Planet grief, p.1
Planet Grief, page 1
Text copyright © 2018 Monique Polak
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Polak, Monique, author
Planet grief / Monique Polak.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4598-1568-1 (softcover).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1569-8 (PDF).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1570-4 (EPUB)
I. Title.
PS8631.O43P53 2018 jC813'.6 C2017-907928-X
C2017-907929-8
First published in the United States, 2018
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018933704
Summary: In this novel for middle readers, a group of young teens gather for a grief retreat, where they confront their feelings and try to understand how grief affects everyone differently.
Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Edited by Sarah N. Harvey
Cover design by Teresa Bubela
Cover illustration by Byron Eggenschwiler
Author photo by John Fredericks
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.
21 20 19 18 • 4 3 2 1
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For Dawn Cruchet, gifted grief educator and counselor, amazing friend. With love and gratitude for who you are and all you do.
CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AN EXCERPT FROM “FORENSICS SQUAD UNLEASHED”
ONE
ONE
Abby
The whole point of not speaking to someone is so they know you’re upset.
Only Dad doesn’t even notice I’m giving him the silent treatment.
I haven’t said a word to him since yesterday morning. That was when he told me I’d be spending the weekend at some grief retreat for sad-sack kids.
“What about soccer?” I’d asked Dad. “I can’t miss practice. Not if I want to make the team.”
“This is more important than soccer, Abby,” Dad said. “Isn’t that right, Jupiter?”
Jupiter is our cat. He isn’t talking to Dad either.
I tried reminding Dad he’d already forced me to see the school guidance counselor and that two visits to Mrs. Goldfarb’s office were torture enough. But Dad made it clear I didn’t have a choice.
We are sitting diagonally across from each other at the kitchen table. If Mom were alive, she’d be across from me, next to Dad. I try not to look at her empty chair or at the spot on the table where her plate would be.
Dad pushes the cereal box toward me. I pour some cereal into my bowl and grab a spotty brown banana from a platter on the table. I peel the banana and slice it in, leaving the peel on the table. Mom would never have been able to leave it there. She’d have gotten up and put it right into the compost bucket.
With just me, Dad and Jupiter in the house, that peel will probably stay on the table till it petrifies. We don’t bother composting anymore.
“Is that a good idea?” Dad says when we’re about to leave the house. “Wearing your soccer cleats?”
When I don’t answer, Dad shrugs.
So what if I wreck my cleats?
In social studies, we learned about conscientious objectors, people who refuse to serve in the military for moral or religious reasons. Wearing my cleats is my conscientious objection to being forced to go to some loser grief retreat.
When Dad and I are walking along Sherbrooke Street, I think about how if Mom were here, she’d be stopping to scratch dogs behind their ears or check out the window displays at the fancy shops.
Dad is oblivious to dogs and dresses. Come to think of it, Dad is oblivious to most things.
He never held Mom’s hand when they were out in public, and he didn’t like to cuddle when they watched TV. Dad was never much of a hugger either. When I was little, I always knew to sit on Mom’s lap because Dad didn’t like it. So now, when out of nowhere he grabs my elbow, I totally forget that I’m not talking to him.
“Why’d you do that?” I say, shaking my elbow loose.
“Uh, no reason.” Dad throws his shoulders back the way other dads do when they’re trying to act dad-like. It’s not one of my dad’s usual moves.
That’s when I figure out what he’s up to—there’s something in the window of the Westmount Stationery Shop that he doesn’t want me to see.
I tilt my head so I can look over his shoulder. Hanging across the window is a pale pink banner that says Happy Mother’s Day! Tell your mom how much you love her! Best selection of Mother’s Day cards in Montreal!
I can feel my lower lip start to quiver.
“Abby…” Dad doesn’t finish his sentence. I know it’s because he doesn’t know what to say to me. Dad hasn’t known what to say to me since March, when Mom died.
A woman is walking toward us. She doesn’t look anything like my mom. She’s wrinklier than a fruit roll-up. My mom lived to be forty-one, and everyone always said she looked way younger, even when she was sick. It’s the woman’s suitcase that gets me. A small rectangular suitcase on two wheels that she’s pulling behind her. It’s the same size, color and shape as the suitcase my mom lugged around day and night—the suitcase that contained the ventricular assist device, or VAD, a machine that circulated Mom’s blood when her heart couldn’t.
I stop and scrunch my eyes tight.
“Abby,” Dad says. This time he finishes his sentence. “You okay?”
I don’t answer. Not only because I’m not speaking to him, but also because I’m not okay and Dad knows it.
I wait to open my eyes until I can no longer hear the sound of plastic wheels clattering on the sidewalk.
