Back in the day, that news would have pissed me off, because Lex and company are obviously just using my boys—but listening to Ty, Jared, and Chad go on and on, I can’t even shrug.
I just stare at my boys with what I suppose is a very blank look on my face until they leave.
That night I tell Donna I don’t want to see Ty, Jared, and Chad anymore—but she doesn’t respond to my request.
CHAPTER 18
Father Chee jogs to my house every single morning and comes up into my bedroom—even on Sundays, before he presides over Mass.
He never fails to show up.
If I am up, he’ll ask if I want to talk.
For weeks, I do not want to talk, so FC just sits next to me for an hour, and we sorta breathe together.
We just sit on the edge of my bed breathing, occupying the same space, which is okay with me, because I really like my Man of God, even if I am mad at God Himself.
If I’m not up, or if I am pretending to sleep, or if I am just lying there like usual, staring at the ceiling, Father Chee will kneel by my bed and bow his head.
If I ask him what he is doing, he’ll say he is lifting me up to God, asking God to help me be whoever I need to be at this moment of my life.
He comes every day, and I don’t mind his coming.
CHAPTER 19
Franks sends me a card that reads:
Dear Amber,
We were very shaken by the news.
I am always here if you need me.
We miss you down in The Franks Lair.
I’m praying for you, and will be looking forward to your return.
Be well,
Franks
I throw his card away.
I throw away all of the flowers and cards from classmates and community members.
I don’t even sniff or open any of those.
I do not want any of these flower arrangements or sympathy cards to exist, so I ask Donna to burn them in the backyard, but I never see any smoke rising past my window, so I don’t think she is honoring my request.
CHAPTER 20
This zombie-type mom in need of extra cash starts coming to “tutor” me, since I’m not going to school right now.
She’s large.
She smells like mothballs.
She never laughs or smiles or tells a joke.
She reminds me of a robot caked in meat.
Her name is Mrs. Redman.
My real teachers give her assignments that I am supposed to complete. At first, there are little handwritten notes on the assignments—encouraging words from my real teachers—but these notes disappear after a few weeks or so, which is when I realize that my teachers have given up on me. It didn’t take them very long.
Because I still want to go to Bryn Mawr, I do all of my assignments and show Mrs. Redman my work three times a week when she comes to visit me.
She gives me all A’s, even when I answer incorrectly on purpose.
I think she is afraid of me, or something.
CHAPTER 21
“Father Chee?”
“Yes, Amber?”
“Why does God allow men to go mentally insane?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ll never lie to me, will you?”
“No.”
“Promise me. That you won’t tell me lies like everyone else. That you won’t BS me.”
“I promise—I will never lie to you.”
CHAPTER 22
Prince Tony calls me on the phone from time to time, but I don’t really listen to what he says to me. It’s all crap about the seasons of life and the ebb and flow and other blah-blah stuff adults tell you when they don’t know what the hell to say. “Do you understand?” he always asks me at the end of the conversations, and I always say yes.
CHAPTER 23
“Father Chee?”
“Yes, Amber?”
“Why are dogs more humane than humans?”
“I don’t know.”
CHAPTER 24
Right about the same time my mom’s name starts showing up in the news, Private Jackson begins sending me one haiku a day in the mail.
He doesn’t write a letter stating that he is sorry for my loss, nor does he ask how I am doing or any of that other crap that doesn’t help. He just sends poems. And his haikus are not aimed at inspiring me or making me feel better or helping me deal with the loss. With words, he simply takes snapshots of simple things for me—like a leaf, a bottle cap, a snowflake, a bird in flight, an ant, a single breath—and when I read these haikus I sorta trip out on the image that is never good or bad, happy or sad, exciting or boring.
These images just are.
I begin to really look forward to reading PJ’s haikus, and going to check the mail is the only time I leave my new bedroom other than to use the bathroom.
Covering the four walls with Private Jackson’s haikus—one page a day—I slowly make my room into a cocoon of poetry.
Here is the first one he sends me:
I WAKE AND SIT UP
SQUIRRELS SCRATCHING FROM INSIDE
MY WALLS ARE ALIVE
At first, I read it—like a million times, wondering if Private Jackson was trying to communicate with me through metaphor.
I puzzled out all sorts of interpretations too.
Maybe it was a metaphor for the madness—or the chaos I was feeling as of late, which is sorta hidden in my chest and mind, but real?