Grief Girl (12 page)

April 1984

“W
ould you please hurry up? I'll miss the plane!” I'm shrieking.

My flight leaves in two hours, and everyone's here to see me off. Tracy and Chris and Trent, and even Ronald, Peter, Gai, and Frances.

“Calm down, Erin. They'll wait for you, for God's sake,” Tracy calls from the bathroom.

“No, they won't! They're not going to hold an international flight just for me,” I say, picking up my suitcase and putting it down again. Sometimes I think Tracy believes the world will stop for us just because we have dead parents.

Tracy is putting on makeup, Trent's not dressed, and Ronald and Peter are doing I don't know what.

I know Tracy probably feels bad that I get to go overseas while she stays here in the misery. I still feel guilty for going, but she keeps telling me to go for Mum and Dad's sake. “Look, you're lucky to get away from all this. I would if I could. So go!” she says.

I go out to the car and start honking the horn. Finally, they come. I'm in Ronald's red truck and Tracy, Chris, and Trent are in the VW.

“Could you please drive faster, Ronald? I was supposed to be there three hours before the flight and it leaves in an hour!” Mum and Dad would have got me there on time. I should say that.

Finally we arrive at Sydney airport. Peter grabs my bag and we run to the check-in counter.

“Erin Vincent. Erin Vincent. Please report to gate thirty,” a voice says over the loudspeaker as the man at the desk hands me back my passport. How embarrassing! There's no time for goodbyes, which is good. I'm glad I don't have time to hug Trent for too long, otherwise I'd never leave. I'm glad to be getting away from all this, and at the same time I feel like I'm doing the wrong thing. It's not fair to Tracy. I'll bet she'd like to be escaping to England right now.

I hurry through security and run to the gate. I'm the last one to board. The flight attendants are beginning their safety demonstration.

Passengers stare at me as I look for my seat. It's the only one that's empty. I slink down the aisle to claim it.

“We were already reworking the show,” Errol snaps. My eight castmates avoid my apologetic eyes.

I can't even look at Errol. Maybe they all hoped I wouldn't make it. A girl with dead parents sure puts a damper on things.

But I made it. I'll show them it was worth not writing me out.

         

I'm in London and it's cold and sunny. I love it here. I love being away from home. We're staying in hotels and also with families with children in the theater who have offered to put us up.

I have all this energy in my body. I suppose it's the excitement of it all. Errol doesn't like it. Ever since the casino night fiasco, he's been really cold toward me. “Stop being so manic!” he tells me. Since when has being happy and thrilled and energetic been a crime? I just want to show everyone that I'm fine. I'm not going to ruin the tour.

The problem is, I do sort of know what Errol means, but I can't help myself. I'm full of hilarity, laughing like a maniac a lot of the time. And my voice seems much louder than before. But for the first time in six months, I don't feel depressed and mopey.

I'm going to see so many things and meet so many people. I can't wait to go to Shakespeare's house and see some plays in London's West End and meet some actors and visit all the sights. If I can feel this good now, then I know it's possible to feel happy again.

         

We're on our way to Liverpool. I'll bet this Liverpool will be better than the Australian one. It's two weeks into the tour. I'm sitting here quietly on the bus in my jeans and sweatshirt, listening to my Police tape on my Walkman. My hair is in a ponytail and it's clean! I'm wearing lip gloss. I'm trying not to act overly excited or talk too much. From the outside, I look completely normal.

But I don't feel good. I need to talk to someone.

I lean across the aisle. “Liz, what are you reading?”

Liz is eighteen. She's the oldest girl on the tour. She looks up from her book. “The Bible.”

“Oh,” I say, trying not to sound shocked. Liz is really cool. What's she doing reading the Bible?

Errol asks the driver to stop the bus, and we get out and look at a bunch of rocks and stones. They seem to have a lot of them in England. So far we've seen Stonehenge, where the rocks are standing around in a pattern like someone very strong placed them there. Then we see Hadrian's Wall and lots of castles and remains of castles and more rocks. I should be thrilled to see all this history, but for some reason I'm not.

