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| 95 Hardwood Ln., Freedom. |
I:
On the
maroon rolling chair under the fluorescent lights and stale air of the
library’s computer lab, headphones covering my ears, staring into the screen,
like I’ve done so much this year. This is the penultimate Friday of the
semester—for me, the penultimate Friday of undergrad. A handful of people are
here in the lab, scrambling: cursing the GIS instructor, toying with Lightroom
presets, or, like me, tweaking the transitions and audio for the final film
project. Premiere Pro’s pink, green, and navy labels in the timeline stand
testament to months of vision, of relationships forged, of equipment lists and
interview questions, of windy mornings spent filming (and counting migrating
seaducks and gannets, for this project was founded on a guise that enabled
birding) at Acadia National Park.
I’m proud of
this, my first real film. I waded through hours of B-roll in search of the best
clips; transcribed interviews to lift the strongest narrative arc. The
coursework I tackled at Unity in my pursuit of a degree in Environmental
Writing & Media Production were centered on this common ground: no matter
the medium, no matter the topic, any story needs a beginning and an end.
I render it
and, waiting, check my phone—a message from Gunnar—asking the whereabouts of a
mutual friend. Tuesday, the three of us convened on Spankys’ vinyl bar stools,
nursing beers while we traded stories from Thanksgiving break and planned
future escapades. But I haven’t seen JP since. And I guess the last time anyone
saw him was Thursday morning. The computer screen tells me the render is
complete. For the first time since Labor Day, I’m on top of my schedule, am
largely proud of the semester’s work. I’ve been lusting after this feeling—yearning
for next weekend’s jaunt to Quebec, where my friends will join in celebrating
the defense of my thesis. But instead of reveling in the moment, it’s overtaken
by a sick feeling that bubbles up and seeps through my body with each pump of
my quickening heart. I may be on track to graduate, but that doesn’t matter. Something’s not right.
II (Later that night)
“Can you
drive?” asks the officer.
“Yes.” I
push around people towards the door.
“Are you
sure you don’t want to stay over tonight?” insists Gunnar (and Danielle, and
Sami, and Jon).
“I’m sure.” I
back my Tacoma around cop cars, deafen my engine with the stereo, manage
through quaking sobs to downshift and upshift through the hills, corners, and
potholes between here and home, my refuge. I make it.
Even now a
month after, it’s proving difficult to reconstruct the events of an evening
that seemed at once both slow motion and fast forward from that horrible moment
we all sprinted through soggy leaf litter and dripping woods. It was then the
world around us ground into a crushing halt that brought us to our knees,
brought us to tears, brought a weight to our shoulders that’s since remained as
a burden that makes it difficult to face anything, from the most menial task to
the greatest existential questions.
This evening
remains a patchwork of events that, currently, are squares thrown haphazardly
into a box: untouched, unprocessed, unvisited, never stitched together. The
task is too overwhelming, I don’t fucking have time, and I don’t think I’m fit
to tackle it anyway. But the parts, even if they’re neglected, cleave to each
other and bind themselves into a whole that haunts, maybe forever.
Scene III. (First day)
I come to on
the concrete floor in front of my wood stove; my eyes are crusted shut with
tears. I open them and gain a new perspective on the cat-hair dust bunnies in
the corner. Housekeeping has never been my strong suit. I shove some more birch
into the coals, relocate to the wooden chair. It’s grim outside; raindrops race
down the windows like the tears racing down my cheeks. I let them fall, wish my
words would fall as freely. The pen is poised, paper ready, but nothing comes.
I want to write all the memories we shared, preserve them so they never
decay—but they won’t come.
“Alison, I
want you to know you definitely made my Unity experience better,” he said, less
than a month ago.
