Suicide Notes (15 page)

Day 35

So about the whole trying-to-kill-myself thing. I guess there’s no reason not to talk about it now. It’s not like things can get any worse.

I did it on New Year’s Eve. I had the best idea, too. I wanted to get drunk along with all the people in Times Square, then do it as the ball fell. You know, slip away with the old year into wherever it goes when it’s used up and we throw it away. So maybe it’s a little dramatic, but hey, you’ve got to appreciate the thought.

And, no, I didn’t actually do it in Times Square. That would just be too weird. I did it at home. In my bedroom. Watching it all on TV.

The whiskey was a good start. I got the idea from Dylan Thomas. He’s this poet who drank twenty-one straight whiskeys at The White Horse Tavern in New York and then died on the spot from alcohol poisoning. I’ve always wanted to hear the bartender’s side of the story. What was it like watching this guy drink himself out of here? How did it feel handing him number twenty-one and watching his face crumple up before he fell off the stool? And did he already have number twenty-two poured, waiting for that big fat tip, and then have to drink it himself after whoever came took the body away?

So I drank some whiskey. I don’t see how Dylan Thomas choked down twenty-one glasses of the stuff. I could barely drink three. But that was enough. It made everything seem okay somehow, like killing myself was the best idea I’d ever had. I wasn’t afraid.

Cutting myself felt so good. It was sweet the way the razor opened up the skin and this red line appeared, like I was pulling a piece of thread out of my wrist. The blood came really slowly, not in some spastic blast like I thought it would. It didn’t even really feel like my arm. It was like I was watching someone else’s arm in a movie. I kept thinking how great the camera angle was and wishing I had some popcorn.

The people on television were counting down the seconds until the new year. What a bunch of morons they all were, acting excited to have another whole year, but having to get trashed so they wouldn’t think about how they were going to screw it up again like they had all the other years. Everyone was looking up at the top of the building as though Jesus Christ himself had appeared and was tossing out chocolate-covered salvation, like just because some crazy glitter ball was falling on their heads it gave them another chance to be happy. Only I could tell them it never changed, that no matter how many glitter balls fell in New York City, the year would still suck and their lives would still be screwed up and everything would still turn out wrong.

“Use the razor!” I shouted at the television. “Use the razor!” But none of them did. Just me.

That’s when I did the other wrist, and that was even better because I knew—knew what it would feel like, knew what would happen. Man, did it feel good, like slicing open the ribbon on a Christmas present you’ve been staring at under the tree for a month and been dying to open. Then it’s finally time to open it, and you just kind of hold your breath while you rip off the paper, hoping that what’s inside will be what you want it to be. And for once, it was.

Afterward I just lay there watching everyone kiss while I died, thinking how cool it was to be on my bedroom floor bleeding while everyone in America celebrated the end of my life and the idiot hosting the countdown smiled his goofy fake smile on the TV like the Angel of Death doing a toothpaste commercial. There was none of that tunnel-of-light crap either. No angels waiting to lead me over. It was just dark and quiet.

That’s when I woke up and saw my parents bending over me. At first I thought I was dreaming. My mother still had on all her makeup and her party dress, and there were these great big streaks of purple eye shadow down her cheeks and her lipstick was all smeared and she looked like a freaked-out Grow ’N Style Barbie head my sister had when she was about eight. You know, that life-size plastic head of Barbie where you can put makeup on it and fix its hair with curlers. Amanda and I used to play with it a lot until the day our next-door neighbor, an older kid named Troy, found us doing it and called me a fag. Later on I buried it in the backyard.

So my mother’s looking down at me saying, “Why, why, why,” over and over again, like some little kid keeps pulling the string that makes her talk. My father isn’t saying anything at all; he’s just looking at me like maybe
he’s
the one who’s dreaming. That’s when I realized that I wasn’t dead, that I was still on the floor in my room. And all I could do was look at my mother’s mouth opening and closing and wonder if I could make her say something else, like one of those See ’n Say toys where you point the arrow to the picture of the chick and it says, “The chick goes ‘cluck, cluck, cluck.’” And I started to laugh, thinking about it, about her clucking nonstop, and she cried these big purple tears that splashed against my face like rain.

The next time I opened my eyes I was in this room. The same one I’m in now, staring at the same ceiling I’m staring at right now. Looking at the Devil’s face. It was snowing outside my window and Nurse Goody was sitting in the chair next to my bed, looking at me like I was an exhibit at the Museum of Natural History and she was searching for the little brass plaque that would tell her what I was and when I became extinct.

