“You’re wrong there, Kent. She used to eat it all the time—it was her favorite food. She was a real connoisseur. She lived for the weird stuff, like sea cucumbers and parts of the dorsal fin. The brinier the better. When we were trying to conceive, she knew the dangers of pregnant women consuming raw fish so she stopped eating it. Sushi never impacted the babies’ health and development. But in her head, she’s conflated sushi and loss, thinks it’s her fault, like the bad stuff lingered in her system, which is why she won’t touch it now. She’s still punishing herself, years later.”
The temperature’s been steadily dropping and I begin to shiver. I try to hide this from him, lest he force me inside. “I didn’t know.”
“Now you do. What I want to say is, you be sad for as long as you need to be sad. Or mad. You go wherever your grief takes you, provided it’s safe. I’ll be honest, it’s going to be awful. The pain of loss will hit you in waves and can be all-encompassing, blocking out every other part of your life. I had to set reminders on my BlackBerry to brush my teeth, to put on pants, to go to work.”
I have a hard time picturing my strong, capable dad ever not being on top of anything.
I tell him, “I’m never going to be happy again.”
“No. You will. The worst thing is that you will eventually be happy again. You have a whole, big life ahead of you. One day you’ll wake up and see the sun’s shining and you’ll think ‘Thank God, the worst is over.’ You’ll think you’re better, like you finally overcame it all. Then one small thing will set you off, something innocuous, like a margarine commercial. Believe me, a Country Crock ad destroyed me one day. Destroyed. Whatever it is reminds you of what could have been, and, bam! Salt in an open wound.”
I close my eyes, trying to absorb his words. I want to believe him, to hear him, but I can’t because my inner voice keeps shouting YOUR FAULT! YOUR FAULT! YOUR FAULT! over and over again.
“Listen to me Kent, the loss itself is bad enough, so don’t make it worse by beating up on yourself. We can’t always understand why things happen. You’ll never find serenity until you accept that.”
“Then how do I do that? How do I not beat up on myself?”
“Channel your energy into something else. Something positive. Throw yourself into it. You’ll still be tempted to live in the ‘what ifs’ but by expending energy elsewhere, you won’t have as much time. You have to feel your grief, but having a purpose elsewhere will keep your loss from becoming the sole focus of your existence.”
We’re both silent for a couple of minutes. The only sound is the patter of raindrops hitting the shingled roof a couple of feet above our heads.
“Dad, how long did it take you to completely get over Hayes?”
Sadly, he replies, “I’ll never completely get over him. But I did get on with my life and that’s the key here. Understand you’re not going to feel better overnight. For now, your job will be to actively seek out the good moments and let them balance out the bad.”
“I can’t imagine ever having a good moment again.”
My dad looks at me as though he’s trying to see clean through to my soul. “Kent, is there any part of you that wonders if...you could just make the pain go away?”
His pupils are huge in the darkness of the fort and he’s on the verge of tears.
“Are you asking if I’d ever consider suicide? Because, no. I wouldn’t for a million reasons, but the biggest one is because I could never do that to you and mom. That’s why I’m so messed up right now. I thought Stephen and I were the same. So when he’d say stuff like the world would be better off without him, I thought he was just being sarcastic or looking for attention. Because I’d never hurt myself, I couldn’t fathom that he actually might, like it was a legitimate option.”
My dad sits with this information. Finally, he says, “I believe you. But if that ever changes, even for a second, I need you to talk to me.”
I say, “I will.” And realize I mean it.
He rises, but can’t stand to his full height unless he wants to get a lot of cobwebs in his hair. He brushes away the debris that’s accumulated on his suit. “I should go check on your mother now. She’s...not doing well. But that’s not on you. You worry about you, sport, I’ll be there for Mom. So...if you’re not back inside in a little while, I’ll bring you a coat and a sandwich, okay? Take all the time you need.”
He touches his palm on my cheek and then he says, “Hey...think I just felt some stubble. Looks like your beard’s finally coming in.”
I’m sure it isn’t, but I love him for telling me it is.
“I’ll be in soon, Dad.”
He exits and I hug my knees to my chest, huddling closer to the lantern for warmth, even though it doesn’t emit heat.
I try to process what he’s said. I need time to imagine what my life will be like without Stephen. Right now, I can’t even get my mind around that. All I know is that I don’t want anyone else to have to go through this.
I wish I understood why.
Not for Stephen; I am painfully aware of what went wrong there. But everyone before him, what were they going through? I think about Macey, Paul, Braden—they had entirely different problems than Stephen. And what about Ryan and Sarah two years ago? And Leif before that?
Why does this keep happening here?
What the fuck is wrong in North Shore? Can I do anything to help make it right? I think back to the suicide section in my psych class. At the time, it didn’t register, but now I recall my teacher talking about protective factors. One of the big suicide prevention protective factors is identifying with other people of the same ethnic group, feeling like you’re a part of something bigger than yourself.
How was Stephen supposed to do that up here?
North Shore’s not real diverse. While there are other Asians in town, most are Chinese or Vietnamese or Japanese, which doesn’t matter because the Chos didn’t hang around with them anyway. The few Korean Americans our age have been away at boarding schools since junior high.
Until this second, it never occurred to me that being unique had to be yet another added stressor on Stephen. He was sensitive and he hated anything that made him stand out. All he ever wanted was to blend in, and he could never figure out how.
Stephen must have been looking to identify. I didn’t realize that the ways I’ve changed this year must have impacted him. We were alike, two sides of the same coin, until we weren’t.
I know my dad says this isn’t my fault, but how do I not carry that guilt with me? He was my brother, for all intents and purposes. I had a responsibility to him. If I could have just stayed the same for a little while longer, he’d have made it to MIT and I know he’d have found so many more people like himself.
How can I not be at least partly to blame, regardless of what my dad says?
I wonder if Stephen’s need to identify is why he gravitated to throwback hip hop? He was the one who introduced me to it all. The classic MCs were his heroes, with their overblown confidence and swagger, fronting all those qualities he wished he’d shared. He loved them so much. Stephen wouldn’t give the new school artists a chance, considered their work blasphemy. When I tried to slip some 2 Chainz or Chance the Rapper to our playlists, he balked. He barely tolerated Lil Wayne.
Instead, he worshiped Tupac and Biggie and Eazy and Nate Dog and Jam Master Jay and Cowboy from Grandmaster Flash.
Wait.
I just realized that all of his heroes are dead.
All of them.