“Then why are you gone?” I ask. He, one
of my favorite partners in crime, made my Unity experience better, too: there
was the time we tried (and failed) to bake sourdough amidst the keg and dozens
of people my house hosted during my roommate’s 21st birthday; the
time we ditched another party (and an imminent Public Safety interrogation) to
carry kayaks all the way from campus to the community bridge for a midnight
float under the stars; the weekend the school sponsored the Outing Club to take
a ski trip to Quebec. We took a ski trip, but it also had the dual purpose of a
drinking trip: we spent at least as much time bar-hopping in the city as we did
enjoying Jacques Cartier. When Unity caught wind of it, the Outing Club came
under fire. I culled the tasteful parts of our experiences into a redemptive
blog post that sort of salvaged our reputation, but preserved the full
debauchery in a file titled “explicit Quebec.” I’d planned to give it to him
when I graduated, along with a letter commemorating my favorite classless
moments with him. That’s the sort of
thing I should be writing—not a frantic memory reclamation.
I give up,
text Rose, my former roommate with a beautiful soul who is, providentially, in
town.
“I need you
to come over.”
Soon, she
arrives. I collapse into her arms before she even makes it in the door. This
moment will be repeated scores of times today. Sometimes I am the shoulder,
sometimes I am the tears; more often, I am both.
Campus holds
a vigil that evening, and basically the whole school turns out, testament to
his huge, unmatchable presence that has already left a gaping, joy-sucking hole
in so many hearts—a hole that, if you spend too much time on the edge, will
suck you in. He was an Adventure kid, and Adventure people do this thing where
they popcorn words to describe something.
“Smile.”
“Passion.” “Patagooch!” yells someone
in the back. “Handsome,” says Shelby; a smile flickers on my lips. We all are
thinking it, but she’s the only one who could possibly say it.
Scene IV:
For at least
three hours, I sit on Gunnar’s couch and work on my thesis defense. By that, I
mean that, for three hours, I move blank text boxes around the same slide of
nootka lupines. There’s this wretched realization that the next two weeks will
be a continual choice between grieving and graduating; our lives don’t allow
for a period of mourning. We must pick ourselves up and press forward, gaining
a foothold in the world while our souls pay the balance. Today seems a little
better for most of us, but that’s mostly because we were just so bad before.
Scene V:
Monday. I
don’t have to be on campus until 10, but I languish in bed till 9:30, finally calling
a friend and begging her to talk me out of bed.
“Are you
up?”
“Yes. I
mean, I’m sitting up in bed.”
“That’s not
up.”
She stays on
the phone until she’s convinced that I truly am taking steps towards facing the
day.
I slouch
into the entomology lab for the last time. Here, we’ve tested termites, eaten
mealworms, endured our professor’s manic tirades. Today we present our research
projects; our control freak excuse of a professor is the only one who knows the
order. Turns out I’m second-up, following another of JP’s close friends. I
remember standing up, sitting down, holding eye contact with the diabolical
prof as I bullshit about dragonfly nymphs—nothing else.
Later, I
hear his funeral is tomorrow morning. My thesis defense is early tomorrow
afternoon. Friends ask me if I’ll reschedule; I tell them no. Asking for help
is, like the overwhelming majority of things I’m faced with, too daunting. The
friends persist and I cave; my advisors give approval. I go about setting up a
new room.
“Sheila, I
am rescheduling my thesis defense to December 13th, so I can attend
JP’s funeral…”
NO.
“Sheila, I
am rescheduling my thesis defense to December 13th, so that I can
attend the service…”
I send it.
Scene VI:
I swing by
Gunnar’s cottage for a shower; there, the guys are talking about wearing Chacos
to the funeral; us girls reassure each other our clothes are funeral
appropriate. I’ve read about people in olden times having a specific funeral
dress, but I’m 24. I shouldn’t be needing one of those.
The service
is in Belfast, so Adri and I climb in John Marino’s Subaru and drive the
half-hour through rolling fields, freezing ponds, and tumbledown New England
farmhouses. Yesterday, it snowed. JP loved snow—lived to ski—his always-smiling
eyes got lit up even more when the first big snow came. He would’ve been happy
for the snow this year, and I think he’d probably want us to be happy for the
snow too, but “happy” is so far from my mind right now.