So that’s it. That’s the big secret. I tried to kill myself on New Year’s Eve. Just like Sadie did last night. Only she really did it. I don’t know all the details, just the basics. She took a bunch of pills. I don’t know what they were or where she got them. I’d like to think they were Wonder Drug. Then at least she could have gone thinking she was flying.

Day 36

My mother started right off with the hugging, like now that she’s started doing it, she can’t stop.

“We were so sorry to hear that your friend is gone,” she said, patting me on the back.

At first I thought she meant Rankin, who got sent home because of what happened. I guess Cat Poop decided I was the one telling the truth, because I’m still here. Or maybe they flipped a coin and I won. Or lost. Anyway, he’s gone. I don’t miss him.

When I thought my mother was talking about him, I felt my heart stop for a second. I really didn’t want to talk about him. Us. Whatever. Anyway, then I realized that she meant Sadie, and my heart started beating again. But then I went from being scared to being angry. I wanted to say, “She’s not just
gone
, she’s DEAD!” But I knew she was trying to make me feel better, so I just didn’t say anything.

I wasn’t exactly looking forward to the weekly Family Frolic, what with everything that’s been going on. Thankfully, my parents brought Amanda with them. I was really glad to see her. She was kind of a guarantee that I wouldn’t just lose it. But even she was a little less Amandaish than usual. I think she thought she should be because of Sadie and everything.

Cat Poop started out by reminding us all that I only have nine more days here. As if I didn’t know that. Five weeks ago nine days in this place might as well have been a thousand years to me. Now it seems like nothing.

“The house has really changed since you’ve been in the . . . since you’ve been gone,” my father said. “I can’t wait for you to see it.” He had his hands in his lap, and he kept twirling his thumbs, which is what he does when he doesn’t want to be doing whatever it is he’s doing. I’m sure he wanted out of there as much as I did, and I kind of felt sorry for him. I guess it must be hard knowing your kid tried to kill himself.

“Right,” said my mother. She was being super chirpy, the way she is when she wants to pretend everything’s fine. “We put new carpeting in your bedroom. It’s a beautiful color. What color would you say it is, Amanda?”

Amanda looked at her. “Beige,” she said. “It’s beige.”

“Oh, I think it’s more sand,” my mother said. “Isn’t that what the salesman said it was called: desert sand? Anyway, it looks wonderful with the paint. Amanda, what would you call that shade of blue?”

“Blue,” said Amanda, looking at me and rolling her eyes. “I’d call it blue.”

I knew this was my mother’s way of letting me know I won’t have to look at any bloodstains when I go back. It doesn’t really matter if the stains are there or not, though. I’m still going to remember. But it’s nice of her to think of it.

Then Cat Poop said he’d discussed with my parents the idea of me going to a different school, so that I could have a fresh start. He wanted to know how I felt about that.

I said it was a lot to think about, and that I’d get back to them on it. I kind of like the idea of going somewhere new. It would give me a chance to start over, to be anybody I want to be. But that’s the thing: I don’t want to be anybody. I want to be me. I don’t know if that would be any easier at a new school or not.

I mean, yeah, I’m a little scared about the stories I’m sure are going around. Probably by now someone has a website up about me. www.jefftriedtokillhimself.com. With pictures. And a blog. And part of me would be totally relieved not to have to walk into my old school and see everyone looking at my wrists. Seriously, how long can you get away with never wearing T-shirts?

But would it really be any better in a new place? Maybe at first. But sooner or later someone would find out what happened to me. That’s just how it is. Some kid will know someone who knows someone from my old school, and pretty soon the stories will start flying around. Then I’ll walk into school one day and hear all of this whispering as I walk through the halls.

That’s what happened when Ginny Mangerman went away for a few months. Her sister told everyone Ginny was doing a semester as an exchange student in Australia, but it turned out she was pregnant and went somewhere to have the baby and give it up for adoption. By the time she came back, everyone knew what had happened. Someone thought it would be funny to cut out pictures of babies from magazines and paste them all over her locker. Ginny ended up dropping out, and now she works at a supermarket as a checkout girl. I try to be really nice to her when I get in her line, but she pretends she doesn’t recognize anyone from school.

