The Mourning After (4 page)

“We have no choice.”

By then, Chloe was screaming a deafening wail, and Levon covered his ears with his pillow, drowning the sounds of everything that had gone so wrong.

From his position on the bathroom floor, Levon reaches for a hanging towel and lowers his face into the fresh scent of Bounce.  He is tired of their arguments.  He is tired of missing David.  He is tired of holding everything inside.  He longs to be free.  He whispers the words to his favorite Everclear song:

I close my eyes when I get too sad

I think thoughts that I know are bad

Close my eyes and I count to ten

Hope it’s over when I open them

And then he screams.

At first, it is into the soft white towel, and then he lifts his head and a high-pitched howl escapes into the air.  Raising himself off the floor, he finds his face in the mirror and continues screaming.  He doesn’t care how ridiculous he looks.  He doesn’t care that his face is turning crimson.  He doesn’t care if his stitches pop and blood splatters across the mirror or that the words frozen in his brain leak onto her immaculate floors.

Hope my mom and I hope my dad

Will figure out why they get so mad

Hear them scream, I hear them fight

They say bad words that make me wanna cry

They start to bang on the door.

His mother speaks first. “Levon, is that you?”

Levon keeps screaming.  The tightness in his throat gives way to a rising squeal.  He sounds like a pig; he looks like a pig.

They are intent on finding out who is behind the gruesome noises.

“Open the door!”

Levon keeps right on yelling.  The pitch ebbs and flows between his staggering breath, and the noise filters his ears and leaps off the walls. Gasping for air, dizzy and spent, he remains fixed in his pose and the distinction of his voice for three whole minutes.  His belly, once full of fear and betrayal, is lightened by the sounds escaping his chest.

“Levon, this is your father.  Open the door right now.”

Instead of heeding his father’s words, Levon falls to the floor, hugs his knees to his chest, and cries.

Though David was noticeably handsome, he was also humble and unaware of his good looks.  Though a star athlete, he was exempt from conceit.  Intelligent beyond the scope of academics, his street sense designated him as the go-to-guy when his peers needed guidance along the bumpy road of teenage angst.

These are the thoughts that flow through Levon’s mind as he plops himself down on David’s comforter.  Fleeing the murderous sounds of the bathroom, and his parents’ inquisition, he escapes to forbidden territory and the untouched reminder of David’s life.  Sitting in his brother’s bedroom is where he feels closest to him. 

This is the first time he’s been here since David died. He is resting on his bed, far from the somber crowd downstairs.  The quiet is unnerving to Levon: the bat in the corner, the jacket draped across the back of his chair, the computer sitting untouched on David’s desk.  They all seem misplaced and awkward, stripped of life and void of spirit, abandoned by their owner.  The rabbi had said at David’s funeral that his life had been stolen, cut monumentally short.  That abysmal fact turned his room into a shrine and a sham. 

Teachers respected David, his opponents on the field applauded his efforts, and girls were helpless to his boyish charm.  That he squired away Rebecca Blake came as no surprise to anyone at their high school.  Levon’s eyes linger on the picture of the pair that’s framed next to the bed.  David is in his football uniform after the big win against their rival, the North Miami Beach Chargers.  His arm is draped tenderly around Rebecca’s shoulder.  The sun had kissed his skin that summer—his hair is matted and damp from the game—and he looks proud.  Rebecca’s hair is pulled high in a ponytail, and her lips form an outline of soft pink around her white smile.  How happy they look, the Homecoming Queen and her counterpart. 

David hated the nickname Adonis, but it stuck with him to his death.  It personified his classic good looks and stature; at seventeen, he was standing close to six feet tall and a slim 165 pounds.  Levon memorized both his and David’s stats each time they went to their pediatrician Dr. Engle.  This fixation became stronger as David grew taller and Levon got heavier.

“It’s like this,” Bruce once shouted to him as they returned from one of their yearly appointments, “your body’s heading east and west, and your boy over here’s heading north.”

He was right.

