The Mourning After (15 page)

“It’s stupid,” he says.

“It may feel stupid, but it’s not.  It’s important to our work in here.  You need to learn to trust me.”

“I just want to be happy,” he said.  “I just want this shitty feeling to go away.”

It was really stupid to say because now she was likely scribbling on her pad that he was definitely depressed.  He’d already decided that he wasn’t going to take any medication.  He’d pretend to take it like they do in the movies, and then he would spit it out and flush it down the toilet.  He’d show them who was depressed.

His head was beginning to go murky and dark.  A cocktail of emotions he couldn’t make sense of were diluting specific memories.  Was he missing David?  Was he missing Dan Marino?  Or someone else?

“Our time’s up for today,” she says.

Levon exhales. 

He is out of the chair and across the room reaching for the doorknob to freedom.

12:43 a.m.

Seargents Gerald Goldstein and Dan Branson are the first ones at the scene.  They are cruising along the Sunset Islands where the slumbering suburban neighborhood meets Alton Road when the faint blinking of taillights come into view. 

“What do we have here?” Dan grumbles to his partner, straining his neck to get a better look.  He is tired and anxious to get home to his new wife.  The eleven-hour shift ending with the raucous crowds on South Beach has him drained.  The streetlights on this particular strip of road in Miami Beach are out, and Goldstein has already called into headquarters to have Florida Power & Light dispatch a crew.

“Doesn't look good,” says Goldstein, the burly officer with a record of forty years on the force.  “Call for some back-up and the EMT.  This ain’t going to be pretty.”

Steering the car to the side of the road, he turns off the ignition, grabs a flashlight, and steps out of the car.

“Can’t tell you how many accidents I’ve seen at this corner,” he continues, grabbing onto his belt, preparing himself for the damage he’s about to face. 

No matter how many years you spend on the force, it doesn’t get any easier to see mangled, torn up bodies, lives ended at the snap of a finger.  “How many times do we have to complain to these guys about the lights?  I thought they were coming up with a better way to mark this street?”

The quiet, residential community just north of South Beach is unaware that a car has wrapped itself around one of its sturdy trees.  As the officers approach the demolished vehicle, Branson could swear he hears muffled voices coming from inside. 

“Can anybody hear me?” he asks to the empty air. 

Silence.

As he draws closer, the voices he’s intent on hearing turn out to be the car radio humming a hip-hop song that is more a rant than melody. “They say these cars are built to last,” he quips.  “The only lasting part looks to be the darn radio.”

The two officers lean forward for a look inside the tangled vehicle.  Goldstein stands on what is left of the passenger’s side of the car, and Branson stands on the remains of the driver’s side.  The car has split into asymmetrical pieces and amazingly, the two bodies are still in their seats, thrust against the inflated airbags.

Goldstein sees the blood first.  He follows the trail with his flashlight until it leads to an undistinguishable body part.  Then he sees the crimson shirt with white lettering and the seal of Beach High’s football team.  He catches his breath.  All four of his children passed through the halls of Beach.

The sound of blaring sirens fill the air.  It is a matter of seconds before the EMTs have evacuated their truck and sprung into action.  Adrenaline pumps through young Branson—he is unsure if the person in the driver’s seat, the one intimately attached to the airbag, is moving.

“What have we got here?” the female EMT, Sheila, asks.  She appears not much older than Goldstein’s youngest daughter.

Goldstein responds bleakly, “Looks like two kids.”  He wants to tell her they’re probably not much older than she is, but time, in a crisis like this, is as valuable as oxygen.  Besides, she’s already on the driver’s side with her back to him.

“We’ve got a live one, Louis,” she hollers to her partner, a gangly man who could pass for a car salesman.  He surprises Goldstein and springs into action.  “Can you help me with the kid?” he asks Branson.  “He’s a meaty one and he’s really wedged in there.” 

That’s a nice way of putting it, Goldstein thinks to himself.  He himself has been called whale, buffalo, all variations of things one might eat; meaty had a kinder ring to it.  He sympathizes with the boy at once. 

