Grief Girl (13 page)

What a stupid question. Bad is a daily occurrence around here.

“No, nothing. Everything's the same,” he says.

“So why is Tracy in such a bad mood? Is it me?”

“No, Erin, she's fine. She's got a lot to deal with, you know. Just ignore her.”

But I can't. So much for absence making the heart grow fonder.

I wrote lots of postcards and letters and made phone calls, so she can't be angry at me for abandoning her. Can she?

I'm constantly on edge. Walking on eggshells. I had to walk on eggshells a lot with Dad, and now I have to with Tracy. She acts like a really angry parent.

I walk into the kitchen and Tracy turns her back to me and starts rummaging loudly through the cupboards, opening and closing drawers really hard.

The mug says
I'm pissed!
as she slams it away. The bowl says
I hate my life!
as she reaches into the cupboard. The wok says
I hate you!
as she slams it on the counter.

Maybe I should write a guidebook:

GUIDE TO TRACYSPEAK

BANG: I hate my life and I hate you.

BASH: Why me?

BOING: You little bitch.

CLANG: Why did I have to be the oldest?

CLANK: I hate the sight of you.

CLUNK: Why haven't you cleaned this up yet?

CRASH: You got off easy.

SMASH: I want to kill you.

Before I came into the kitchen she wasn't doing any of that, so I know it's me she's angry at.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“Have I done something?”

“No,” she says.

“Then what's wrong?”

“Nothing!” she says in that really short, stern way of hers of saying nothing's wrong but everything's wrong.

“Well, it doesn't seem like nothing. You seem really angry with me.”

“I told you, nothing's wrong!” she says, getting more and more furious.

And then she storms off. I've been back three hours.

We've been through this before and it always ends the same. I'll be on eggshells for a few days. She'll be angry at me for a couple more days before eventually telling me that I left the dirty dishes in the sink or I did or said something I shouldn't have.

She acts like she hates me, which makes me hate her.

All I want is for us to be close. Why is she so mad at me? Why does she look at me that way?

Maybe I just have to try harder. One of us has to make the first move. I have to help Tracy. I have to be there for her more, and then maybe this won't happen. She has so much on her plate. I have to remember that. She doesn't mean to be like this. Maybe being angry is easier than being sad.

Julie is becoming an expert in Tracyspeak too. Like me, she can understand it but can't speak it herself.

“Why does she think she's cornered the market on pain? They were your parents too,” she says in my bedroom after witnessing a kitchen conversation in Tracyspeak.

Even though I agree with her, I play devil's advocate. “I know. But I suppose she's got more responsibility than I have.”

“It's not your fault they died and she was born first. This is awful. The door's closed, but I can feel the tension coming through the walls.”

Julie seems to be getting upset on my behalf lately for some reason. It's kind of nice.

“Maybe we should go to your place,” I say.

Julie's not crazy about her house. It's small, and she has to share her room with her little sister. But it's better than my house. So we pack up my schoolwork and some clothes and ask Chris (I don't dare ask Tracy) if he can drive me to Julie's so I can stay at her place for the night.

“Sure,” he says in his usual calm manner. Maybe he's relieved. Maybe I should have stayed in England for good.

         

It's Monday and back to school again, but this time I'm doing it in style—London style, that is. At least for today.

I've got on my huge industrial-sculpture silver earrings, green neon socks and black high-heeled boots, neon orange fishnet gloves, black pants, and my favorite tour purchase—a white floor-length coat with pink, orange, green, and black splashes all over it. And to top it all off, I've got my London haircut, short on one side, long on the other.

Trent comes into my room as I pack my school bag. “You look pretty, Erin.”

“And you look very handsome,” I tell him as he stands there in his pale blue pj's.

I can't wait for Tracy to see me.

“You're wearing that?” she says as I walk into the living room.

“Yeah, why?”

Tracy snorts. “Well, have you looked in the mirror?” She shakes her head. “Can't you just be normal for once!”

Now I feel stupid. Then I remember that Tracy hasn't been to London and seen all the fashion, so she doesn't get it…yet.