I'm having a good time shopping, though. Is that shallow of me? Shouldn't I care about deeper things than that? I feel guilty about the spending money, but Auntie Connie was right, the other kids have money.

I've bought some new clothes and tapes that keep my mind occupied as we travel.

Today Francine, the youngest girl on the tour, is the first to be dropped off with her host family. This is the first time we're to stay with English families. I'm really nervous. What will it be like to stay in a stranger's house?

We're parked outside a mansion that is like a mini version of one of the castles we've just seen. The family of the manor is standing out front to greet Francine. The mother, in tweed, has long blond hair, as do her pretty teenage daughters. The father is smoking a pipe—how very English!

We say goodbye to lucky Francine, and next it's Liz and another mansion. Then six more stops. Not all the houses are mansions, but they're all nice.

The bus pulls up in front of a cluster of row houses. Errol tilts his head toward one with a red front door. “Okay, Erin. Here we are.”

“Ha, ha, Errol. Very funny.”

Errol doesn't laugh. “I'm serious, Erin. This is it.”

“What?” I can't help thinking this is part of his vendetta against me.

He taps his fingers on the armrest. “We'll be back in the morning to pick you up for the lunchtime show.”

“Do they know about what's happened?” I blurt out.

“Yes, I thought it better that they do,” Errol says as I take my bag and open the door.

For once, I'm glad someone knows. I don't want to have to explain it.

I'm standing on the wet street with my now-wet suitcase and shoes. The sky is gray, the grass is gray, and all the houses in this street, which are joined together and sit in a long row, are gray and cold. I'm having the dirt-poor English experience.

I ring the doorbell but it doesn't work. So I knock. A dark-haired lady wearing a flour-covered apron answers the door.

“Come in, luvvy, it's bloody cold out there,” says the lady, who introduces herself as Janice and her husband as Ted. “My Danny isn't home from school yet. You'll be sharing his room. You don't mind sharing with a twelve-year-old boy, do you?”

I do, but I remind myself that I'm a bohemian artist. “No! Of course not.”

         

It's now eight o'clock. I'm sitting on the family sofa squashed between Janice and Ted. Danny is now home and is sitting on the floor in front of us. It's kind of nice, actually. We've just eaten a dinner of fried eggs and chips with tomato sauce and are watching an English TV show,
Love Thy Neighbor.

I'm waiting for the questions about my exciting adventure or the accident, but they don't come. Aren't they fascinated by the fact that they have an international traveler in their midst?

Apparently not. The show ends, and Danny and I are told to go to bed.

“I'll be up in a tick,” Janice tells us as we climb the olive green carpeted stairs.

“Mum, I'm old enough by now,” Danny yells, and then turns to me, rolling his eyes. “She likes to come up and say goodnight even though we've already done that.”

I grab my pajamas and get dressed in the freezing cold bathroom and run and jump into my bed hoping Danny won't see me.

“Everyone set?” Janice says from the bedroom doorway.

She tucks Danny in and he tells her to stop fussing before she does the same to me.

“You're a lovely lass, you know that? It's a real pleasure having another girl in the house. I wish you could stay longer than a couple of days.” She smiles. “Now, if you need anything, just call. We're right in the next bedroom.”

“Thank you, Janice,” I say, feeling myself get all teary for some stupid reason.

I'll bet Francine isn't getting this cozy treatment at that big, cold mansion.

For a few days, it almost feels like I have a family again. When it's time to say goodbye, we all hug, and I promise Janice I'll write. There really are some good people in the world.

         

In Scotland, we're staying in a hotel. Liz and I are sharing a room. Despite the God thing, she's both hip and nice, and I'd really like her to like me. Not just as a grieving girl, but as me, Erin.

Our room has dusty pink walls and shiny gold bedspreads. Very movie star! It's fun. Liz and I lie in bed and talk like we're having a sleepover, only we're in a hotel in Scotland and everyone back home is awake and walking around while we're going off to sleep.