It’s probably better to just go back to my old school and deal with it. Amanda still goes there, and I don’t want her to be the one who gets teased because I can’t face anyone. I know she could handle it, but she shouldn’t have to. Maybe we can both go somewhere new. Or maybe I can convince my parents to move to France. No one in France cares if you tried to kill yourself. In fact, I think they like you better because you’re all tragic.

This is all the stuff I was thinking while my mother was talking about how great it will be to have me back. Then I guess even Cat Poop got tired of hearing her talk, because all of a sudden he asked Amanda, “How do you feel about your brother coming home?”

I was actually curious to hear what she had to say, and not just because it meant my mother would have to shut up for a minute.

“I can’t wait,” Amanda said. “I’m tired of having to do the dishes by myself.”

I laughed inside. I knew she said that to be a smart-ass. She can be worse than I am when she tries. But she was totally giving everyone this serious face, so they didn’t know whether to believe her or not.

“Do you have anything you’d like to ask Jeff?” Cat Poop asked her, trying again. Since he’s dealt with me for so long now, he probably knows Amanda operates the same way I do. I waited for him to start doing the staring thing with her.

But Amanda didn’t look at him; she looked at me. I could tell she was trying not to laugh, so I did my best to look really serious, too. She waited a minute, just kind of biting her lip, like she was thinking about something deep. Then she said, “If you do it again, can I have your room?”

“Amanda!” my mother said, shocked. My father stopped twirling his thumbs and looked like he wanted to die. Cat Poop got his pencil ready.

“What?” Amanda said, acting all innocent.

“I don’t think Jeff appreciated that,” said my father.

But I did. See, this was kind of an in-joke with us. When we first moved into our house, Amanda and I both wanted the bigger bedroom. She said she should have it because she’s a girl and it has its own bathroom. I said I should have it because I’m older. I ended up locking myself in the room, and stayed there practically a whole day until my parents said I could have it. I was all ready to rub it in, but then I found out that Amanda had set me up. She knew I would fight her for the room, and she only pretended to be upset about not getting it because what she really wanted was a new bike and horseback riding lessons, both of which my parents gave her when she boo-hooed about her whole life being totally unfair. She’s good.

I played along. “It’s okay,” I said in this calm voice. They all looked at me. I think they expected me to give some big speech about how I have no intention of ever trying it again. Instead I said, like it was really hard for me to get the words out, “You can totally have my room if I ever kill myself again.”

“Jeff!” my mother and father said at the same time. Then my mother looked at Cat Poop. “You see what we live with?” she said. “The two of them . . .”

“I think Amanda and Jeff understand each other quite well,” said the doc before she could finish. When I looked at him, he pushed his glasses up. I thought he might be smiling a little, but he wiped his mouth with his hand, and when he brought it away, he looked like his old shrinky self.

“Well, I wish
we
understood them,” my mother said.

Amanda looked at me again, and that’s when I realized that what she thought of me was more important than what anybody else thought. Isn’t that weird? And I can’t tell you why it is. Maybe because I don’t want her to be afraid of me. I think I could handle it if the kids at school were afraid of me. Even my parents. But Amanda’s different. I want her to know she can trust me. One day she might really need me for something, and I don’t want her to be afraid to ask.

The rest of the session was boring. Cat Poop talked a lot about “transitioning from the therapeutic environment to the home environment” and crap like that. Mostly I made faces at Amanda when no one was looking and tried to get her to crack up. She did, once, but then she started coughing to cover it up.

When it was all over, there was more hugging. When it came time for me and Amanda to hug, I held her really tight and whispered in her ear, “Next time I’m going to do it on
your
carpet.”

She had to pretend to cough again so my parents wouldn’t hear us laughing. But I think she knew I was really telling her that she didn’t have to worry. As they all left, I heard my mother say to her, “I think we should take you to Dr. Leach tomorrow. It sounds like you’re coming down with something.” Amanda turned and glared at me, and I just waved at her.

“Would you mind staying a little longer today?” Cat Poop asked as I was getting ready to go back to my room. “I thought we might talk some more.”

I knew that he knew that there was more to my story than what I’d already told him. And suddenly I was really, really tired. Not of talking to him, but of
not
talking to him. I was tired of all the games I’d been playing, and of holding back. Maybe realizing how much I wanted Amanda to believe that I was okay is what did it. Maybe it was Sadie being dead, or Rankin being gone. I don’t really know. But I knew I was ready to talk.

I sat down. “Okay,” I said. “Where should I start?”

“Where every good story starts,” said Cat Poop. “At the beginning.”