Read The Tear Collector Online
Authors: Patrick Jones
The Tear Collector (10 page)
Another long pause. “Okay, but after this, you can’t call me again. I’m out of this.”
“I understand,” I say. If you got out of jail, I suspect you’d never want to see iron bars again.
There’s a pause, then she says, “Cassy, the hardest choice is the first choice.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, even as the school bell rings across the street.
“The first choice,” she finishes, “is realizing you have a choice.”
What do you want us to do?”
Brittney and I are both staring at Mr. Abraham. It has been about forty hours since Robyn’s death, but it is only five short minutes before the memorial gathering at school. I’m waiting for an answer to my question about what to do, both right now and from this day forth.
“This isn’t what she would have wanted,” Brittney says in her best fit-throwing voice.
“It’s too late to change everything,” I tell her, but I’m focusing all my energy on Mr. Abraham. He, along with the peer counselors and school counselors, quickly organized this event. The theater auditorium is filling with traumatized students, but all the drama is backstage.
“You should have involved us,” Brittney says. She’s the spokesperson for Robyn’s cheerleader friends. Like everyone else in school, their reaction to Robyn’s death has been to
walk around school like ants with a dead queen. “This should be upbeat, like Robyn was.”
“This is a memorial service, not some kegger,” I say, sharply and directly.
“We should be celebrating Robyn’s life, that’s what she would have wanted,” she says.
“This isn’t just about Robyn, this is about everybody left behind,” I say. “What Robyn would have wanted and how she lived was to focus on other people. Her friends need to heal.”
“That’s sick,” Brittney says.
“That’s enough, both of you,” Mr. A finally says, then sighs. He sips from his thermos, then says, “One thing’s for sure, Robyn wouldn’t want her friends fighting.”
Both Brittney and I let that go. For now. Robyn was able to keep our rivalry in check, but if Brittney says one more word, then I’ll bring up Craig and force her guilt down her throat.
“Brittney, I will help you plan something next week to be a celebration of Robyn’s life,” he says, as I try to hide a victor’s smile. “But there’s a process to grieving, and a memorial service like this—where people can openly grieve—is important to students healing and moving on. I wish we had more time to plan, but it’s essential we do something before the weekend.”
“I knew it,” she hisses.
“I’m sorry, but we’ll continue with the program that
Cassandra and the counselors have planned,” he says. “I hope you will still say something as you agreed.”
“I’d do anything for Robyn,” Brittney says, trying to play the part of the martyr.
“Haven’t you done enough?” I say. She stares daggers and I welcome the cuts.
“Brittney. This is difficult for everyone, especially her friends like you and Cassandra,” Mr. Abraham says. He’s one of the smartest people I know. Why can’t he see through her?
“I
was
her best friend,” Brittney says, treating this occasion like a fight on the playground. I’ve never felt the deep dark human emotion of hate, but it’s emerging now.
“If that’s the case, then—,” I start, but I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around to see Dr. Albrecht, the school’s main counselor.
“Cassandra, Brittney, please,” she says. “I know this is hard for everyone.”
“Then why isn’t everyone here?” Brittney asks, sneaking a peek through the curtains. Dr. Albrecht decided to open the memorial service to anyone who knew Robyn and wanted to attend. I wanted it to be for everyone at school, but Dr. Albrecht said that wasn’t the best way.
“Brittney, everybody in this school is changed by a student’s death, I understand that,” she continues. “But not everyone handles grief the same way. Some people grieve in private, some need to be around others. The thing we don’t want to do is
force students to behave one way or the other. You’ll find all sorts of reactions from people.”
“I understand,” Brittney says, although I doubt she really does. When you spend half your life taking pictures of yourself, how can you even begin to understand other people?
I look through the curtains to see the room filled with students from across the spectrum, although it is mostly Robyn’s fellow juniors.
“Brittney, there’s no one right way to handle the death of a popular student,” Dr. Albrecht says. “We’re doing our best. We’re arranging for extra counselors to come in to talk with students, and we have done some extra training for students in the peer counseling program.”
