Now, all of a sudden, I don’t want to keep living either. But I’m not going to do anything about it. Actually, I’m not going to do anything at all. I’m just going to lie back in my bed and stare at the ceiling. A blank. Just like me without Papa. Just like what Papa chose instead of me.

  Twenty-Five

  February, I think

  At first I thought I’d just lie there for the rest of the day. But soon more days passed, and I didn’t bother to keep track. I was missing school, but I didn’t care. Nothing really mattered anymore. I didn’t do anything at all. Well, I slept and went to the bathroom and ate a little. But basically I just stayed in my room all day and all night, lying in bed and not talking to anyone. Mama and Grandpa tried to talk to me, but I didn’t say a word back to them. I could see the worry on their faces. Actually, they looked sick. Still I said nothing. Why should I? They were the ones who had hidden this from me.

  “I know I took my time to grieve,” Mama said one day, patting my shoulder. “So I will try to give you yours.”

  I kept a pile of Hardy Boys books on the bedside table and would grab the one on top to pretend I was reading whenever either of them came into the room. Plus I could hide my face behind it. I wasn’t reading, though. Not a word. And I still don’t know a thing that happened in any of the books. I don’t care either. All I care about is being left alone. Actually, I care about Papa, too, and what happened to him. I have to admit that. No, that’s not quite right. I care about what he did to himself. So much that I feel like it’s the only thing in my head, circling and circling. How could he?

  I’ve spent almost a month in here, staring at the ceiling and asking myself over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again why he did it. I still don’t have an answer. You’d think I would get bored. And if it were any other topic, I would. But I don’t think I can get bored anymore, because to be bored you also have to be able to feel the opposite—excited. And since the moment I heard the word suicide, I haven’t been able to feel excitement or happiness or satisfaction or any other positive emotion, and I’m not sure I ever will again. All I’ve been able to feel over the last month is sadness and anger. I’m so angry at Papa. How could he?

  I wouldn’t have written any of this down today if it wasn’t for Jimmy. I haven’t seen him or any of my friends since I found out. But this morning he snuck into my room to see me.

  I grabbed the Hardy Boys as soon as I heard the door handle turn, and hid behind the blue hardcover before I saw who had come in. I presumed it was either Grandpa or Mama and was shocked when I heard Jimmy’s voice. Partly because he was my first visitor in a month, and partly because he wasn’t shouting.

  “Hi,” he said awkwardly as he stood beside the bed.

  I put the book down and sat up, staring at him. I’d almost forgotten what he looked like.

  “Did you…” He still sounded awkward. “Did you fart?”

  “No!” My ears went hot.

  “Oh, okay,” he said, walking to the window. “Do you mind if I open this? It’s just a little, well, stinky in here.”

  I was so embarrassed!

  “I didn’t fart,” I said again, without looking up at him.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I fart all the time. Especially on Wednesday nights.”

  I didn’t say anything but tried to think of why Wednesday nights might make Jimmy especially smelly.

  “Chili night,” he said, as if reading my mind.

  I didn’t know what to say to that, but Jimmy still had more to add, and he filled the silence soon enough.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. Actually, I tried a few weeks ago, and your grandpa told me…well, he told me why you’re so upset. After that, well, I just didn’t know what to say.”

  “That’s okay,” I replied. “It’s not your fault. Anyway, there’s nothing you can do.”

  Then Jimmy stared at me so hard I thought he might start yelling. But he said nothing, just looked down at his hands. Finally he looked up again and spoke in a whisper. “I know what they say, but it’s not true. It’s just not. You don’t go to hell. You just don’t!”

  I didn’t know what he was talking about at first, but as I thought about it, I started to get an idea.

  “I would believe it if he killed someone else,” Jimmy said, a little louder now. “That would make sense. But not for…well, not for doing it to yourself. That just doesn’t seem right. I mean, if it’s your own life, then you’re not hurting anyone else.” His eyes widened as he looked at me, and then he looked back down at his hands. Could he see I was digging my nails into my arm to try not to start sobbing? Could he tell that I was barely keeping it together? “Sorry. I didn’t mean…”

  I lay back down in bed and turned away from him.