There’s
something oddly immortal about death in the social media age. Hundreds of posts
from his friends and family—people whose lives he touched and enriched—have honored
him with photos, memories, feelings. It all demonstrates an incredible gamut of
the way people deal with loss. Some are heartbreaking, some spiritual—some in
celebration of this wonderful person we all loved. I’m envious of the latter
sort. Yes, I understand how I should be grateful for the gifts brought from the
nexus of our lives, but right now, I’m devastated. People tell me I should feel
angry, that guilt is normal—but I don’t feel angry and I know there is nothing I could have done. Sorrow,
deeper than I’ve ever known, is all that’s there.
We park on
the street and walk towards the cathedral; from all directions down the slushy
side streets, people in dark coats, hundreds of them, stream into the cathedral.
This is a powerful gathering—a physical representation of just how big JP’s presence
was—is, I guess, because just because someone dies doesn’t mean they stop
living on in the people who are left. And maybe someday that will be a good
thing, but today it just hurts, for his pain has been transferred to all
gathered here and more beyond, like ripples spreading from a rock chucked into
a placid lake.
Adri points
out a Herring Gull perched on the steeple—JP would approve; they’re nuisances
with a tendency to take things that aren’t theirs, and this, in the most
loving, diplomatic, manner could be said about him too.
Adri, Katie,
and I hold hands through the service, ditch it soon after it ends. Too many sad
people offering hugs—it’s oppressive.
On the drive
back, we spit a few thoughts.
“I guess everyone’s
got their own way of grieving…as long as it’s not hurting anyone else, there’s
no wrong way.”
“I’m worried that when I finally start feeling
a little okay, I’m going to feel guilty that I feel okay again.”
“It’s been a
week since I saw him. I just wish I would’ve given him a hug when he walked out
the door.”
“I fucking
loved him. He was my friend.”
Mostly, I’m
just thinking of the point in the service when we’re told to be silent and
remember him. There are so many things to remember, but the only one I can
conjure is of Friday night, when the world as I knew it stopped. I fucking wish
that memory would stop too, but it’s always there, echoing in the background,
louder when I don’t have enough to keep me busy.
Later that
night, I—and most of his other friends—wind up at UHOP. The bar is packed,
people are spinning, dancing, jostling into me, pouring beer down my dress.
Jon—all 6’7
of him—is dancing with Dave and Tom; I steer clear and huddle in a corner with
Rose and Adri.
Marina
dances over to me with a bear-hug and a shot of tequila; I accept both gladly.
My former
roommate Kellen corners me and apologizes repeatedly—for this, for things that
happened in our house, for not being a better roommate.
“Not your
fault,” I tell him, equally repeatedly.
It’s like a
gallery of grief, everyone feeling it, displaying it, wearing it differently. I
am entirely too sober.
Scene VII:
Every day, it
surprises me that the sun keeps rising and the world keeps going. I’m not sure
this is a good thing. I try to make it out of my driveway without crying. Every
day, I fail. I’ve fallen so far behind that I skip a class to gain a little
catchup time. I could spend this it fixing the audio on one of my interviews or
going to crisis counseling. Graduate or grieve? I want to get out of this
place, so I trudge down to the lab and work on my audio.
Scene VIII:
One week.
The relationships forged that otherwise might never have been aggregate in a
cozy home on the Pond. We eat, we drink wine, we talk, reminisce—laugh—maybe my
first genuine laugh since it happened. It feels strange, but certainly not
unwelcome. A bowl of words gets passed around the table, each one pulled has an
uncanny significance to the person who pulled it—“play”, “adventure”, “resilience.” We all choke up. I pull “strength.”
It hasn’t been easy, but it hasn’t completely eluded. It’s a strength I didn’t
know I had, a strength that isn’t always an attribute.
Scene IX:
I survey the
room full of professors, friends, and my parents. There’s Laurel—we wrote a
grant together; Stef—she gave me a squash and goat cheese for my birthday;
Barry—he taught my first class at Unity, stats, and was solely responsible for
the increase of my usage of “goddamn.” I take a breath.
“Thank you
so much for coming today, it means a lot—I couldn’t have done it without you.”
I explain,
justify, and read from my thesis—two hard semesters where I wrote a book. It goes well, and I feel
surrounded by love, support, and pride. I hug my dad after. “I did it!” I say
in disbelief.