         

Everyone at school is looking at me, but this time it's for a good reason. You can't buy clothes like these in Australia, so I'm ahead of everyone else.

“Hey, Erin, where do you get those cool socks?”

“That's the best coat ever, I wish I had one!” “Oh, Erin, you look absolutely bloody fantastic!”

I go to class dressed like this because I can. I might look great, but I still have dead parents. The teachers are probably thinking, Well, at least she looks clean and isn't wearing her father's shirt.

Ms. Ockenden says that in a week each of us has to give a presentation about a character from Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales.

“Be creative!” she says.

I choose the Wife of Bath. Seems fitting, considering I've just been to Bath in England, and for a while there before the tour I was in a serious need of a bath.

I love the Wife of Bath. She doesn't care what anyone else thinks of her or the way she looks. She's dirty and bawdy and she knows what's what.

I decide to try to become the Wife of Bath. My acting chops are still warm from the trip, so I'm primed. I have one week to learn lines and create the costume of an ugly, grotesque, haggard old lady. Gee, and I was only just starting to dress better.

         

It's the day of the presentation and I'm in the hall. I'm the last to go, as I take the longest to get organized. No one else has done the costume thing like I thought they would. Most people get up and read from their papers like they're standing behind a podium. I'm starting to worry about my choice, but it's too late now. I've got a big padded butt (two towels pushed down some pantyhose) saggy boobs (my bra is stuffed with tea towels), dirty rags (bought at the thrift store and rubbed in the dirt), blackened teeth, and hair cut from my head and stuck on my chin.

I burst through the door as the Wife of Bath in all her burping, crotch-scratching, farting glory. Sorry, Mum, this is no time to be lady.

“You all think ya know me, but ya don't.”
Burp!
“I might not be the prettiest lass in town, but I'm the smartest.” I tell them all off for thinking I'm a dirty old hag and not looking any closer.

At the end of it I'm quite pleased with myself, but I can tell some of the girls think I'm a weirdo.

I feel like screaming at them.

It's official. I'm an idiot and I can't help myself. I want to be smart and creative and express myself. Okay, so maybe dressing up like a dirty old hag was a dumb idea, but at least I tried. Julie gets it. She loves it. So does Ms. Ockenden.

“That's what I mean when I say I want you all to present something and express yourself,” she says, clapping. Now I feel like a dorky teacher's pet. She's probably only carrying on this way to encourage the parentless girl. I'll bet the teachers have been told it's good if I get involved in class activities.

“Everyone thinks I'm an idiot,” I whisper to Julie when I'm done.

“No way! That was bloody great. Stick it up their arses,” Julie says in true Wife of Bath style.

I do feel pretty stupid, though. For all my ranting and raving, they're right. I feel like a show-off and a loser. Not an artist at all.

Ultimately, Chaucer really pisses me off.

         

I have a toothache. Maybe I got too into the whole Wife of Bath bad teeth thing. Am I one of those Method actors who really feel everything they act? Or maybe it's all those English chocolates I ate on the tour.

Whatever it is, it hurts. We can't afford things like expensive dentist visits. Maybe it will go away if I ignore it.

         

It's a day later and my mouth is starting to swell up. I'm starting to talk like Marlon Brando in
The Godfather.

I call Ronald and tell him. I hope he can hear how strange I sound.

“Have you been looking after your teeth?” he asks me.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Well, then it will probably go away in a few days. I can't just give you money every time you call and ask for some.”

“But I hardly ever call,” I protest. “If it gets worse, it could cost a lot more!”

“Erin. Just relax. I'll bet it will go away.”

“Thanks a lot, Ronald!” I say with spit dribbling from my sore mouth as he blabs on about doing this for my future.

“I can't wait. I'll be a rich, toothless lady one day and it will all seem worth it,” I say, fighting back tears. Mum would be so pissed with him!

“There's no need to be a little smartass.”

“But it is
our
money!” I shout.

“Yes, and I'm looking after it for you.”