  He stood there beside the bed for a long time before he spoke again. “I asked my Sunday school teacher about it this morning. And she’s nice, but she doesn’t know everything. Then I asked Dad what he thought, on the drive home. He said he thought I should come over here and see how you’re doing.” He turned to leave, then paused without looking back. “Sorry if I made it worse.”

  I wouldn’t have thought that was possible. But that’s exactly what Jimmy had done. He didn’t mean to, but he had just made things even worse.

  Twenty-Six

  March 8, 1986

  I stayed in bed for another two weeks after Jimmy’s visit, feeling more and more lost. My friend was only trying to help, but he left me with a whole new question—did Papa go to hell because he killed himself? I didn’t even pretend to read the Hardy Boys anymore. I just lay there, looking out the window or closing my eyes and trying not to think about what Jimmy’s Sunday school teacher said. Mama and Grandpa would bring me soup and ice cream and try to get me to talk. I just didn’t have much to say.

  I found myself thinking of Papa all the time—how he would tuck me into bed at night and answer all my questions. How he’d spend hours with me at Botanical Beach, staring at all the little creatures in the tidal pools. How he’d help the hummingbirds survive cold snaps in the winter by hanging a mixture of warm water and sugar outside our kitchen window every morning. One memory followed the other, and it finally dawned on me that all my memories of him were good. But there was nothing good about the questions I kept asking myself. Why had he done it? And would he go to hell because of it? I didn’t even know if hell existed. But if it did, would you really go there because you decided you didn’t want to live anymore?

  My mind went around and around, spinning with all these questions. I never cried, though. In all that time I didn’t shed a single tear. I’m not bragging. I wanted to cry. I just couldn’t.

  It wasn’t until today that things changed. And once again the change was because of Jimmy.

  “Sorry I Didn’t Knock!” he yelled as he burst into the room, gasping for air as if he’d just sprinted all the way from school. “But Rolly Has Chicken Pox and We Only Have Six Skaters Because So Many Kids Are Away for Spring Break and You Have to Come Play in Net! You Hafta! You Just Hafta!”

  It took a few seconds to take in what Jimmy had said, but when I did, I felt a sense of something unfamiliar and tingly. Excitement. For the first time in six weeks. The idea of getting back on the ice again was actually incredible. It took a minute to hit me, but I wanted to do this. More than anything. It wouldn’t change what had happened to Papa—what Papa had done—but it would get me out of the house and help me forget everything for a little while. It would snap me out of this place I’d been stuck in. I imagined the feeling of snagging the puck with my trapper and robbing the other team of what should have been an easy goal.

  “Okay,” I said as I stood, trying to sound less enthusiastic than I felt. I don’t know why I didn’t just scream Yes! But I’d been lying in bed for more than a month, and I think I was a little slow, like I’d been asleep for weeks. I remembered how Mama had said that she felt like a bear coming out of hibernation after her months shut away. That was about right. I was embarrassed, too, about hiding in my room all this time. But, like she said, I guess I just needed time to grieve. Now, suddenly, I felt life pulling me back and forcing me to move. I couldn’t stay in bed a minute longer. “I guess I could play.”

  “Really?” Jimmy looked like he’d just won a million dollars. “You Mean It?”

  I smiled. It wasn’t a big one, but it was still a smile. “Well, it doesn’t sound like I have much choice.”

  “Yeah, Baby!” Jimmy screamed so loud it actually hurt my ears. Then he ran out of the room and started sprinting down the stairs before I’d even reached the door. “Come On, Slowpoke! Face-Off Is in Less Than an Hour!”

  Despite my excitement, I was slower than Jimmy. I was stiff after all that lying in bed. My back hurt a little as I went down the stairs. But I soon forgot about it as I headed to the basement to change into my hockey pads.

