“Is that the daughter?”
“Dear god, did you know she was so young?”
“Poor girl...”
They didn’t think I could hear their whispering. As was probably typical of girls my age, I was offended that they saw me as such a little kid. Sure, I was a little on the scrawny side with limp, blond hair, but I thought my glasses and nailpolish added at least a grade to my looks. Although, the neon scrunchy maybe pulled my maturity back down a little. So I guess it balanced out to my actual age, a 12 year old girl in 7th grade. They may have been commenting on my youthful look, but I know now that it was because they all knew then that my childhood would be essentially over once I walked through that door. That’s what was so disheartening about my age.
I must have been standing on the sidewalk a little too long. Or they bombarded me; I don’t know. Before I had time to decide which door I should approach, a woman I had never seen before put her arm around me and called me “honey” while another attempted to take my hand. This may have been the moment I subconsciously decided to shut down from reality. I don’t remember walking to the door with these strangers. I don’t remember if I responded to anything they said to me, or if they even did speak to me. Hell, I wouldn’t have been able to pick them out of a line up two seconds after they let go of me.
I faded slightly back into reality for just a moment when a man standing on the porch opened the door. With dread in his voice, he announced, “She’s here.” I felt as though I floated up those five steps and through the doorway. I suddenly found myself standing in the living room with my dad’s arms around me. To this day, I don’t remember where my coat went and that has always bothered me. That should have been the least of my concerns. Through tears, my dad was able to choke out, “Mom’s hurt.”
Ok, she broke her leg. She was in a car accident. She fell down the basement steps. She was in the line of crossfire when the gas station was held up. It doesn’t really matter what happened because she’s fine. She has to be fine. Oh god, she’s not fine. Dad wouldn’t be crying if Mom was just laid up in a hospital bed. People wouldn’t be giving me these sad eyes. Please, God, just don’t let it be that. Don’t let it be what I think it is. Anything but that. Anything.
These were the thoughts that ran through my head as my dad and I walked from the doorway to the couch. It couldn’t have taken us more than four seconds, but I had the sensation that the physical world slowed down while my braid sped up. I felt dizzy. The relief I felt as I sat down on the couch with my dad almost made me forget that my house was crawling with people wearing ID badges and that every one of them kept trying to nonchalantly stare in my direction.
“Mom’s dead.”
There it was. My dad didn’t have to say how she died. I knew the unforgivable sin and unspoken act that occurred while I was out at the movies with Grace. Those two words captured all the fears and regrets our family had been living with for years, and I suddenly couldn’t wrap my head around it. While I was smart enough to understand the situation, I was also smart enough to know that accepting it would destroy me. So I made the choice to not accept it. I felt as though the rest of the world was suddenly trying to convince me 2+2=5. Mentally, physically, emotionally, I refused to believe it. No, it wasn’t a matter of belief; they were just wrong. As much as I believed two plus two was four, I still believed Mom was alive.
Mom wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t just leave us like this, leave me like this. She is upstairs taking a nap, and will be walking down any second...any second now to make lunch. It’s almost that time. Please, Mom. Please just come downstairs and tell me Dad is lying and get these people out of our house. I know this isn’t real. Come prove to everyone else this isn’t real.
It was then that I realized I had just been told my mom was dead, and I had been staring at the steps leading up to her bedroom with absolutely no emotion in my face. My dad, who I had only ever seen cry once before in my entire life, was bawling, while I sat there wondering what we were going to eat for lunch. I was hungry. But in order to not appear like a heartless bitch to all the people who were still staring at me, I forced myself to cry. That’s the logical thing to do, right? That’s the appropriate reaction? Something inside me broke, but I knew what I had to do. The first tears I shed over the death of my mom were pushed out by re-enacting a dramatic scene in my head from the Emperor’s New Groove.
Apparently I pulled it off. Someone decided that being surrounded by all the commotion was just too much for me to handle, so I was sent to the basement where my two older brothers were hiding out. None of us talked. No comforting words were exchanged, and no hugs were given. While Nate and Connor mindlessly stared at the television, I sat there petting my dog, Miko, in the corner. I think maybe I was trying to convince him it would be alright.