But I
definitely don’t feel the triumph and joy I’d been banking on for those two
semesters of toil. Instead, a deep exhaustion percolates through my being. That’s
over—now what?
Scene X:
Today is the
day I pack my house up. I light a fire, pack up the lower level while I’m
waiting for the heat to rise to the upper levels. I retrieve the Budweiser can
from the recycling bin—the last beer we drank together. I wish it had been a
better one, and he probably did too. I hand the can to my parents, who’ve been
sober my whole life. “I’m saving this.” They shrug and place it in a box with
other things from my kitchen. While the water tank upstairs drains, I sit on my
bed and watch the sun sink behind the white pines. Usually, I get all
sentimental about leaving. Tonight, I just want to go.
Scene XI:
Graduation,
it feels inconsequential. I feel like walking across the waxed gym floor in
heels without tripping is a bigger accomplishment than anything else that night
represents for me. People cheer for me, Alison Világ, B.A., and I appreciate
the love there is for me in this place, and the love I have for those here. I
could not have graduated without any of them, especially after this week.
They’ve given me couches to sleep on, shoulders to cry on, ears to spout into. Later
that night, I’ll spend quality time with many of them—but I cherish the moment
for them being there, not for anything that I’ve accomplished.
Classically,
the school forgets to give me my honors cord when I’m walking across the stage
and pull me aside afterwards, apologizing. I tell them it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t
feel like anything matters, really. I always thought that graduation would be a
joyous celebration, triumph and festive, not a hollow formality. People tell me
I shouldn’t let the last weeks take center stage, and though I guess they mean
well, I feel like telling them to fuck off. They weren’t there.
Scene XII:
Today, we
leave Freedom, my home for the last year. It’s ironic—living here has been the
least free season of my life: there’s been continual stress about finishing my
thesis, increasing existential angst about life beyond graduation.
The last thing
to do is load my canoe on my truck. Dad and I drive to the farm, carry her up
from the barn where she’s lived since summer. I love this boat; she’s gotten me
through heartbreak before, and has done more for my soul than any other
material possession possibly could. We’re tying on the last strap, and I notice
a dreadful cold crack, undoubtedly a result of the below-zero night last week. I
guess Freedom got the best of her, too. Driving off, I feel way sadder than I
should be. I’d been entertaining a trip down a wild river, alone, where maybe I
can find healing and solace like I have before. But instead of kneeling in the
canoe--
Scene XIII:
I’m kneeling
on the tile floor in front of Gunnar’s toilet, hair wrapped in a towel. The shower
took care of the stale booze emerging from my pores—but that’s about all. I
think of the imminent drive between Connecticut and Michigan and gag. I think
of whisky and gag again, and again. Finished, I take a look at the filmy slick
of spinach, clams, and booze rippling in the porcelain bowl and feel
accomplished. It’s been months since I’ve thrown up from drinking, but it’s not
just that—for the first time since he passed, I finally feel anger. Last night,
the bartender had poured us shots on the house. “You’ll hate me tomorrow,” he
promised as we clinked glasses for the last time. But it’s not him I’m angry
at—it’s JP. “This is because of you,” rings in my pounding head. It’s not his
fault—I chose to drink this much. But
I wouldn’t have had a reason to if he was still here. It’s all strangely
cathartic.
Though this
morning is a bad morning, it’s just the debt from a good night, one strewn with
honest conversations that left each of us with the reassurance I’m not the only one who’s not okay.
Scene XIV:
I’m home;
Bob comes over to make cookies.
“In your
life, when’s the time you’ve been the most sad?” I ask, for this is mine.
“I guess
after your accident,” she says, which is surprising for to me, this event wasn’t
a big deal. “It just flipped a switch or something; I was sad for the next two
years. It sucked.” The turning point in her sadness was when we hiked the Kalalau
Trail in Hawaii, when she got heat exhaustion and threw up on the trail and
found strength she didn’t know was there to carry her back to the trailhead. I’m
glad I’m not the only one who uses vomiting as a life milepost. Wilderness
healed her, and I know it can heal me, too. I look up how to repair cold cracks
and pull out maps of Quebec and Ontario. Give me a river—one with rapids and
spruce and Winter Wrens.