  “We’re Leaving in Ten Minutes!” Jimmy yelled for the whole neighborhood to hear as he galloped out the front door. “Don’t Be Late!”

  I put my pads on quickly and realized how much I’d missed hockey. Then I heard the basement stairs creaking. I looked up and saw Grandpa standing on the steps, staring at me with an expression that reminded me of Scrooge when he woke up on Christmas morning and realized he was still alive.

  “Thank God,” he said in a trembling voice. “I wasn’t sure you’d ever play again.”

  I felt a wave of guilt wash over me for making Grandpa and Mama worry about me so much. I didn’t know what to say.

  “Well, don’t just stand there,” Grandpa said in a happy voice, still smiling a big, toothy grin. “You’ve gotta get ready. Your team needs you!”

  I pulled the green-and-yellow jersey over my head and struggled to get my arms through without pulling off my elbow pads. Grandpa came over to help, and his joy made me feel warm all over.

  “Your mum is working a night shift at the hospital,” he said. “And I was just heading out to my AA meeting. But I can take you to your—”

  “That’s okay, Grandpa,” I said. “I can get a ride with Dr. Sweeney. I don’t want you to miss your meeting.”

  “Well…” He looked uncertain for a second. “I don’t want to miss my grandson in action.”

  “Maybe you and Mama could come to my next game,” I suggested.

  “Okay,” he said. “It’s a promise. I’ll be there, come hell or high water!”

  * * *

  We were playing Cedarbrae—a team we hadn’t beaten all season. I only know that because Jimmy told me and Dr. Sweeney in his pre-game pep talk on the drive to the arena.

  “THIS IS OUR LAST CHANCE TO BEAT THEM IN THE REGULAR SEASON!” Jimmy Said. “AND IT’S OUR LAST CHANCE TO MAKE THE PLAYOFFS!”

  “Now don’t put the pressure on Winston,” Dr. Sweeney said. “It’s hard enough being a goalie without the added stress of getting your team to the playoffs. Let’s just go out there and have fun.”

  “Let’s Just Go Out There and Make the Playoffs!”

  As usual, Jimmy looked like he would try to win the game for the whole team. He was on fire, right from the first face-off, skating faster than anyone else on the ice and looking like an eleven-year-old possessed. He got a breakaway on his first shift, and one of Cedarbrae’s defensemen threw his stick in desperation and knocked the puck off Jimmy’s stick. So the referee gave Jimmy a penalty shot. We all watched as he stood at center ice and waited for the referee to blow his whistle. When he did, Jimmy wasted no time.

  He took the puck and steamed down the ice toward Cedarbrae’s goalie. I actually felt sorry for the guy! Jimmy was already at top speed as he crossed the blue line. I wondered if he might slow down a little for a fake shot or fancy move, but he sped straight to the goal and fired off a blistering wrist shot so fast I didn’t know he’d done it until the puck was in the back of the net. He’d fired it straight through the goalie’s legs. Less than one minute into the game, and we had a 1–0 lead.

  And that was all the lead we would need, because Cedarbrae didn’t score a single goal all game. I had my first shutout! I made twenty-one saves in total, and it felt good. That’s not really a lot of shots, and to be honest, none of them were that hard. Cedarbrae was missing its best players because of spring break, according to Jimmy’s postgame report on the drive home, and I was never really tested with any difficult shots. But it was a shutout, and it felt amazing to be playing hockey again and not thinking about everything that’s wrong.

  I just realized it now—I didn’t think about Papa or how he died once this evening. From the time I went down to the basement to put on my hockey gear and all the way through the game and to the time I got home, I never once thought about everything that’s wrong. It’s only now that I’m back in bed, writing in this journal, that it’s on my mind again. Nothing’s changed, of course. I still don’t know why he did it. But what I do know is that I can keep going. I’m not going to stop living.

  Twenty-Seven

  March 10, 1986

  Going back to hockey was easier than going back to school, because with hockey it all happened so fast that I didn’t really have any time to think about it and get nervous ahead of time. Jimmy showed up in my room, and the next thing I knew I was dashing downstairs to drive to the rink. School was different, though. I had all day Sunday to think about it and get nervous. Would the other kids stare at me? Would Mrs. Starling ask me why I’d been away so long? Would somebody say the word suicide? But when I got there, none of those things happened.