I sat in that cold basement with Miko and near my brothers for what I think was hours. That state of limbo, being completely uncertain of absolutely every aspect of my life from this point forward but not having the mental fortitude to concern myself with it one way or another, was almost pleasant. I liked not being looked at or talked to. These would be the last few moments of real peace I would have for months. Nothing was haunting me. In fact, I felt totally numb and enjoyed it as much as I could enjoy anything while blocking all emotion.
When I heard the basement door open, tears welled up in my eyes. I still wasn’t crying for my dead mom; I was crying because I was upset that my peace was interrupted. My heart started racing, and I sat perfectly still, as though whoever was looking for my brothers and me may not have noticed that I was there if I didn’t draw attention to myself. But when you are the only daughter of the woman who just shot herself, they come looking. And they find you.
Within less than two minutes of being led upstairs, I witnessed two scenes that would be burned into my memory forever. More than a decade later, I still see them as almost photographs in my mind when I blink. More than a decade later, my dad admits that he understands why this day shattered my disintegrating faith.
Slowly, I ascended the stairs, dragging my feet, looking down, and angry that I had to keep Miko downstairs. When I reached the top, I let out an exasperated sigh that kind of seemed to say, “Let’s get this over with.” You would think that some deliberation would have taken place or plan of action would have been set up before bringing me back up into the chaos. Nope. Instead, I lifted my head to see my dad being fingerprinted by a cop. I had snuck out of my bedroom at night to watch one too many episodes of Law and Order when I was supposed to be sleeping to naively put my head back down. Those fuckers wanted to test his prints with those on the gun. Granted, no one had told me there was a gun. It was another one of those things I just knew. Though I still hadn’t admitted that my mom was dead, there was no way I was going to sit back and watch as they made my dad a suspect, even if it was protocol.
Up until this point, I don’t think I had said a word since I stepped out of Grace’s car. Now without thinking, I was screaming at the top of my lungs at a cop. “NO! He didn’t do it! How could you even think that?!” I may have even lunged at the cop because I was being held by who I think was the same woman who guided me into the house, but that’s another one of those things that still puzzles me today.
My dad gave me a look and a nod that seemed to say that he understood what the cops were doing while simultaneously thanking me for the passionate support. I returned a look of solemn solidarity. We had to get through this together, even though a little part of me hated him for letting this happen. But to be fair, I would come to hate everyone for letting this happen.
The police department offered this wonderful service of sending a child psychologist along with the detectives, cops, and whoever else whenever there is a violent or traumatic event with children in the house. Sounds like a great idea, in theory. The child psychologist, Lloyd, was the man who had led me up from my safe haven in the basement, and as he introduced himself to me, he led me to my bedroom. This was the most rational location for him to speak with me. I would be most comfortable on my own turf and away from the intensity of the bastards accusing my dad of killing my mom. Yes, my bedroom would be the safest.
This is when the poor planning and god-awful timing came back into play. “Why don’t you have a seat on the bed?” Lloyd suggested gently. Considering there was no place else to sit, it seemed natural. I took the few steps from the door to my bed that was adjacent to the front-facing window. That goddamn window. No one closed the blinds. I had a front row seat as I watched two men wheel my mom’s body out of the house in a body bag.
Of course, about three seconds later, an unnamed woman burst into the bedroom and inhaled sharply when she saw me standing at the window with that same look I had on my face earlier when I was waiting for my mom to make lunch. She had been sent to close off the house so we wouldn’t accidentally see my mom being carried out of the house. Poor Lloyd was unaware of what he did. The woman apologized for nothing in particular and left the room flustered. Had I acknowledged my mom’s death, this could have prompted another outburst like I had in the kitchen. Thankfully, my denial was still in full force and this image wouldn’t have an impact until weeks later when I would blink and see it as a photograph.
Lloyd tried to talk to me about my feelings and other bullshit like that. I had no feelings, aside from being angry that I wasn’t in the basement and occasionally insulted when he insinuated that something wasn’t right about my family. Obviously my family wasn’t normal, but we didn’t talk about such unpleasant things in our house. One question Lloyd asked stands out in particular: “Why don’t you have any family pictures around your house?”