Scene XV:
The next
day, Bob blindsides us all—including herself.
“Can you ask
Mom and Dad if I can move back in?” she texts me. Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad.
Your present this year is your two emotional wrecks of daughters and all of the
shit they’ve accumulated. At least we can cook? I go with Bob to the house she’s
shared with her boyfriend of two years and help her move out—it’s something I’ve
gotten pretty good at.
On the way
in, we cross paths with her ex. He’s oozing pain, slams the door, squeals his
Silverado and fishtails out of the driveway. In between the bouts of her lying
on the floor sobbing, we put all her belongings—four vehicle loads worth of
them—into boxes and carry them out. I’m so fucking tired of being around
hurting people. Back at home, there’s a pile of stuff in the living room, in
our bedrooms, in the garage, in the basement.
“It’s good
that you’re back home,” my dad says. “She’ll be glad to have you around for
this.”
I love my
sister more than I ever have or ever will love anyone else and I want to be
there for her too—but I’ve got nothing left to give. I want to curl up on the
floor and cry too, or go daydrink by myself. Fortunately, there aren’t any bars
within walking distance that are open at 10 AM.
Scene XVI:
I cry all
day; I’ve been trying to write about it—to write about anything—but the words
still aren’t coming, and their absence is suffocating. Do you have any idea how
scary it is to be unable to do the task you just got a degree in? I have no purpose,
no drive, no excitement for any of the things I've always loved. I assume it won’t feel like this forever,
but they’re still terrifying feelings. How much are they going to take from me
before I’m better? Is this what he was feeling? No purpose, no place in the
world, an existence hard to justify?
I’ve been
trying to get out of bed in time to see Bullet, our Brittany, eat breakfast. He
gets so excited about his meal that his spastic tail, almost-suppressed woofs,
and happy tap-dance are almost contagious. It’s comforting that something is
still enjoying life without inhibition.
When people
ask me how I am, I don’t tell them “I’m fine,” because I’m not. I shrug
instead. “I’m here,” is more honest, will suffice. But it’s really hard to talk
to people who aren’t privy to the situation; I’m quieted by some strange mix of
wanting to spare people my burden of pain and feeling unsure how to talk with
someone who hasn’t been there before. I’m here, but the insomnia and the PTSD
are wearing me down. I can’t walk a sweep to find a Long-eared Owl; I shut down
and shake when my sister stops texting me after she goes to the ex’s house to
grab some things; sirens set me off. I withdraw from it all, don’t want my pain
to transfer to everyone else.
Scene XVII:
Driving to
O’Hare to get Scott, the anchor I've needed, I get on the toll road by accident, delaying our overdue reunion. It’s just another episode in the
sequence of stupid shit I’ve done in the last few weeks—stuff I’d never do
ordinarily. I don’t even have the cash to pay the toll. On the radio, they’re
talking about the New Year, 2017. I think of the last three years. They’ve had
their high points, but there’s also been a broken engagement, a serious family
illness, a violation of my body, a roommate that had once been my rock losing
his sanity, the election, this. I realize that if right now, I knew the next
three years would have this sort of pain, I’d probably decide it wasn’t worth
it. I guess it’s a good thing I don’t yet know what they hold.
The past few
weeks have been the sort that make you less innocent, that force you to face
truths about the world you didn’t have to believe in before. They awaken feelings
inside you never knew that you had—feelings that scare, that sober. Although I’m
still aching from his loss, I’ve moved past mourning him to mourn the person I
used to be.
Any story,
regardless of medium, regardless of content, needs a beginning and an end. This
time though, I’m finding the resolution elusive; I need someone more
experienced than me to show the way. The counseling office finally calls me
back; their next opening is January 17. Immediately, I start to write—people have
different ways of grieving, and this is mine. I force the reluctant words out, capture
them so I can remember to tell the therapist what’s wrong. This time, I know
not to bury the pain alive.
