turned his attention to me.
“Why do you ask, Francis?”
“Because I’m curious. I’m here to get answers, right?”
“Fair enough.”
I stopped fiddling with my pen and looked into Mr. Bergeron’s eyes. That’s what my father taught me to do when I was playing poker. I had managed to run the gauntlet of the library and the boys’ washroom to get into his office. I might as well cut to the chase. What I asked him next may seem like it came out of the blue, but you have to understand that it was the One Big Question that obsessed me.
“Do you believe in God?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Why?”
“That’s a good question.” He took the Rubik’s Cube in his left hand, and pushed a little plastic square with his thumb. “I believe in God because I want to. I want to believe that Something exists, and that Something is bigger than me. And you, do you believe in God?”
“Me? I don’t know.” While my mother was reading
Theresa of Avila
, at the urging of Aunt Sophie, I was reading Eric’s tattered copies of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, neither of whom were big on religion.
“A human being needs to give life meaning, especially his own life. Some people find it through religion while others find it through volunteering, arts, yoga, whatever. It’s different for each of us.”
I studied the floor. White marble tiles. Bergeron’s office had been decorated with stark, modern furniture and apricot walls, as if it had been transported from aglossy magazine and plunked down in our decrepit high-school building.
“Was it my fault?” The words came out of my mouth, surprising me.
“Your father committed suicide. He was the only one responsible.”
I hate the S-word. Could he have said it any louder? SUICIDE . Wait a second. I will write it in capital and bold letters, just to be sure I don’t forget that my father committed SUICIDE .
“Do you feel guilty?” His voice was gentle.
The old sea serpent was waiting in the wings. I tried to keep it down the best I could. I failed. It was awkward and liberating at the same time.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“If I hadn’t gone to New York, he couldn’t have killed himself.”
“Don’t you think he would have done it another day?” Silence.
“Don’t you think he would have done it anyway?” he said gently. “When you were at school? You couldn’t watch him all day, every day. You would have to let him out of your sight. You have a right to live your own life.”
I was staring at the Rubik’s Cube as if it held the clue to the meaning of the universe.
Mr. Bergeron continued. “You know, it’s normal to feel guilty. And it’s very good that you expressed it today.Losing a parent is a shock. A tragedy. You must know that you’re not alone. I know plenty of teenagers just like you who’ve lost a parent. It’s normal to feel pain. It’s normal to cry. It’s normal.”
Normal. So, I wasn’t a grief freak. I was normal. I wasn’t entirely convinced, but I allowed myself to smile at him before leaving his office.
The following week, when I came back to see him, I left my notebook in my locker.
9 | J ULIA
W e were sitting in a circle on folding metal chairs in a church basement on Côte-des-Neiges, not far from the Université de Montréal campus, on the other side of the mountain. A battered trestle table was set with a paper plate of dry cookies–Fudgee-Os, my favorites–cans of pop, and a battered urn of bitter-smelling coffee. My legs were shaking and my jaw twitched. I was a quivering mess.
It was my first meeting with Mr. Bergeron’s support group. There were ten of us between ten and seventeen years old. The ten year old was a tiny Asian girl in a Barbie sweatshirt with pink barrettes in her hair, and I heard the seventeen year old say, “I’ll meet you in an hour,” as he left his pregnant girlfriend at the doorway. The only thing we had in common was that we were reluctant members of the Lost a Parent Club.
I was
“Why do you ask, Francis?”
“Because I’m curious. I’m here to get answers, right?”
“Fair enough.”
I stopped fiddling with my pen and looked into Mr. Bergeron’s eyes. That’s what my father taught me to do when I was playing poker. I had managed to run the gauntlet of the library and the boys’ washroom to get into his office. I might as well cut to the chase. What I asked him next may seem like it came out of the blue, but you have to understand that it was the One Big Question that obsessed me.
“Do you believe in God?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Why?”
“That’s a good question.” He took the Rubik’s Cube in his left hand, and pushed a little plastic square with his thumb. “I believe in God because I want to. I want to believe that Something exists, and that Something is bigger than me. And you, do you believe in God?”
“Me? I don’t know.” While my mother was reading
Theresa of Avila
, at the urging of Aunt Sophie, I was reading Eric’s tattered copies of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, neither of whom were big on religion.
“A human being needs to give life meaning, especially his own life. Some people find it through religion while others find it through volunteering, arts, yoga, whatever. It’s different for each of us.”
I studied the floor. White marble tiles. Bergeron’s office had been decorated with stark, modern furniture and apricot walls, as if it had been transported from aglossy magazine and plunked down in our decrepit high-school building.
“Was it my fault?” The words came out of my mouth, surprising me.
“Your father committed suicide. He was the only one responsible.”
I hate the S-word. Could he have said it any louder? SUICIDE . Wait a second. I will write it in capital and bold letters, just to be sure I don’t forget that my father committed SUICIDE .
“Do you feel guilty?” His voice was gentle.
The old sea serpent was waiting in the wings. I tried to keep it down the best I could. I failed. It was awkward and liberating at the same time.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“If I hadn’t gone to New York, he couldn’t have killed himself.”
“Don’t you think he would have done it another day?” Silence.
“Don’t you think he would have done it anyway?” he said gently. “When you were at school? You couldn’t watch him all day, every day. You would have to let him out of your sight. You have a right to live your own life.”
I was staring at the Rubik’s Cube as if it held the clue to the meaning of the universe.
Mr. Bergeron continued. “You know, it’s normal to feel guilty. And it’s very good that you expressed it today.Losing a parent is a shock. A tragedy. You must know that you’re not alone. I know plenty of teenagers just like you who’ve lost a parent. It’s normal to feel pain. It’s normal to cry. It’s normal.”
Normal. So, I wasn’t a grief freak. I was normal. I wasn’t entirely convinced, but I allowed myself to smile at him before leaving his office.
The following week, when I came back to see him, I left my notebook in my locker.
9 | J ULIA
W e were sitting in a circle on folding metal chairs in a church basement on Côte-des-Neiges, not far from the Université de Montréal campus, on the other side of the mountain. A battered trestle table was set with a paper plate of dry cookies–Fudgee-Os, my favorites–cans of pop, and a battered urn of bitter-smelling coffee. My legs were shaking and my jaw twitched. I was a quivering mess.
It was my first meeting with Mr. Bergeron’s support group. There were ten of us between ten and seventeen years old. The ten year old was a tiny Asian girl in a Barbie sweatshirt with pink barrettes in her hair, and I heard the seventeen year old say, “I’ll meet you in an hour,” as he left his pregnant girlfriend at the doorway. The only thing we had in common was that we were reluctant members of the Lost a Parent Club.
I was
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