surprised to see Julia, the girl from my French class, reading a magazine while she waited for everyone to sit down. I hadn’t realized that she had lost one of her parents. I guess it’s not the first thing you say when you meet someone new:
Hi! My father killed himself seven months ago. My name is Francis, what’s yours?
Mr. Bergeron led the discussion as if he were a maestro. Maestro. Another juicy word. I wrote it ten times in my notebook so I wouldn’t have to look at anyone.
“Good evening, everyone, and welcome. My name is Raymond,” he said.
It took me a while to absorb this. Mr. Bergeron had an actual first name just like the rest of the human beings on the planet. I thought for a moment about Mr. Enrique and how much he loved his cat, Rococo. Raymond was wearing a white T-shirt with jeans, and his glasses. He’d wound duct tape around the bridge.
Oh, Lord! He was twirling his Rubik’s Cube in his hand. I watched, mesmerized, as he began.
“Welcome, Andrew,” he said to the boy beside him. Andrew was about fourteen years old, and was slouched over as if the very act of sitting up required too much energy.
“Hi.”
“How was your day?”
“Not so good. I thought about my father all day long. He died ten thousand and eighty seconds ago.” He looked around at us as if we were about to contradict him. Ididn’t want to fish for my calculator so I was grateful when Raymond said,
“Just one week ago.”
Andrew started to cry. Raymond reached over and took his hand.
“I’m supposed to go back to school on Monday, but I can’t. He’s always there, inside my head.” The words came out of him ragged and painful. “He had a heart attack and just like that he was gone. Why did it happen?” It was agony listening to him.
Raymond turned to the rest of us. “Why? That’s the question we all have, and the question none of us can answer. Perhaps it is not
why
, but
what
we do after that counts.”
“I don’t want to talk anymore,” Andrew whispered. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve.
“It’s okay, Andrew. If you don’t want to, it’s okay.”
I remember the week after my father died, and it was awful. The fact of the death filled every part of my mind every single minute of the time. As I listened to Andrew I realized that without noticing it, I had moved beyond that horrible time.
It took an effort, but I raised my hand. It was cold in the church basement and the cookies were doing the cha-cha in my belly.
“Good evening. My name is Francis, and my father died last June.” That felt good, but I knew that I had only said half of what needed to be said.
“How did he die?” asked the Barbie girl.
“My father…he…my father committed suicide. He hanged himself in the attic.”
There. I said it. Now everyone knew not only that my father committed suicide, but how he did it. I wanted to get it out before they asked me. People always want the juicy details. It’s like:
“Oh! I’m so sorry about your father.”
“It’s okay.”
They wait a second or two, and then:
“How did he do it? Pills, a gun, a screwdriver?”
Stupid idiots. If they were really sorry, how could they possibly ask me that?
The discussion moved on to something else, but I felt like I had taken a giant step. At the end of the evening, as we were folding up the chairs, I actually found the nerve to speak to Julia. This was a big deal for me, let me tell you.
“My name is Francis, but you can call me Frank if you want.” Nobody has ever called me Frank, but I thought it sounded cool.
“That goes for me, too.” There it was again–the delicate scent of lily of the valley.
“What? You want me to call you Frank?” Ha, ha! Was I hilarious! It’s a wonder she didn’t run screaming for the door.
Instead she said, “No, sorry. Call me Jul. Actually I hate to be called Julia–and tomatoes.”
“Sorry?”
“I hate tomatoes They’re squishy and they have those little seeds. I think they’re
Hi! My father killed himself seven months ago. My name is Francis, what’s yours?
Mr. Bergeron led the discussion as if he were a maestro. Maestro. Another juicy word. I wrote it ten times in my notebook so I wouldn’t have to look at anyone.
“Good evening, everyone, and welcome. My name is Raymond,” he said.
It took me a while to absorb this. Mr. Bergeron had an actual first name just like the rest of the human beings on the planet. I thought for a moment about Mr. Enrique and how much he loved his cat, Rococo. Raymond was wearing a white T-shirt with jeans, and his glasses. He’d wound duct tape around the bridge.
Oh, Lord! He was twirling his Rubik’s Cube in his hand. I watched, mesmerized, as he began.
“Welcome, Andrew,” he said to the boy beside him. Andrew was about fourteen years old, and was slouched over as if the very act of sitting up required too much energy.
“Hi.”
“How was your day?”
“Not so good. I thought about my father all day long. He died ten thousand and eighty seconds ago.” He looked around at us as if we were about to contradict him. Ididn’t want to fish for my calculator so I was grateful when Raymond said,
“Just one week ago.”
Andrew started to cry. Raymond reached over and took his hand.
“I’m supposed to go back to school on Monday, but I can’t. He’s always there, inside my head.” The words came out of him ragged and painful. “He had a heart attack and just like that he was gone. Why did it happen?” It was agony listening to him.
Raymond turned to the rest of us. “Why? That’s the question we all have, and the question none of us can answer. Perhaps it is not
why
, but
what
we do after that counts.”
“I don’t want to talk anymore,” Andrew whispered. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve.
“It’s okay, Andrew. If you don’t want to, it’s okay.”
I remember the week after my father died, and it was awful. The fact of the death filled every part of my mind every single minute of the time. As I listened to Andrew I realized that without noticing it, I had moved beyond that horrible time.
It took an effort, but I raised my hand. It was cold in the church basement and the cookies were doing the cha-cha in my belly.
“Good evening. My name is Francis, and my father died last June.” That felt good, but I knew that I had only said half of what needed to be said.
“How did he die?” asked the Barbie girl.
“My father…he…my father committed suicide. He hanged himself in the attic.”
There. I said it. Now everyone knew not only that my father committed suicide, but how he did it. I wanted to get it out before they asked me. People always want the juicy details. It’s like:
“Oh! I’m so sorry about your father.”
“It’s okay.”
They wait a second or two, and then:
“How did he do it? Pills, a gun, a screwdriver?”
Stupid idiots. If they were really sorry, how could they possibly ask me that?
The discussion moved on to something else, but I felt like I had taken a giant step. At the end of the evening, as we were folding up the chairs, I actually found the nerve to speak to Julia. This was a big deal for me, let me tell you.
“My name is Francis, but you can call me Frank if you want.” Nobody has ever called me Frank, but I thought it sounded cool.
“That goes for me, too.” There it was again–the delicate scent of lily of the valley.
“What? You want me to call you Frank?” Ha, ha! Was I hilarious! It’s a wonder she didn’t run screaming for the door.
Instead she said, “No, sorry. Call me Jul. Actually I hate to be called Julia–and tomatoes.”
“Sorry?”
“I hate tomatoes They’re squishy and they have those little seeds. I think they’re
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