  Mrs. Starling smiled at me as soon as I got to school—a real smile that reached her eyes—and was nice to me the rest of the day. So were all the other kids. Even Clara was okay at first. I briefly wondered if they all knew about Papa and what he’d done. Did they know why I’d been gone so long? Did they know I’d been in bed for six weeks? I decided they probably knew something—that Mrs. Starling or the principal or maybe even Jimmy had said something to everyone about how they should treat me when I came back. Everyone was being so polite and quiet—it was just awful!

  I was happy when lunchtime finally arrived because that meant it was time for floor hockey, and I couldn’t wait for the orange puck to drop. The game helped. People couldn’t be polite or quiet when they were running as fast as they could, trying to steal the puck from you. But they were more subdued as we walked back to the classroom.

  Afterward I was so sweaty—it had been a tough game! And I wasn’t the only one either. Jimmy, Rolly and almost everyone else was too. But for some reason, I was the only target of a made-up nursery rhyme that Clara concocted as we headed down the hallway.

  “Sweaty Winston Wagner,” she sang in a nasally voice to the gaggle of girls surrounding her outside the classroom door. “Drip, drip, drip! Don’t get in his way or he’ll trip, trip, trip!”

  It didn’t make any sense to me, but the girls all giggled, and Clara continued as I stood there staring at them.

  “Sweaty Winston Wagner,” she chanted. “Drip, drip, drip! Don’t touch him or your hand might slip, slip, slip!”

  Now I was really embarrassed and instantly aware of just how sweaty I was. It wasn’t my fault. I don’t play goalie in floor hockey, so I’d just been rushing back and forth after the puck for the last hour. Still, it was pretty embarrassing to have the girls stare and laugh and sneer.

  I was wishing I could disappear—and also wondering what new rhyme Clara would invent about me next—when Mrs. Starling came out and rescued me.

  “Clara Yakachuk,” she scolded. “If you spent half as much time practicing your spelling as you do on silly rhymes, your poor father wouldn’t be so worried about your future!”

  Clara just shrugged and led the group of girls past the teacher into the classroom.

  As soon as they were out of sight, I sprinted down the hallway to the boys’ bathroom, turned on the cold-water tap and held my head under the stream of water just long enough to feel a shiver. Then I pulled out an arm’s length of paper towel to dry off my hair and wipe down my forehead as I ran back to class.

  “No running in the hallways.” The voice came from a long way behind me, near the principal’s office.

  I stopped and turned around. Sure enough, it was the principal, Mr. Rathtrevor.

  “Oh!” His voice changed from commanding to apologetic as soon as he realized it was me. “Winston! It’s you. Well, never mind, off to class you go.”

  I did as I was told and slipped into my classroom, trying not to attract attention, but when I pulled back my chair, it made a loud scraping sound. Mrs. Starling craned around from the front of the room and gave me a raised eyebrow. I opened my math book and started copying what she was writing on the blackboard. Then I realized it—the teacher was acting normal again. And no one else had stared at me or given me a pity smile or anything. It was so much better than the morning had been. I looked in front of me at Clara and her tight red curls and remembered how she had just made fun of me.

  It sounds weird, but her teasing might have made things normal again. It was like she pushed a giant reset button on our classroom. After that everyone started acting like usual again. And I suddenly wondered—did she know that would happen?

  I was still thinking about Clara making fun of me as I left school with Jimmy. We were walking across the soccer field when she called out, “Hey, Winston.”

  Jimmy and I both turned around to see her walking right up to us.

  “What Do You Want?” Jimmy asked, folding his arms.

  “I said Winston,” she said calmly, staring at me.

  “Yeah,” I sighed, expecting her to taunt me with yet another rhyme.

  She looked down at the grass for a second before looking back up.

 

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