After lying the boy’s body on the stretcher, a battery of tests are performed.  His eyes open with caution and the boys asks for his brother.  Across from him, Sheila reaches for the other boy.  His pulse is there though weak.

“We don’t have much time,” says Sheila to her partner.  “I can’t get a blood pressure. Could be internal bleeding.  We’ve gotta move this kid out of here fast.”

“Levon?”

“Yes?”

“Can I ask what happened to your brother?”

“You just did.”

“Really,” Lucy says, with a gentleness that eclipses her tendency to pry.

Levon does not take long to answer. Firmly, he says, “No,” leaving no doubt as to his conviction.  He had enough therapy this week.

A few days have passed since they’ve spoken, and they are riding together on the rickety bus that delivers them to school. 
Rickety
was a word he used to argue with David about all the time.  David used the word to describe his peers who had little confidence.  “Why not call them
insecure
?” Levon would ask.  But David refused.  “Everybody says
insecure
.  It’s grossly overused.”  This ultimately began a debate on popularity and self-esteem, both of which Levon personally had no experience with, though had many opinions about.  Levon laughed when he heard David use the term on more than a handful of occasions to describe the big, burly football players on his team.  To Levon,
rickety
was something physical, like the bobbing, clackity-clack of the oversized bus. 

“You’re going to have to talk about it one day,” Lucy says, interrupting the chain of thoughts linked to his loud, firm reply.

Once Levon discloses the details of that night to his nudging neighbor, he fears she will rethink their strange, unique association.  He’s actually amazed that the refusals haven’t been upended by the snarky gossips at school.  He is sure everyone is talking about the accident and that the assumptions will trickle down to Lucy Bell’s thirsty ears.  He can tell his rejection has silenced her, which is unusual for someone so typically chatty.  Usually, she can go on for hours about the most inconsequential, random things.

“Be persistent.  You never know when your tenacity will pay off.  Rule #121.”

“You think that’s going to make me talk?  Your ridiculous motivational quotes?”

“Tell me about Chloe.  Is she doing all right?  Were your parents pissed?”

He thinks about telling her his parents are always pissed, that they had been pissed for almost a month now, preceded by years of misdirected anger, and that it will continue until hell freezes over.  But he stops himself, the analogy likely to spark a diatribe on global warming.  “She’s perfect.”  He also doesn’t tell her how his father is astounded by his “flagrant capriciousness” and “unreliability.”  His mother went right for the jugular.  In the absence of words, she basically avowed to him that he was useless, invisible, and altogether a failure.

The bus is teeming with people today.  Levon and Lucy are forced to share a seat and their knees knock against each other’s through the stop and go of the jittery machine.  Lucy is positioned on Levon’s left side, closer to the window, and the striking tattoo along the outside of her right ankle comes to view.  He must have copied it wrong because on the Internet, he read the symbol means
rice cake
.

Levon doesn’t know much about Lucy.  Theirs is a
predestined
meeting, she declares, when by happenstance and exact alignment of the stars, they land at the bus stop at the same time that crisp Monday morning.  Levon doesn’t have the heart to tell her that their meeting had more to do with their attending the same high school, living next door to each other, and the predetermined Miami-Dade County Metro bus routes.

“You’re very intense, Levon.”

That was something he was used to hearing, even before the recent tragedy.  The few acquaintances he had—Danny Riggins, Harry Tolz, Jonathan Rothenberg—chided Levon for his silent reservation.  The four of them had been friends since junior high where they had worked on the school newspaper together.  Writing was their shared passion that initiated creative stories and articles for their classmates.  Levon’s personality shined on paper; he came alive through unabashed candor.  Decidedly the most talented of the group, with an irreverent sense of humor that exploded onto the page, his gift unfortunately did not translate to conversation.

And because Levon’s social skills never developed, his cherished group of friends grew away from him, got caught up in girls and parties and the social nuances that typify high school.

The bus comes to a screeching halt, jolting the pair forward in their seats.  A truck passes to the left with HVAC Services written along the side.
Fabrication and Installation
, interests Levon.  Fabrication’s dual meaning lingers in his mind.  In the writing world, fabrication is a cock-and-bull story, and his first reaction when he reads the black letters on the white truck is to balk.