Returning to the photo, Levon studies David’s features for a sign they may have predicted the future.  The walls are emblazoned with plaques, awards, and pictures—David’s wrapping around him, grabbing hold of his little brother’s heart and choking him of breath.

Levon thinks about how they used to play hide-and-go seek in the house when they were about nine or ten.  David always found the best places to hole up.  It took Levon hours to find him.  When tucked away from sight, David would complete his homework, read a chapter of a book, and write about it in his reading log.  His mother would ask Levon why he didn’t have time management skills like his older brother.

“It’s all about my poor hiding spots,” he’d try to explain to her.

“You’re saying if you had a better hiding spot, you’d get your homework done more quickly?”

Levon would answer her with indisputable words, “No, no,” but in his thoughts he argued, 
If I had a better hiding spot, would you like me as much as you like David?

The shelves in David’s room overflow with books.  They run the gamut from his favorites,
Catcher in the Rye
and
A Separate Peace
, to volumes of sports almanacs, with a
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit model poking her head out from between the pages.  David enjoyed hiking and biking, so there are various copies of
Fodor’s Best Trails in North America
. 

Levon’s eyes grab hold of one of the bookends that Chloe had made for David on his last birthday.  Its fraternal twin is concealed from view.  Facing Levon is a sturdy, solid black frame that Chloe had decorated with colorful, foam shapes.  An assortment of girl-inspired hearts and flowers coat the dark finish.  She had colored her name “Chloe” on a sheet of paper, sprinkled it with glitter, and glued it in the middle.  She had been so proud of the way she had softened the stark metal her mother had purchased at the store.  The complementary twin on the other side—sidled up to
Great Expectations
—is draped in the deep shades of
all-boy
: footballs, soccer balls, and a white baseball clinging for life.  She had written
David
in dark blue and green, no glitter.  On entering David’s room, anyone could easily make out the pink, frilly touch of Chloe’s girlieness.  When the players from the team came over and teased David about the feminine touch, the
wussy wall
, they called it, he never considered switching its place.  David adored his baby sister; the bookends were their bond.  It signified solidarity.

The door swings open and Levon knows who it is by the force of the punch.

“What are you doing in here?” she demands.

Her eyes are damp and her nose is red.  The bun is nowhere in sight.  In its place is a stringy brown mess that Levon hasn’t seen loose in years.  He cannot believe how long it has grown.  It hurts Levon to see her like this—disheveled, aching, and paper thin.  It is clear which one of them hasn’t been raiding the shiva platters.

Levon pulls himself up from the bed.  He can smell traces of David in the air.  They pass through his nose at alarming speed.  She can smell it too, and the emotions that transform her eyes and splotch her cheeks are easy for Levon to decipher.  She is trying not to be angry.  She is trying to conjure up a shred of humanity for her son.  Much has been thrown at her.  Levon bites his lip waiting for what will emerge.

“I didn’t want anyone in here,” she whispers.

“I know.”

“I want…” she stops herself.

What he really wants is to throw up.  The screaming has left his throat sore, and all the sweets he had gulped down are rumbling around his stomach at terrifying speed.  If the contents of his lunch and the afterthoughts aren’t going to tumble out, he knows something else will that is dangerously close.

“You don’t understand, Levon,” she says, her voice shaking.  “You never will.”

“I lost him too,” he says.

“Parents aren’t supposed to lose children.”

He had read all about this in the pamphlets the rabbi had given them. When a child dies, a part of his parents die along with him, so, in fact, the death in a way takes their lives. The majority of parents never get over the loss of a child; a good percentage of them divorce.

A lone tear escapes her eye and slowly makes its way down her cheek.

“Tell me again…” she begins, as Levon turns away from her, and she reaches for his sleeve instead of his skin.

Levon answers emphatically, “No.”  Though in his head, a million follow—life-size, black, bold
No’s
that clutter his thoughts, loud and distracting.  His arm steers away from her, and he clasps his fingers in a wild attempt to contain thoughts.

“Levon, I need to know, you have to tell me…”

“I said
no
, Mom.  I don’t want to talk about it.”