“Yes, Ronald. I'm sure Mum would be really impressed that you're looking after us by doing absolutely
nothing
!”

And then all I hear is a dial tone.

June 1984

I
t's time to go through Mum and Dad's stuff. I wish we could just leave it all where it is forever, but apparently that's not healthy. When I first heard someone say that, I thought they meant that's it's unhygienic to leave stuff lying around untouched, gathering dust and mold. Now I know it's for mental health.

I don't want to do it, and my stupid tooth is aching more than ever. But it's what's done, apparently. You go through all the dead person's stuff and throw it away, give it to charity, or keep it for memory's sake. I wonder how many people who shop at thrift stores know they're wearing dead people's clothes or drinking out of dead people's cups.

At first Tracy said I couldn't be involved, so I went to Chris. “I need to be part of this. I need to say goodbye to their stuff too. Please make Tracy understand.”

He obviously did, because Tracy's letting me help.

I think this could be a real bonding moment for us.

While Chris plays in the park with Trent, we're going to matter-of-factly go into my parents' bedroom and empty out the cupboards and drawers. We're going to feel nothing, just treat it like we're getting ready for a garage sale. It's just stuff, after all.

Will Mum and Dad mind? Will they think that we're forgetting about them, that we're just tossing them aside? I hope they understand. Seeing their things is just too depressing, too much of a reminder. But what will happen without a reminder? Will I just forget them completely? I'll forget how they smelled even if I keep some clothes and don't wash them. Smells fade just like everything else. Dad's shirt smells like me now. I'll forget their voices, unless I can find Mum's tapes from her tarot lady. But Dad's voice and laugh are gone forever. No tapes of him.

We don't have any photos of them around. We don't want reminders. It scares me whenever I see a photo. It's so hard to believe that one day they were standing and smiling (or in Mum's case not, as she hated having her photo taken) and now they're lying under the ground, mouths and eyes closed. Never to walk and talk and smile again.

We start with Mum's dressing table.

Tracy loves Mum's jewelry, so she takes it. I get one plain gold ring, but I'm not really into rings and things. I want Mum's books, especially the one with the yellow cover,
I'm OK—You're OK.
It's been in her room for as long as I can remember. Maybe it will help me be okay. I wonder if she read it.

It's hard to decide what to keep and what to give away, but we get out the green garbage bags and give most of it away. I keep some of Mum's crystal ring holders (Tracy doesn't want these) and trinket jars and other dressing-table things even though I hate them. They're ugly, but Mum loved them, and they remind me of that part of her. The part that wanted to be better, more.

I want to be better and more too.

Then it comes to the drawers. My pink birth card is in one, saying I weighed nine pounds three ounces. What a fat baby! It doesn't say the time I was born or anything, so now I guess I'll never know. I'll never be able to have a thorough tarot reading like Mum, and that bugs me. I wish I could find her tapes.

Now the closets. Tracy does Mum's and I do Dad's. Tracy's not too interested in Dad's stuff.

We pull out Mum and Dad's clothes and put them into garbage bags. Now Tracy and I are both sobbing.

It takes hours to go through everything, because we look at things and cry as we go. It's nice that we're doing this together. I'm happy Tracy's crying. I know it's bad for her that she never cries, so this is a breakthrough.

All the stuff we don't want, but do want, but have to get rid of, is in green garbage bags lined up against the bedroom wall. They look like a row of body bags.

Chris is going to take them to the thrift store when he gets home. I don't want to see him carrying them out to the car. It's so final. Their bedroom looks so empty. Every trace of them is gone. We've just cleaned the slate, wiped them from our lives.

Will they forgive us?

Does it matter?

         

Tracy and Chris are moving into Mum and Dad's room. Tracy never did get around to decorating her living room/bedroom all white the way she was going to after Trent was born. It doesn't make sense for them to sleep in there anymore when there's an empty bedroom in the house.

“Don't you feel weird sleeping in there?” I ask Tracy after they move in.

“Of course I do, but it's stupid not to use it. We have to get on with things. I'm tired of worrying what Mum and Dad would think. They left
us.
Remember?”