“Goodnight, Liz.”

“Goodnight, Erin.”

Lights out.

I'm lying here. I can't sleep. For some reason I feel shaky. Scared.

My parents are dead.

I feel like I want to jump out the window. My head's about to explode. I'm in a big fat panic and I don't know what to do. My body feels so weird. All these thoughts are rushing through my head. How am I going to live my life? How am I going to get through it?

When I was little, I'd often get a really high temperature and get delirious and Dad would put me under a cold shower, then sit with me and calm me down. No one is here to calm me down now.

I want to wake Liz. She's going to think I'm a stupid, crazy, mixed-up girl who can't even cope with death. People cope with death every day all over the world, so why can't I? I thought I was getting used to it.

But it's come back again, worse than ever. If I don't wake Liz, I'm afraid I'll go over the edge and I'll never come back.

“Liz,” I whisper. “Liz.” I shake her gently. “I'm so sorry to wake you.”

She sits up like she was never asleep.

“I'm so sorry,” I say as I pace around the room.

She turns on the lamp beside the bed. “Erin, it's fine. What's wrong?”

“I feel like the room's spinning or something, I can't quite explain it. I feel all shaky. Do I have a temperature?” I put my head down for her to feel.

“No, you feel okay.”

“I feel like I just want to run around the room and scream. Is that crazy?”

“Of course it isn't.”

She's just being nice. I know it's crazy.

She motions for me to sit down. I sit down because I don't know what else to do.

“Is it your parents?” she asks gently.

“I don't know.” All of a sudden I start sobbing and I can't control it. I hate people seeing me like this. “Please don't tell anyone about this, Liz,” I say through my tears.

“I won't. I promise.”

“I just feel so depressed and frightened. Like I'm in a bad dream and I can't wake up. It's like I'm in shock over and over and over again. Like I just wake up and think, Oh my God, my parents are dead! Like I've just realized it for the first time.

“I just can't believe it, Liz, I can't believe they're dead. I can't believe that one minute they were walking around and now their bodies are turning to skeletons. It makes me feel sick. And why am I so jittery that Errol has to tell me to calm down all the time? I'm tired and terrified at the thought of tomorrow and the next day and the next. How am I going to get through this? I don't know what to do because it's not getting any better. I think it's actually getting worse.”

So much for not talking and annoying people.

Now I'm really sobbing and blubbering, but I can't help it. I don't know how to describe my pain to anyone, because it doesn't fit any description. No words can say what I feel.

Liz just sits there and listens to me like I'm normal, like she's not shocked or horrified or embarrassed for me or anything. I talk and talk and talk. It's so nice of her. She's just on her bed next to mine in the middle of the night, listening. She doesn't act freaked out at all.

Finally I'm exhausted enough to maybe fall asleep.

The next morning she doesn't say anything about what happened. But I get the feeling that it's not because she doesn't care, but because she's leaving it for me to bring it up if I want to.

I don't want to. Because when I'm here in Scotland, I want to forget everything about October 23, 1983.

         

The tour is a big success. And then I'm back home. Tracy and Trent are at the airport to pick me up. Tracy's in a bad mood. I try to ignore it as Trent hugs me and asks lots of questions about where I've been, did I fly in the sky, that sort of thing. We get in the car, and if it wasn't for Trent, we'd be driving home in silence. Even at the age of three he's easier to talk to than Tracy. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. It's not like we talked or did much together before the accident.

Everything looks the same at home. All the feelings I've been avoiding for six weeks come flooding back. I try to tune them out. Things are going to be different now that I'm more worldly. I now know that there's so much more out there than what's in this house.

I'm home for less than an hour and Tracy's mad, angry, annoyed, and upset. I don't exactly know what about. All I know is it's worse than usual. I know why she acts like she hates me—because I got to go away. Because I'm back. Because she feels stuck with everything…me included.

I ask Chris, “Did anything bad happen while I was away?”