She wants him to tell her about that night.  She wants every detail.  He’d already told her.  He told her repeatedly in the hospital when the officers were circling around him with their pads of paper and clicking pens.  Then he told her again when they went to the police station and officially suspended his restricted license, placing him on probation for the next three years.  Then he told her a third time when they were driving home, and they had to pull over to the side of the road so she could vomit.  Finally, he said it again, when they went to bed that night, right after she took his cell phone and threw it into the pool.

It was never going to be enough.  She wanted to know everything, and Levon couldn’t give her everything because in the middle of the story there was David.

She begins to sob again.  “I just want to know what he said…” 

When Levon ignores her, she reaches into her pocket, pulls out a cigarette and a pack of matches from one of his favorite restaurants, the Big Pink, and begins to blow thick circles of smoke into the air.  The senseless inhalation seems to relieve her.

“What are you doing?” Levon asks.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“You smoke?”

She collapses onto the bed, whimpering and puffing away.  Her long fingers are curled around the thin cigarette.  It occurs to Levon that her life has been snuffed out, much like the match she has thrown into the garbage can.  She is crying and shaking and going on and on about some kind of trouble she had gotten into as a kid.  Levon racks his brain for something he can say that will guide her out of this stupor, something that he hasn’t already said in their diluted exchanges. She is delirious and not making sense. 

“I never thought you’d be so irresponsible, so careless,” she finally says.

Her eyes are fixed, a combination of a watery sadness and a fierce darkness that makes it tricky to spot her pupils.  Levon turns away, breaking the connection, and stands up from the bed.  He peers down at his mother who has all but melted into David’s navy blue comforter. 

He didn’t want to confront her with a soliloquy of all the things he had done right.  He was not a bad kid. He had good values and cared about the people he loved.  He wasn’t popular, but he wasn’t unpopular either. 

So he gives her a part of what she wants to hear. “He said, ‘Mom’s going to kill us.’”

She is thinking about this, silent and somber.  The digital clock next to the bed is quiet, but Levon can swear he hears it ticking.

This
, she does not expect. 
This
does not make any sense.  The smoke that infiltrated her lungs earlier, without incident, suddenly has her coughing into her palms. Standing up abruptly, she heads toward the window and opens it a crack.  Levon watches her toss the butt through the cramped space and into the waiting garbage can alongside the house.  He hopes she doesn’t burn down the neighborhood.

“Say that again,” she insists.

She heard what he said, but compelling him to repeat it gives her a senseless satisfaction.

“Levon.” 

“Yes, Mom?” he says, shooting her a look.

This time her words are clear.  “What exactly did he say?”

Levon acquiesces.

“He said, ‘Mom’s going to kill us.’”

Seconds pass when she stumbles toward him and lifts his chin so their eyes are level.  Levon holds her pupils in place with his gaze as long as his hurting eyes will allow.  When she finally turns for the door, he hears her murmur through the air, indignant, without shame, “Please don’t come in here again.”

Promises mean everything when you're little

And the world's so big

I just don't understand how

You can smile with all those tears in your eyes

Tell me everything is wonderful now

Please don't tell me everything is wonderful now

Lucy Bell is dancing around her new house, barefoot and tippy-toed.  George, her beloved golden retriever, is chasing her, nipping at her heels.  Long and leggy, Lucy is ecstatic to be starting fresh.  From the minute the delivery trucks drop off her bedroom furniture and clothes, she feels enthusiasm swarming around her.

Atlanta had been a disaster of monumental proportions; they couldn’t get out fast enough.  As soon as they sold the house, they were heading south on Interstate 75 through the flat, lackluster terrain of the Sunshine State corridor, which, in itself, was ironic, because
Sunshine
was what they used to call her. 

That was before.

The house is airy and bright, a sharp contrast from the pictures her parents showed her on the Internet.  The images posted on the realtor's website were the size of postage stamps with indistinguishable features, not this two-story home built around what the realtor said gushingly over the phone, was “…a warm, inviting design…French country with an Italian feel…”