In my mind, that translated to “Your mom felt unloved. You drove her to do it.” So I did what any 7th grade girl would do. I lied. “We had to put the picture frames away to make room for the Christmas decorations.” I didn’t feel guilty about lying. It’s not like I thought any of this was real anyways, so what did it matter if I added one more fictional detail? In retrospect, I’m actually a little impressed that I was able to come up with such a believable lie to protect my family so quickly when I probably couldn’t have even told him my name in the foggy haze I was in.
Eventually, I completely checked out from the conversation. After a couple questions with no response, not even a courtesy shrug, Lloyd sent me back down to the safety of my basement and moved on to my brothers, one at a time. I remember so little of what happened the second time I went to the basement that I have chosen to remember it as a nap. I don’t want to believe that I’m blocking something out or was so disoriented I don’t have any recollection of even existing. So as far as I’m concerned, those hours were spent in blissful slumber.
At about 6:00 that evening, the house was finally cleared of cops and detectives and child psychologists and accusing bastards. All day, I had wanted them to leave so our home could feel normal again, but without Mom around, it felt eerily empty. Even my basement sanctuary didn’t provide the comfort it had earlier that afternoon. My dad, Nate, Connor, and I sat next to each other in the living room. I wouldn’t say we sat together as no one talked or looked at each other. We lingered there like we were all trying to escape an awkward conversation with someone we ran into at the grocery store. We didn’t know how to be with each other without Mom. Even Miko just laid on the kitchen floor whimpering. This was the moment I realized my family was a little bit more fucked up than I wanted to believe.
“We have to eat.” Leave it to my dad to associate comfort and stability with food. It was true that no one had eaten all day since my mom never came downstairs from her nap to make us lunch. I guess we were going to have to fend for ourselves a little while longer. After what seemed like hours, we mutually decided that every option available to us sounded disgusting, but McDonald’s would be quick and easy. My dad and I headed out into the brisk December air with the hope that we would all regain our appetite once the food was on the table.
Before my dad started the car, he started crying again. “She finally has peace,” he said in a quiet tone that was uncharacteristic of my dad as if that was supposed to be of comfort to me. The disconnect I had this whole day made it hard to even force out the crocodile tears this time. I opted for burying my face in my hands to mimic the motions. After my dad pulled himself together, I gave a couple heavy breaths as though I was trying to do the same, and we started for McDonald’s in silence.
To outsiders, it probably looked like a mundane father/daughter trip to grab some burgers and fries. He had his arm around me, and I still held that blank look on my face as we got to the register. “Umm...yeah...We’ll have 4 double cheeseburgers and 4 large fries, please. To go.”
I didn’t hear the rest of the transaction. I’m sure the cashier asked a few more questions and my dad said some polite words in response. Suddenly I felt dizzy again, like all my senses were heightened beyond what is safe to be exposed to. My heart was pounding, and I felt weak. I wanted to physically run away from this feeling, but I knew if I tried to move my legs, I would collapse. Something wasn’t right.
“Dad, why are we getting McDonald’s?” I nearly whispered in a trembling voice through the first genuine tears I’ve shed all day. It didn’t make sense. My mom, the health-conscious former nurse, would never let us eat McDonald’s for dinner unless it was some sort of special treat. The scared and sad look on my dad’s face explained more than I was ready to hear. We were getting the fast food because Mom wasn’t there to stop us anymore.
It finally hit me. I could barely hold myself up. I started hyperventilating. I felt like I had physically been punched in the stomach. I forgot that I was in the middle of a crowded restaurant on a Saturday night. “Oh god, why did she do it? Why couldn’t I have stopped her?! She didn’t love us!” I knew people were staring at me, but I didn’t care. I begged my dad for answers he didn’t have.
At one point, the manager came out to ask if there was a problem. “No, no problem. We’re fine,” my dad answered almost instinctively. I think we had all been telling ourselves that too long.
“Nothing’s fine!” I shouted as my dad pulled me in closer, half because I wasn’t capable of standing on my own, half because I needed to be comforted more than I ever have or probably will in my life. “She’s dead...She’s dead...She’s dead...” I couldn’t stop repeating it out loud. I was waiting for someone to correct me and tell me she was alive. I was waiting for it to not sound like the most fucked up combination of words that had ever been spoken. Even after I had stopped screaming it in the middle of McDonald’s, I kept repeating it, “She’s dead,” in my head for years, still waiting for someone to tell me it was a lie.
