years.
How
will I wait that long? How
can
I wait three and a half years to see him?

The rest of the day we spent at Aunt Linda’s. There was hugging and food and laughing. I had to reach deep down and give it a little extra push, the being merry part, so people wouldn’t look at me and think,
What’s wrong with her? Typical teenager.
No, I didn’t want people thinking that.

Broken People

There are some things you can’t prepare for. Death is one of them.
I wasn’t prepared when my dad died, and I wasn’t prepared when Bobby died the day after Christmas. When I saw Becca’s face as she walked in the front door, I knew something terrible had happened. She was quiet and serious. Extra pale. She’d just gotten home from her group session at Brookside. She looked at me, then away real quick.

I walked over and stood next to her. “Becca?” She had this hollow look on her face. I tried again, looking right in her eyes. “Becca? What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

She started to speak in a very quiet voice, “Stacy, you need to sit back down. I have to tell you something.”

It was like I already knew what she was about to tell me. I started to shake.

“Don’t tell me, Becca. Please don’t tell me.”

She sat me down on the couch, kind of helping me down with her hand, guiding my shoulder. She pushed her pink and black hair back, smoothing it carefully behind her ear. For some reason, I focused on the daisy pattern of her dress, noticing how the little flowers were joined in pairs.

She left her hand on my shoulder, emphasizing how wrong things were, then took a breath and very quietly—almost to where I couldn’t hear her—said, “They found him in his room. There was an empty bottle next to him.” She paused to wipe her eye, then continued, “They think it was an accident. He’s gone. I’m so sorry.”

I was traveling through a tunnel—everything went black and time stopped. I heard someone crying and realized it was me. Becca’s arm was around me, and we sat together as I cried this deep cry that wracked my whole body. Becca cried too. I looked over and Roman entered the room. His head was down, and he wiped his eye with the back of his hand. I could tell he was trying to be strong for us.

“When, Becca? When did they find him?”

Please don’t say Christmas, please don’t say Christmas
. For some reason, that’s all I could think.

“Last night, sometime after dinner. One of the staff found him. I don’t know
wh
y he had medication in his room,” she said, shaking her head. “Maybe it was left over from when he lived out here. He used to complain about having trouble sleeping.”

We
just
spoke two days ago. He
just
called me. And he sounded so happy, like everything was falling right into place.

“Why, Becca?” was all I could say.

“Stacy, they think it was an accident. Maybe there wasn’t anything wrong. Maybe it just happened. I’m really sorry.”

Roman put his hand on my shoulder. His voice cracking a little. “Hey, I’m really sorry, Stacy. He was a good guy.”

The three of us sat for a while, quiet.

So that was it for Bobby. His journey through this life is over. Over before it really had a chance to start.

I don’t know if “shock” is the right word to describe how I feel. How do you describe your heart dissolving into a million tiny pieces?

Some time passed—I have no idea how long it was—and I heard Mom’s voice. I heard Becca explaining what happened and Mom crying for a boy she didn’t really know. And I couldn’t take anymore, so I went into the bedroom and lay down facing the wall. I cried until I guess I cried myself to sleep. And I slept for hours, waking up when it was dark out.

My phone had messages, and I ignored them. I turned it off to avoid calls from Rose and Bethany. Summer. I mean, I couldn’t
deal
with talking to anybody about this. There was no one outside of Becca and Roman and maybe Mom who’d understand.

I was angry with God and asked Him all the questions that a person asks when someone dies, like, “
Why did you let it happen? Even if it was an accident, why didn’t you save him? He was so good and gentle and sweet. Why? I’m really trying to understand this. If you loved him, why did you let this happen?
”

After a while, all of the pain turned to anger. I became mad. Really mad at Bobby, mad at his parents, and mad at God. Then the anger faded away to numb.

I gave up. I couldn’t feel a thing.