The Mourning After
Read The Mourning After Online
Authors: Rochelle B. Weinstein
The Mourning After
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 Rochelle B. Weinstein
ISBN: 1484015584
ISBN13: 978-1484015582
Library of Congress Number: 2013909635
All rights reserved.
In memory of my beloved mother,
Ruth Gratz Berger
Contents
Sunday, October 14, 2007 12:07 a.m.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007 continued
Sunday, October 14, 2007 12:43 a.m.
Friday, November 2, 2007, 11:33 p.m.
Sunday, October 14, 2007 12:50 a.m.
Sunday, January 27, 2008. 2:08 p.m.
Sunday, January 27, 2008. 2:27 p.m.
Sunday, January 27, 2008. 3:08 p.m.
Sunday, January 27, 2008 10:55 p.m.
Sunday, October 14, 2007 12:18 a.m.
Questions & Topics for Discussion
12:07 a.m.
The road curves in front of the two boys as the car speeds along the tranquil, dimly lit streets of Miami Beach. It is dark, well past the hour when children their age should be out driving on deserted roads. The passenger is upright and pinned against the worn black leather seat; his hands are knotted, clenching the seatbelt close to his chest. The driver casually drapes one hand along the wheel while his foot presses firmly on the accelerator. The balmy Florida air pours through the sunroof and whispers through the caps of the boys’ hair, sliding down the napes of their smooth necks.
As the glaring red sign comes into view, there is no time for the driver to stop. A car is heading right toward them. He turns the wheel in an impulsive, desperate attempt to thwart the imminent collision. The jerking motion is frantic and commanding, jostling the driver and his passenger. What he hasn’t expected is the tree. Florida is legendary for its lofty palms, jaunty against the backdrop of blue sky, but tonight the sturdy, thick trunk is camouflaged in darkness. When it emerges in front of the young driver, it is too late; the car is traveling too fast. The impact tears into the sleek exterior and swiftly crushes the people and parts that make up the interior.
The other car speeds by, oblivious to the debris it has left in its cloud of exhaust. Silence permeates the street. The collision leaves a tangle of blood, bark, and metal. Not even the sturdy roots are capable of unraveling from the mess left on the side of the road—the weeds that will run wild and uproot an entire family.
“Are you okay?” the boy asks, tugging on the other’s bloodied shirt.
The words come out as a dubious gasp, hurried and uncontrolled. “Yeah,” he says, “I think I’m okay.”
In the distance, a dog howls. The young boy unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches for the motionless figure by his side. He starts to say something.
“Shhh, don’t move,” says the other.
“I can’t,” he breathes.
“Mom’s gonna kill us,” one of them whispers into the darkness, paying careful attention to the mangled metal fragments that are hovering close by.
“We’ll worry about her later.”
“Bro, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“I’m sorry about your brother,” they say.
Something about the sentence is contrived—obligatory—and although it aims to quell the pain and anguish ricocheting around the room, it pierces Levon where it hurts the most. The gaping hole spreads rampant through his plump body like a virus. Fiddling with the tie that his father apologetically wrapped around his neck, his hand fingers the silky fabric and loosens the knot so he can breathe.
“This must be very hard for you,” another mourner adds.
Levon nods; he doesn’t know how to answer. He is fifteen, and this isn’t supposed to be happening.
Surveying the room, he captures the span of space and furniture and is reminded that this is his home, the place he
should
feel safe though never has. Throngs of people fill the room: his grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins he barely knows, the rabbi, teachers and faculty from the junior and senior high schools, and a few others Levon has never seen before. The muscle-heads from David’s football team are by the piano. Nearby are the cheerleaders, with Rebecca Blake holding court before her followers.
Levon notices the imaginary line drawn down the center of the room. To the left are the young, the uncompromising group pent up with shock, disbelief. To the right, perched on the sofa in close confines, are the elder realists, the disillusioned assembly of those who have witnessed the finite passing of days. They are the generation who understands what it means to bury a child, to bury hope.
Levon isn’t sure where he belongs. He follows the invisible line through the phalanx of hunched over bodies and crossed feet. There he finds his parents standing alongside a table brimming with shiva essentials: an overload of bagels, cold cuts, salads, and dessert spreads. It is fitting for Levon to find his parents looming by the food. Hadn’t food caused enough problems in their lives?