“The moment of silence yesterday was nice,” I say, sucking up to Dr. Albrecht.
“This is hard on everyone, but what makes it harder is people fighting about who was whose best friend, or things like that,” Dr. Albrecht says, making sure to make eye contact with both of us. I hang my head in mock shame, while Brittney pretends to cry. I sense false tears.
“And people will feel guilty,” I say as I admit to a new emotion, even as I accuse Brittney. “They’ll wonder if Robyn would still be alive if they had done—or not done—something.”
“That’s a common reaction,” Dr. Albrecht says. “That’s why we want students who might feel that way to seek out counseling. Guilt is a common emotion linked with death.”
I bite my tongue. In my house, Robyn’s death was called “just wonderful” because death causes tears, and tears give us life. I know Brittney isn’t one of us, but the crocodile tears she sheds for Robyn make me wonder. Brittney is treating Robyn’s death as one more attention-getting opportunity.
“We need to get started,” Mr. Abraham says. I sneak one more peek through the drawn curtain before we head out onstage. I see some people are laughing, some are already crying, but most just look stunned. It is the look of denial. The first stage of grief.
On every seat is a sheet of paper. The top of the page has a picture of Robyn and information about her life. The middle of the page contains information about the ceremony. The bottom of the page lists the five stages of grief to help everybody understand the grieving process.
I go out onstage along with Mr. Abraham, Principal Carlson, and Dr. Albrecht. There’s a chair for Brittney, but she’s still backstage. I turn around and go to her, speaking softly. “Brittney, it’s okay. You can do this. All is forgiven. This is for Robyn.”
“I can’t,” is all she says. Her voice isn’t sad; it is angry for showing weakness in front of me. I don’t gloat; instead, I lightly touch her arm, and pull her close.
“For Robyn,” I say softly, and she nods. I give her my handkerchief, and she gives me a sad thank-you smile. She wipes her eyes, hands it back to me, and starts out onstage. Before I
return, I press the handkerchief against my naked left shoulder, but feel no energy rush. The tears might be real, but the emotion behind them is false. One drop can energize me for weeks, but Brittney’s tears so lack real emotional energy that I feel nothing. Just like Brittney. She’s not upset; she’s just trying to upstage everyone else by making a late entrance.
To the right of the podium is a large blowup of Robyn’s junior picture. It is surrounded by collages of other photos printed from Robyn’s Facebook page and from the yearbook. Mr. A asked the yearbook teacher, Mr. Kvasnica, to assist, so several students worked all night creating the collages. To the left of the podium are chairs for us, although one chair is missing—the chair we had originally set out for Craig, but his parents said he wouldn’t participate in the memorial service. Looking out over the crowd, it seems as if he also couldn’t bring himself to attend the services at all.
The adults all say how much everyone will miss Robyn and how everyone that knew her knows she would want people to be happy. Mr. Abraham says that the only way to heal is to first hurt and experience grief. He says people shouldn’t feel embarrassed about weeping during the ceremony. Today, crying is a community ritual.
Brittney rises, slowly, when it is her turn. She looks out of place; all the teachers are wearing black with just small white flowers in their labels. Brittney’s wearing her bright blue cheerleading uniform, but she can’t show any enthusiasm. She gets
six sentences into her speech, which Mr. A helped her write, and loses it. Everybody in the audience looks concerned.
I rush to the podium. “It’s okay, Brittney,” I tell her. But she’s not looking at me; she’s looking out at the audience looking up at her. I seek everyone’s tears, but Brittney seeks their attention. I’m no better than she is. Both of us are using Robyn’s death for our own selfish ends.
Mr. A helps her back to her seat, while I look at the crowd. Jocks who wouldn’t cry if they broke a leg now sport quivering lips. Most of the girls don’t even try to hold back. They obey Mr. A’s words and are openly weeping. It’s my turn to speak, and I’ve thought about this moment since I heard the news. I don’t like speaking in public, so my words will be brief.
“I don’t know what I can say that hasn’t been already said here or said by all of you since you learned Robyn was gone,” I say slowly. “We love you and miss you, Robyn. Good-bye.”