Dad doesn’t press for an answer. I slow my pace so I don’t have to walk next to him, only when I do that, Dad slows down too. When I try speeding up, Dad picks up his pace.
“Grief retreat!” I mutter.
Dad takes that as an opening. “I’m hoping it’ll do us some good. Dr. Burton recommended it for us.”
Dr. Burton is the first doctor Mom saw when she had a flu that wouldn’t go away. It turned out Mom had a viral heart infection called myocarditis. Dr. Burton referred her to a cardiologist, who recommended a low-salt diet and plenty of rest, but Mom’s heart kept getting weaker. The VAD was supposed to tide her over till her name came up on the transplant list. Except Mom was dead before that happened.
“Us? Did I just hear you say us?”
“Correct. Us. As in you and me. I’m attending the grief workshop too. It’s possible I forgot to mention that part.”
I groan. Bad enough that I have to miss soccer practice and spend a perfectly good weekend at some grief retreat. But now I’m stuck with my doofus dad.
“There’s a special workshop for parents, but don’t worry—we’ll be in another room.”
“Phew.”
Dad frowns when I say that. I think he’s insulted. “It’s you and me, Abby,” he says, shaking his head. “We’re all we’ve got left.”
“Is that supposed to cheer me up?”
Dad sighs. “I wasn’t trying to cheer you up, Abby. I just want to be realistic.”
I told you he was a doofus.
TWO
Christopher
“You look sharp,” my mom says as she removes the key from the ignition.
I straighten my shoulders. You look sharp is code for You look like him.
Everyone says I take after my father. He’s—I should say he was—tall and thin. Hearing the word was—even in my head—makes the muscles in my chest tighten. Like mine, Dad’s eyes were two different colors. One brown, the o
I didn’t argue when Mom asked me to wear a white shirt and my gray school pants to the grief retreat. I don’t argue much anymore. Mom has enough troubles of her own. Why give her grief?
Grief.
It’s been nearly two years since Dad passed away, and words like that keep following me around like a pack of stray dogs. I nearly died laughing. Sudden-death round. The bass player’s killing it.
I check to make sure no one else is around to overhear what I’m about to say. “Do they all know what happened to him?” I’ve wanted to ask Mom that since she told me we were going to a grief retreat. I’m relieved I finally got the question out.
Mom’s hand trembles when she takes my arm. The trembling is a side effect of the tranquilizer she started taking after Dad died and she couldn’t sleep. Even though she’s on a slightly lower dose now, she still shakes. “Only Eugene knows how Daddy died,” she says. “He’s the grief counselor who runs the retreat. He wanted to meet with me in advance because of our…circumstances. You’ll like him.”
Up ahead, a kid who looks about my age pops out of a green van. The driver is parallel parking, and the boy gestures that there is lots of room.
The van backs up onto the sidewalk. “Careful, Mami!” the boy shouts, waving his arms over his head.
My mom lets go of my arm so we can walk single file. I know what she’s thinking: she’s already lost her husband and she doesn’t want her only child getting run over.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her, even though I’m pretty sure that won’t make her stop worrying.
The boy is still guiding the driver into the spot. “Sorry,” he says, shrugging when he spots us.
When the woman doesn’t get into the spot on her next try, I offer to help. “I’ll watch the back of the van. You direct your mom.”
When the woman finally manages to park, I decide not to mention that the van is a foot and a half from the curb.
The boy shakes my hand. “Hey, thanks for your help. I’m Gustavo. Are you going to the grief retreat?”
“Uh-huh,” I say. “I’m Christopher. Christopher Wolf. This is my mom.”
My mom’s hand trembles when she shakes Gustavo’s.
“It’s your first time at the grief retreat, right?” Gustavo says to us.
“Right,” I answer for both of us.
“It’s year three for me. This year, I get to be Eugene’s assistant.” It’s obvious Gustavo is stoked about his promotion.
Gustavo’s mom slides open the side door of the van, and a small girl jumps out. She is wearing a brown dress with yellow pineapples on it, and she has the same sleek, dark hair as Gustavo.
“Do you think we’ll get teddy bears?” I hear the girl ask her mother. “We got teddy bears last year.”
“That’s my sister, Camila,” Gustavo tells us. “She’s six.”
“I don’t know about teddy bears, mi amor. But I’m sure you’ll get something nice,” her mother answers. She has an accent—Spanish, I think. Then she notices us standing with Gustavo. Our moms introduce themselves. Gustavo’s mom, whose name is Raquel, is wearing a necklace with a giant silver cross hanging from it. Usually, the only people who wear crosses that big are nuns, but I doubt she’s one. Not if she has two kids.
