Beyond Reach (9 page)

“Maybe ‘break time’ is over.”

I sort of laugh. “Cool.”

Then we say good-bye, and I pick up my dirty breakfast dishes and clean up the kitchen. I'm still replaying the vision and trying to understand what it all means as I wipe down the countertops. Then I go to my room, thinking I'll do a little online research about suicide.

Okay, it's a grim subject. No doubt about that. But I am curious as to why anyone would want to end it all. I mean, I can get bummed sometimes, but I would never want to take my own life. That seems like a slap in the face to our Creator. And frankly, I just don't get it. But I'm curious about that suicide website and what kind of information is really available there.

Once I've spent some time reading, I feel shocked and slightly depressed. So many heartbreaking feelings and situations—things I never would've believed if I hadn't read them with my own eyes. Very sad.

“Hey, you!”
Olivia bursts into my room holding an
enormous
bunch of helium balloons.
“Happy Birthday!”

I nearly fall off my chair from the shock. “Who let you in?”

She releases the balloons in my room then hugs me. “I knocked and no one answered. Since I know where the key is, I just let myself in.”

“Well, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” I say, turning off my computer screen. Then I stand, and realizing that at least one person remembered what day it is, I hug her and thank her for the balloons.

“Please tell me you're not doing homework on your birthday.”

“Homework would be a piece of cake compared to what I was just doing,” I admit.

Of course, this only makes her extremely curious, so I explain about my vision of the bridge and the jumper. This is followed by my general confusion about suicide, and then, still horrified over what I've just read, I unload on her about the gruesome website I've been visiting.

They have a website like that?” she says. “How is that even legal?”

“It's the Internet. Who knows? Ebony's the one who told me about it, so it's not like the police aren't aware. And remember I told you about Peter leaving his suicide note through a site like this?”

“You'd think his parents could sue someone.” Of course, her dad's an attorney so she would naturally go this direction. But maybe she has a point.

“Well, anyway,” I continue, “I was just in this chat room where people ask for advice on how to Mil themselves and actually get answers, including medical advice describing which poisons or gases or whatever means are most effective, or least painful, or cheap, or less messy, or more daring, or whatever. It's totally appalling. And everyone is so positive about death and dying. It's like they all encourage each other to just be brave and do it—like they'll be some Mnd of hero afterward.”

“And really, they'll just be dead,” Olivia says sadly. “Standing before God and trying to explain why they did what they did. Swell.”

I nod. “Isn't that weird to think about? I mean, what would it be like if you just checked out and suddenly discovered there was a whole lot more going on than you realized? It's not like you can change your mind.”

“Yeah, I'll bet a lot of them will be, like, Oops, I had no idea that You were real, God. Maybe I should've thought this through a little better.’“

“And what do you think God will do?”

She shrugs. “I don't know…what do you think?”

I consider this. “Well, I honestly believe that God is a whole lot more gracious than we give Him credit for. And I think some of these people, like Peter Clark for instance, were probably really confused and hurting and depressed. And for all we know he could've been a Christian, too. I mean, who can see into a person's heart besides God?”

I let out a big sigh. “I guess I hope that God will take all these things into consideration, and I'm sure that heaven will hold some great surprises.”

Olivia nods. “Yeah, I'd like to believe that too. Still, I don't get why some people think it's okay to run a website like that. I mean, really, what's their point? Are they just wicked? Or really mean? Or just piain ignorant?”

“There was even a long paragraph about how suicide is a way to support zero population growth.”

“Give me a break!”

“No, it's true. And there were links to some zero population websites as well. And one of the girls writing actually sounded pretty sincere. She seemed convinced that the world is too populated and like she'd be doing everyone a favor by checking out.”

“No way! She really believes she can help control the world's population by killing, herself?” asks Olivia incredulously. “I so don't get that.”

“I know. It makes you wonder if murder won't be next on the list. I mean, if these guys are really worried about the globe getting crowded but they happen to be having a good day or a good life, would they consider taking out their neighbor just to keep the numbers down?”

“Especially if that neighbor's on the obnoxious side, plays his rap music a little too loud, or has a dog that poops on your freshly mowed lawn.”

“But really,” I say, “it's not something we should joke about. I mean, these people sound dead serious—and I'm not saying that to be funny. It was really depressing. Like there was this one foster kid who was so depressed that he wanted to kill himself, but he was concerned about another foster kid, a four-year-old girl, who lived in the same home. He thought she might freak if she discovered him dead, that she might be messed up for life. But someone told him not to worry about it, just get the deed done and let that poor little girl fend for herself. One girl named Slinky actually told him he was providing a good role model and that when that little girl grew up and decided to kill herself, she'd have him to thank. Can you believe it?”

“That is seriously sick.”

“Tell me about it.”

“And
that
is what you're doing on your birthday, Sam?”

“Pretty pathetic, huh?”

Now Olivia gets a thoughtful look. “So can
anyone
respond to those messages? Or do you have to be a registered member of the death club and pay your dues or
sign something in blood or maybe join the Hemlock Society first?”

So I flick my monitor back on, returning to the disgusting suicide website, and we find out that they're open to new members. In fact, they encourage it. So Olivia and I both register, under different names, of course. Olivia is Hope, and I am Grace. Okay, maybe that sounds a bit trite, but this is serious business—these people
need
some hope and grace.