The funeral tomorrow is for family and close friends only, so this is their chance to say good-bye. I want my actions, not my words, to speak for me. I nod to Michael, who is running the sound, and the music starts. While Robyn and I loved Beatles music, I needed something more current for the finale. Over the music I say, “On the bottom of the stage are boxes of flowers, a sign of hope and renewal. If you loved Robyn, come take a flower, bring it on the stage, place it in front of her picture, and say some final words to her. Like this song says, we have just memories, and they will never change.”
Between the silence at the end of my speech and the first words of the songs by Fuel, there’s a symphony of sorrow welling to a crescendo as “Leave the Memories Alone” starts.
One by one, Robyn’s friends and closest classmates come up onstage to leave a flower by her photo. Some do it quickly, the way you’d pull off a Band-Aid, taking the pain all at once; others linger in front of the picture. Some are still in shock; most are in tears. I embrace all who invite it; some accept it and need me to shoulder their sorrow. Most people I know; a few—maybe seniors or sophomores—I don’t. The few who stayed seated and laughed, I never want to know.
I notice three people not in attendance: Samantha, Scott, and Craig. I also notice the glares of hate from Kelsey, Tyler, and Cody. Cody’s not alone; Kelsey’s smug and smiling friend Bethany is with him. She’s an athlete too; she runs track, obviously a sprinter. All four avoid me when they come onstage and pass by Robyn’s photo. Even though the girls are crying, I don’t reach out to them.
When Brittney sees them, however, she magically manages to pull herself together. The minute she walks onstage, her act goes away and her true self emerges. I knew when I touched her and soaked in her tears, she didn’t feel grief or guilt. As Brittney stands in front of the photo of her dead friend, she pulls out her iPod to use as a mirror to fix her crocodile tears–stained makeup. Her friend is dead, and she’s consumed not with sorrow or shame but with self-importance.
The song repeats twice before everyone has come up. Mrs. Carlson starts to speak, but I’m not listening. I’m thinking not about Robyn, but about myself. Memories may never change, but people change. I wonder if all creatures have it in their power to transform their very nature.
I focus again as Mrs. Carlson invites the school choir to come onstage. Tamika Ross, the best singer in the choir, starts slowly singing the oldie “Lean on Me” in the style of a gospel song. People who had sat down stand up when they hear it. After only two verses, anyone who had stopped crying has started again. People are holding hands, swaying back and forth, coming together as a community. As I walk toward some swimmer friends, two junior girls—Elizabeth and Sara—who sometimes ate lunch at Robyn’s table, stop me. They were not her best friends, more like honors-class acquaintances, but maybe that’s why they seem so emotional. They’re crying, not because of memories, but I assume because they regret not knowing Robyn better.
I stand between Elizabeth and Sara, their hands intertwined with mine, their cascading tears falling on my bare shoulders as they listen to the song and lean on me. My body feels soaked, almost overfull, with all the emotional energy in the room. I’m feeling dizzy and disoriented, almost as if I am overdosing.
Sara tries to speak, but I let her know that now isn’t the time to talk. It is a time to reflect. I look inside myself and
damn not my deeds, but my very nature, which craves constant tragedy. My best friend is dead, but standing among this crying crowd, I’ve never felt so alive. Yet who—or rather
what—
I am has never felt so wrong.
Police report that twelve-year-old Jason Hamilton of Midland returned home a few days ago after he was missing for almost a week. At this point, police are releasing few other details. In a related story, police reported six more incidents in the mid-Michigan area of elementary and middle-school boys being kidnapped, blindfolded, gagged, and then released after a few days. Previously thought to be isolated incidents, they are now all believed to be linked. In at least one other case, a black Ford van was seen nearby. In every case, the young person was walking alone. Police would only comment that they are puzzled by the cases, as these kidnappings have not involved ransom. One officer said anonymously that while sexual assault was not involved, the young men were “terrorized” but none suffered severe physical injury. The same officer noted, however, that “torture” occurred in each case.