It is the last stop before they are deposited at their destination and the four-tenths of a mile stroll to school.  Levon wants to immerse himself in Lucy, but he is depressed today, more so than before.  He doesn’t feel much like talking.  The rumination has eaten away at him and leaves an empty pit in his stomach where his breakfast used to be.

“Can we just not talk?” he pleads, which is like asking a small child to walk, not run.

She doesn’t say anything, though a deep, exasperated sigh escapes her lips.  Levon manages to squash his guilt, and then notices Lucy’s busy fingers reaching inside his backpack.

“What are you doing?” he asks, grabbing the black sack and prying her fingers loose.

“What have you got in there, a weapon?  You’re not going to take your aggression out on our unwitting classmates, are you?”

The reference to heinous acts that have marred schools all over the country perturbs Levon, and he shoots her a look that tells her so.

“Well, you guard it like it’s an explosive,” she adds.

Tucked among the worn-out trigonometry book and the MLA handbook is his turquoise blue, 2007, college-lined journal.  The year is coming to a close, and the dwindling number of remaining pages has him concerned.  Leaving it at home is no longer an option.  He is convinced his mother, with her duplicate key, will find her way into his secret cache.  His fear is unfounded.  It stands a greater risk of being discovered by a nosy teenager with clammy hands like Lucy.

Not one to readily take no for an answer, Lucy wrestles the backpack out of his grasp and starts rifling through the contents.  Levon can’t possibly raise his hand to a girl or use physical force to push her from their seat, although it’s tempting.  He doesn’t know any other way to grab the vinyl bag away from her clawing fingers.

“Look what we have here,” she mouths to Levon, lifting the spiral notebook that says
Private, Keep out!  That means YOU!
scribbled across the front cover.  “Is this like your diary?”

Levon reddens under the flame of Lucy’s teasing words.

“Oh my God!” she says, “You actually have a diary.  That’s so cute!”

“It’s a journal,” he shouts at her, failing to grab the notebook from her intrusive hands.

“I stand corrected,” she says.  “A journal suggests sophistication.  What do you write about?”

“None of your business.”

Her fingers graze the pages and Levon flinches, pulling back.  “You are relentless,” he says, “and a meddlesome snoop.”

“Come on,” she teases, “what can be can so private that you can’t share it with me?”

The robust green and white metro bus is about to round the corner.  The new Beach High with its modern glass and concrete architectural design is coming into view.  The palm trees lining the entryway remind Levon to breathe.  Claustrophobia has taken its toll on his body, fueling his arms and legs, which are about to erupt into flight or fight.  Once he’s off the gurgling vessel and away from Lucy’s leering stare, he assures himself he’ll be able to shake this menacing feeling.  She’s too close, he thinks, in ways more invasive than physical contact.

“I see words…” she taunts him, flipping quickly through the pages.  “I see sloppy handwriting and I see…”

The pages are turning, and he is fighting her.  She, though, is fast and merciless, and the shuffling sound drowns out the whirring buzz of the bus engine.

“C’mon Lucy,” he says, careful not to sound as if he’s begging.

“Is that…is that my tattoo?”

Of the hundreds of pages, she hones in on the one where he has doodled about her intriguing and permanent marking.

“That
is
my tattoo,” she says with astonishment, holding the notebook upright and peering at the illustrated page that couldn’t have been any less obvious had it called out her name. “Or something like it.  How cute…you tried to copy it. You could’ve just asked,” she says, tossing the journal back as though she has won some battle.

“You could’ve just minded your own business.”

“You are my business, Levon,” she says.  Then she proceeds to explain how they are neighbors, which categorizes them above friends, though a notch below family.  “I guess you can call it an extension of family,” she says, “which means, in essence, that I have to put up with a lot of crap from you, and you have to put up with a lot of crap from me that we wouldn’t necessarily have to put up with from friends.  There’s not much we can do about it because we’re stuck, unless you move or I move, which, based on my calculations, won’t be for a while.”