Levon’s little sister, Chloe, approaches his mother, and Levon watches. His father turns away from them, seemingly annoyed at the interruption. His yarmulke slips from his head—exposing the thick, dark hair splashed with gray—and drops to the floor. When he leans down to pick it up, his pale, blue eyes meet Levon’s. It’s impossible for Levon to overlook the swell of accusation in his father’s stare. When Craig resumes his full height, Levon remembers the strapping palm tree—resilient and far-reaching—and finds poetry in the distinction. Later he will write in his journal:
My father, perfect and tall like a Florida palm, is weak in the presence of Mother Oak.
Levon’s eyes follow the outline of his father’s back as he makes his way toward the kitchen.
Weeping willow is more like it.
Levon turns toward Chloe. She looks tired and wan, inconsistent with her normally animated face and gleaming eyes. She tugs on their mother’s skirt, and Levon notices that the innocent gesture makes this ten-year-old seem younger and smaller than usual. He watches how his mother—with her brunette version of Eva Peron’s famous bun—transforms when around Chloe, pushing aside the hurt and sorrow so that she can brighten for her needy little girl. He doesn’t blame his mother—Chloe
is
a spirited blessing. “Honey, what’s the matter? Are you feeling all right?”
Levon notes the conversation he’s heard so many times—though the one-sided, spontaneous flurry of instruction that escapes his mother’s mouth can hardly be called an exchange: “Chloe, are you okay? Chloe, you can’t eat that. Chloe, that’s your brother’s milk—the blue one is yours.” The excessive worry directed solely at the sick child precludes any remnants of maternal concern for him.
Levon burrows his hands in the pockets of his shamefully tight jacket, palms fisted into knots while his heavy legs drag him toward the remains of his family. If the mirrors weren’t covered by sheets, he would catch his reflection: the dark brown eyes on a trusting face, the not quite black hair, the bandage on his pale cheek.
“You okay, Levon?”
It’s Rebecca. She has extracted herself from the crowd and accosts Levon with the superiority of the entitled queen bee. Rebecca is painful to look at. She is beautiful and fresh—mahogany-colored eyes and flowing chestnut hair. Her lips are dotted in red and the shine leaves him breathless, as he remembers the countless nights he would hear her voice and laughter coming from his brother’s room.
Rebecca stops to greet Levon en route to his mother and sister; her arms tentatively fit around his wide body as if his blubber might be contagious.
“Does it hurt?” she whispers, referring to the line of stitches across the side of his face. She smells like coconuts and orange.
Keenly aware of how close her body is to his, Levon answers, “No,” as he pulls away from the ill-fitted hug. She starts to say something and hesitates, backing away, her graceful, outstretched arms falling to her sides. She holds her head down, and still Levon can see the gentle streaks of tears, the sun-kissed complexion marred in grief. When her eyes eventually reach Levon’s, they lock, and she is unable to break free. Levon wants to touch her cheek and respond to the question her pleading eyes ask.
“I know it hurts,” she says.
He isn’t sure if she is talking about the stitches or the unseen, unspoken pain. Whatever she’s alluding to, Levon gobbles up the attention. His eyes hold onto hers longer and deeper than they should. Levon’s grief for his brother is entangled with his fixation on Rebecca. Is there the slightest possibility that she understands, that she might interpret what his eyes are saying? Levon exhales, expunging himself of the emotional burden that has lodged in the cushy softness around his stomach.
Does she know?
he hears himself say out loud, though no words escape. His eyes remain fixed, unblinking. He knows if he snaps a picture—blinks and clicks the camera—the feeling will surely pass, and he wants to believe that she might understand for a few moments more. He is feeding on redemption and, unlike the meals before that have left him full and ashamed, this particular gluttony leaves him proud.
It is his mother who ultimately breaks the spell he shares with Rebecca. Chloe needs her cornstarch, and Madeline has sidled up to her middle child with the presumption that he will be the one to run to the store and get it. Rebecca has by then retreated from his side, and Levon watches as she returns to her “Betty and Veronica” hierarchy. The room respectfully splits to allow her to pass through the crowd, and Jughead turns to face his mother.