Camila tugs on her mother’s sweater. “What about an art activity? Last year we made a memory box.”
The #24 bus pulls up on the other side of Sherbrooke Street. A boy and a woman I assume is his mother step off. I notice that when she reaches for his hand he says something, and she lets go. They pause at the corner, and the woman points at Lawrence Academy, the private all-boys school where the grief retreat is held. They must be going to the grief retreat too.
This won’t be my first time inside Lawrence Academy. I was here in January for a chess tournament.
We need to cross Sherbrooke Street. Using his hand for a visor, Gustavo checks, then double-checks for oncoming traffic. He gestures for us to follow him when it’s safe to cross.
“There’s always an art activity,” I hear Gustavo tell his sister. “Art activities help with the grieving process.”
When we get to the other side of Sherbrooke, Camila skips ahead to join the boy and his mother. When we catch up, Camila introduces us. “These are my new friends Antoine and his maman,” she says. Antoine has longish hair that gets in the way of his eyes. He nods hello at Gustavo and me without saying anything. The moms shake hands.
“Antoine has a maman and a mom,” Camila says. “I know because I asked if his papa died, and Antoine said he doesn’t have a papa.” Camila looks up at Antoine. “You’re the first kid I ever met with a maman and a mom.”
“Camila!” her mother says. “What did I tell you about asking personal questions?”
“Oops.” Camila covers her mouth with her hand. “I forgot.”
Antoine shrugs. “That’s okay, Camila.” Then he looks back at Gustavo and Camila’s mom. “She’s a good networker.”
Camila nudges her mother. “Can I ask him how old he is? Or is that a personal question?”
Camila’s mom tries not to smile. “You can ask him that because he is a young man. It’s usually wiser not to ask an older person his or her age.”
Camila pulls on Antoine’s arm. “How old are you, young man?”
“Thirteen, almost fourteen,” he tells her.
“How old are you?” she asks me.
“Fourteen.”
Camila beams. “Gustavo’s fourteen too. I’m only six. That’s eight less than fourteen.”
A girl and a man I assume is her father are walking up the flagstone path to the school. The girl has bushy brown hair, and she’s wearing a white T-shirt and baggy maroon soccer shorts. There’s a hacky sack sticking out of her back pocket. I am guessing from her scowl that she doesn’t want to be here.
Camila walks up to the girl. “Did your mami die?” she asks her.
“Camila!” This time Raquel sounds like she might lose it. I try not to laugh. Raquel shakes her head and whispers to my mom and Antoine’s maman, “Last year she asked one of the fathers if he was looking for a girlfriend.”
Instead of being offended, the girl in the soccer shorts throws her head back and laughs. She has a loud laugh. Her dad turns to look at her in a way that makes me think he hasn’t heard her laugh like that for a while.
“What’s your name?” the girl asks Camila.
Camila covers her mouth again, suddenly shy. “Camila,” she says from behind her hand.
Gustavo rushes over. He must want to intervene before Camila says something else embarrassing. “I’m Gustavo, Camila’s big brother. This is Christopher and Antoine.”
“Abby,” the girl says, extending her hand.
Camila pushes on the heavy wooden door to the school. “Last year we each got a teddy bear,” she says. “To make us feel better.”
When Abby catches my eye, I know it’s because we’re thinking the same thing. No teddy bear in the world is going to make us feel better.
Abby’s father, a lanky man who walks with a slight stoop, helps Camila with the door. There is a round table in the middle of the lobby. On it are dozens of clay flowerpots filled with red and yellow tulips. Looks to me like we’re getting tulips, not teddy bears.
The main office is at the end of the lobby. I spot a defibrillator on the wall by the office door. When your dream is to be a paramedic, you pay attention to stuff like that.
Before Camila can complain about the tulips, she spots a guy with a bad comb-over, wearing a tracksuit. He has on one of those bracelets that count the number of steps you take. “Eugene!” Camila shouts, barreling into him. “It’s me, Camila!”
That’s Eugene? I’d have pegged him for a gym teacher, not a grief counselor. All that’s missing is a whistle around his neck. As I come closer, I get a whiff of way-too-much spicy aftershave.
Eugene squats down so he is at eye level with Camila. “I could never forget you,” he tells her.
“I turned six in February. Mami says I got much bigger. This is Abby and her dad. They’re both very grumpy. That’s Antoine and his maman. He has a mom, too, but she’s at home. That other boy is Christopher—that lady is his mami. Christopher helped Mami park. Mami is bad at parking.” Camila turns back to Abby, Antoine and me. “This is Eugene. He’s our grief counselor. Doesn’t he smell nice?”
