“Eleanor, I made coconut chocolate cookies, the ones you love!” Delia insisted on bringing baked goods each week. She said that it allows her to funnel her sadness into something better. There was always coffee too, and some other snacks. I know, who cares, right? But I’m telling you this to set the scene, James. Because of what happened a little later on.
I spoke a lot more in the beginning, when everything was raw, but now, I prefer to just sit and take it all in. Delia spoke about her husband, who she found in the basement. I guess he was hiding a bunch of bad pictures too, that part I didn’t really understand. But Delia said something about him leading some kind of double life. Delia always talked about her confusion of missing him and hating him at the same time.
A few other people spoke too, and then Peter, the social worker, asked if any of the new members wanted to speak.
I guess some people just need to be asked because right then a woman started speaking. She had a haircut just like my sixth-grade teacher. Do you remember Mrs. Gryzynsky? I know you weren’t in that class, but I feel like everyone knew her. She was so strange. She was really short and always wore bright, bright red lipstick. Her hair was cut like a mushroom.
This woman had one of Delia’s cookies in the palm of her hand. It’s like she was petting it, like she didn’t know it was edible.
“I lost my boy. My only one,” she said. Her voice sounded scratched like someone with giant fingernails tore up her vocal chords.
“Would you like to share?” That’s what Peter always said. A few times, he has mentioned that it was a question that allowed more openness to answer. Like we can talk about more than just who we lost or almost lost. We can also talk about our day or whatever.
“I don’t . . . I’m still trying to understand. How can a parent ever survive this? I mean, . . . I just didn’t know . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Patricia, who lost her brother last year, handed the woman a tissue. “There’s lotion in it,” I heard her whisper.
“If you feel able, would you share your name and maybe anything about him you might like?” Peter has a really soothing voice, which definitely helped me to open up in the beginning. He also has a monstrously-large moustache. James, remember our music teacher in middle school? Mr. Jerricks? His moustache was like three fingers wide. Peter’s is even thicker.
“He was only fifteen,” the woman said. “He liked to cook, bake all sorts of things with me. He listened to music a lot. I can’t remember the names of the . . . I’m Helaine.”
“Helaine, thank you for being here with us today,” Peter said.
“James is his . . . was his . . . name,” she added.
Your mom. Of course. In this moment, I wish you weren’t just a piece of paper. I wish you could have seen her face. Puffy and red and wet and I don’t know . . . like her brain melted or something. Not like she didn’t make sense, no, not that. More like, she was at a loss for words. For understanding.
I didn’t know you liked to cook. I don’t really know anything about you, really. I wonder what your favorite recipe was. James, did you leave a note? Did you tell anyone beforehand? Who was your best friend? Did you ever get to be in love? Did you ever kiss anyone?
At the end of group, people started folding the chairs, putting away the cups and napkins, grabbing the last of the cookies, chatting a bit. I motioned to Flor that I was going to talk to Helaine. When she mentioned your name, I think Flor understood as well.
“Hi,” I said to her.
She was looking at one of the few pieces of art on the walls. Some kind of landscape with a setting sun.
“H-hi,” she said, still staring at the painting.
“I’m fifteen too,” I said, hoping maybe she’d make the connection.
She turned to face me. “Oh.”
“Um, I knew him. James. I mean, we weren’t exactly friends, but—”
Suddenly her skin grew pinker. “You did? You . . . did you have any idea? Did he tell you—”
“No, no, I . . . we didn’t speak, but he was in my English class. He didn’t really talk in there either.”
“What’s your name?”
“Eleanor,” I said. “Eleanor Fromme, but I doubt James ever mentioned me.”
She shook her head.
“I’m . . . I’m so sorry for your loss.” Even as I said it, I hated every word. Why do we apologize when someone dies as though we caused it, as though we could have stopped it? Could I have?
“Thank you, dear. Tonight was . . . good. Maybe I’ll get Burt to come.”
“James’s . . .”
“Father. He blames himself. He . . . he’s a pastor. Always hoped James would be more . . . oh, I don’t know . . . Christian.” She smiled.
I definitely didn’t know what to say to that.
“May I . . . may I ask what causes you to come here as well?”
I took a deep breath. “My mom.”
“Oh, Eleanor, I’m so sorry—”
“Actually, she’s still alive. I mean, she tried to kill herself, but she’s okay now. I’m not so sure what okay really means. I’ll always be waiting, you know? Scared that she might try again, even though she promises me she won’t. I see her every day, but what happens when I’m in college and it’s just her and—”
“So much for a young person to think about,” she said.
“Yeah, well, I’m sure I’ll put her through a lot too,” I laughed.
“Maybe I’ll see you next Thursday, Eleanor.”
James, I can’t pretend that it wasn’t strange to speak to your mom after there were days I’d go home after being bullied by you and thinking a monster must have raised you to turn you into one. But she’s warm and even in her sadness, she seems so kind.
On the ride home, I told Flor about Helaine and feeling guilty that I still have my family member, while so many people in group lost theirs. Sometimes I feel like an imposter.
“Eleanor, you are everywhere you are supposed to be,” Flor said.
P.S. Your mom smells like banana bread.
Friday, October 22
Dear James,
It is so strange to ignore someone I used to tell all my secrets to. And I wonder if Dara feels the same way. On the bus to school, I had to sit next to Ross, who smells like old grape jelly sandwiches. Dara and I always sat together. I thought maybe she’d apologize. But it’s like I was invisible to her. And then of course, I had this terrible fear. I mean, she’s the only person that knows that I’m . . . just write it, Eleanor . . . A LESBIAN! What if she tells people? What if the whole school replaces you as my bully. What if James, you got to die with all of your secrets. I guess we all have them.
I don’t even know who your friends were. Sometimes I wish I could talk to one of them and ask what you were like. I don’t really think you were the monster I thought you were. After meeting your mom, I realized there must have been some of that kindness in you too, right?
There is a poster in our health class with a