Then we sit together at my desk and start creating what we think might be encouraging messages. Of course, there's no way to know how they will be received since some of these morbid death wishers have a real attitude going on. But we figure it's worth our best shot, and some of our words feel downright inspired, at least to us. By the time we're done, we both feel much better about ourselves and the people we've attempted to communicate some sense to. Then we actually pray, by name, for the people we just wrote to.

“Thanks,” I tell her. That was pretty cool.”

“We'll have to check back later and see if anyone was tuning in.”

“Do you think some people are just trying to unload?” I say. “Maybe just a cry for attention and they're not really serious about suicide?”

“I suppose anything's possible, but if I wanted attention, I think I'd find a different kind of website. One that might care about me personally and offer answers that could really help. That one seems to celebrate suicide like
it's heroic, like it's going to be the end-all of everyone's problems.” She grabs me by the hand. “Now we need to get out of this funk. This is
your
birthday, Sam. We need to go have some fun.”

“Suggestions?”

“Well, I wanted to get you something, but I was torn. And then I thought,
What would I want someone to do for
me?”

“And?” “And I thought,
Let's go shopping.
I want you to pick out your birthday present. Okay?”

I grin. “Sounds good. I think I'd like a red Ferrari.”

“Yeah, right. Okay, put on some real clothes and let's get out of this gloomy room.”

“Hey, it's not a gloomy room.” I point to the cheerful balloons splayed across my ceiling like a three-dimensional mosaic.

“Okay, it's not your room, but you have to admit that website was gloomy. In fact, I think we might need to do a cleansing prayer for your room, Sam. You know, to get rid of any yucky spirits that might try to hang around and creep you out in the middle of the night.”

I consider this and think she might have a point, but before I can even respond, Olivia has qlosed her eyes and, with hands held up, is praying over my room. I suppress a snicker as she gets fairly dramatic, telling the foul spirits to split in the name of Jesus.

“Amen!” she says.

“Amen!” I echo, actually laughing now. “Sorry. I know this is serious business, but you're pretty funny too.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on, Sam.” She grabs me by the hands and pulls me to my feet. “Let's get moving. Time's a wasting.”

So I get it together, and Olivia drives us to the local mall. And as usual, shopping with this girl is great. Seriously, I don't think anyone could have a bad time shopping with her. Not only does she have a sense of humor along with some really good fashion instincts and, oh yeah, deep pockets, but she's also really encouraging about my own personal image issues.

For instance, if I think my rear end looks like a double-wide in a certain pair of jeans, she'll first assure me that I'm totally wrong about the dimensions of my derrière, but then she'll help me to find a better pair of jeans that end up looking totally awesome. That is a true friend.

F
or my birthday present, we finally zoom in on shoes. According to Olivia, a girl can never have too many shoes. And after trying on everything from patent leather stilettos to some real earth muffin sandals, I finally settle on the coolest boots imaginable. Of course, they cost too much, but as the frazzled saleswoman points out,
they are on sale.

“You
have
to get them,” Olivia says as I parade around in them. “You look totally awesome in them.”

“Even on sale, they're too much,” I protest as I admire them in the short mirror. But Olivia refuses to take no for an answer. Finally the deal is done, the boots are bagged, and we go get some lunch. Olivia insists on treating.

“Thanks for everything,” I tell her as we head for home. “You're way too nice to me.”

“Only on your birthday,” she teases. “I can be a real beast for the rest of the year.”

“Yeah, right!” I laugh. Seriously, I can't imagine having a better best friend than Olivia.

“I'll pick you up at six-thirty,” she says as she drops me at my house.

“Huh?”

“For your birthday surprise.”

“I thought
this
was my birthday surprise.”

There's more.” She winks. “And wear something nice, okay? Like those new boots and your Banana Republic corduroy skirt. That'll look good.”

Okay,” I say with uncertainty. Then she zips off, and as I'm walking to the house still wondering about what lies ahead for this evening, I notice a bouquet of flowers by the front door.

Okay, this day just keeps getting better and better! I'm sort of hoping the pretty blooms are from Conrad, but they end up being from Ebony and some others down at city hall, which is actually quite nice.

I go inside and put my things away, and just as I'm going back downstairs, I suddenly experience another flash. It feels similar to the one by the fire this morning. But it comes so quickly that I actually stop midstep, pausing right there on the stairs to see whether it's for real or not. It is.

This vision is brief—maybe just a couple seconds or less—but it appears to involve the same guy—at least the dark brown hair looks the same. Only this time he's in a room, just a nondescript room, but I can tell it's inside a building or a house. And he's wearing what appears to be a gas mask, although I'm not totally sure that's what it is. It reminds me of something from an old war movie, and it actually looks kind of scary. Surrounding the edges of this mask is what looks like silver duct tape, as if the guy is trying to seal the mask even tighter to his face. Then I notice a tube protruding from the side of the gas mask, being held in place by more duct tape. This tube connects to a bright
orange metal canister. That's it. And the vision leaves as quickly as it came, about as fast as the snap of my fingers.

Still, once it's gone, I feel slightly stunned and grab the handrail to steady myself. Then I actually sit on the stairs to think about what I just saw, to figure out what it might mean. But once again, it makes no sense. And once again, I'm assuming that this guy is Peter, although this also makes no sense.

At first I think he's using the gas mask to protect himself from the air around him. Maybe that “orange tank contained oxygen. But then I remember from chemistry class that oxygen tanks are usually green. For some reason it seems important to figure out what was in that tank, so I head for my computer and Google selections of words like “orange gas tanks,” but only find weird things like “put an orange in your gas tank to improve your gas mileage.” Yeah, right.