someone else's words

I'm sitting on Brice Jackson's patio at 4:36 in the morning watching Anna Hadley smoke a cigarette. The way Anna smokes is she takes one drag and then just waves the cigarette around to emphasize what she's saying. The orange tip draws little shapes in the air that seem to hang in the dark like neon letters. She's talking about Mary again.

Sometimes, Anna tells me, Sometimes I just don't understand what God was thinking, you know?

The only light out here is coming from inside, filtered out of the kitchen window through some pale green curtains, and from the moon, which looks like a chalk smudge on a blackboard because of the clouds in front of it. I can just barely see Anna sitting across from me at the patio table, but her eyes look enormous, all shiny and pink from crying. She's still crying, even though it's been weeks since the funeral. I can't see the stars, just the bright tip of Anna's cigarette and the thin line of smoke curling up from it that scatters every time she moves her hand.

You can't, I say. He's God. That's the point.

Yeah, but like. She gestures around with her cigarette. Taking Mary. I don't understand why he'd take her so goddamn young, you know? Twenty-five. Way too fucking young.

Anna and I are both twenty-five as well, but it doesn't feel that young to me anymore. Two of my friends died this summer. Yeah, I say.

She was only married for a few weeks, she says. That's fucked up. Only been married, like, four goddamn weeks. Anna's looking at me with those big eyes, waiting for me to agree with her that it's all wrong, the whole thing. And I'm trying to think of a word that means what her eyes look like right now.

You think there's a better time to die? I ask her.

Hell yeah. When you're old, she says. When you got all them fat grandbabies and shit. That's when you're supposed to die. She flicks the ash off the tip of her cigarette, pushes her dark brown hair behind her ear. The word is luminous. I think.

I tell her, Yeah, I guess. But really I'm thinking it's better to die suddenly when you're young and happy. I figure Mary was never happier than she was right before it happened. So I tell Anna that, too. I tell her that, you know, maybe Mary got a sweet deal, going out on a high note like that and all.

She takes a second to think about it, then says, Maybe you're right. And then she starts crying again. Her face scrunches up and she wipes her eyes with the palms of her hands, cigarette dangling between two fingers. After I found out about Mary, I stood in the shower crying until the water ran cold, because I didn't want anyone to hear me. But for as long as I've know her, Anna has worn her emotions like a new pair of boots, expecting people to notice them.

While she's crying, she says that Mary was an angel, and that God called his angel home.

Mary was, she was really, Anna chokes out, and the long ash on the end of her cigarette falls and breaks against the glass tabletop. One of a kind, she says. And now she's in a, she's in a, in a better place. Her voice cracks on the word place.

I just nod. It's what I've been doing since the accident, nodding along to the same damn things everyone else has been saying since it happened, the exact same damn words. The same words they said about Brandon, Melody, Angela, and the rest of our friends who've died. I'm nodding because that's what you do, even though I can't imagine those words helping at all, making any difference in the way we all feel about what happened to Mary.

I want to ask Anna, does saying those things make you feel better? Does it make you miss her any less? Does it help you stop crying? Because it’s not working for me, Anna. When I say those words, I feel nothing. They mean nothing to me because they're not mine.

Anna sniffs, wipes her eyes again, and smokes. She says, her voice still shaky, I read what you wrote about Mary. What you wrote online.

Oh, I say. I almost say I read what she wrote, too, and what everyone else wrote: R.I.P., Mary. You were truly one of a kind. We never realize what we have until it's gone. You will be greatly missed. Words can't express... Reading those things made me wonder what I would say to Mary if I had the chance. So I made a list, called it Things I Didn't Tell Mary, and posted it on the Internet. That's how I learned Shakespeare.

I didn't want to read it, Anna says. I saw it, and I thought, that girl's gonna fucking make me cry again, and I don't think I can. Been crying too goddamn much already.

I'm sorry, I tell her.

No, it was, she says, and gestures with her cigarette. The smoke disappears into the air. Beautiful. I fucking cried through the whole thing, but what you said was damn beautiful. Her eyes look so big while she's telling me this.

Thanks, I say. And because she seems to expect more, I tell her, I, uh, I cried while I wrote it.

Yeah? she says. She looks surprised, like she can't imagine me crying over anything. She says, But I bet you felt better afterwards.

I did, a little. I tell her, It's how I learned Shakespeare.

She gives me this look across the table, one elbow resting on the glass top. The tip of her cigarette glows for a moment and then she blows smoke out of the side of her mouth so it won't drift towards me. The smoke looks green in the light from the kitchen window. What, she asks, the hell is that supposed to mean?

Shakespeare, I say. You know. The writer? Romeo and Juliet?

I know who he is, she says. I'm not a fucking 'tard. What does it mean you learned Shakespeare writing about Mary?

This is the first time I've said this out loud, so I'm not sure Anna's going to understand it. I'm not sure I understand it myself, but I start trying to explain anyway. Shakespeare used to write these poems, I say. About women, you know? There's this one poem you've probably heard. It's the one that goes, "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" You know that poem?

Yeah, says Anna.

Well, the last part of it goes, "So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee." It's like he's saying, Now that I'm writing this poem about you, that means you're going to live forever. Because the poem, it'll be around for a long time, right?

Right, she says, right. And I'm noticing how thin her wrists are. Her wrist bones look like they're glowing in the dark.

I always thought it was kind of stupid, that he would say something like that. Because no, the woman's not going to live forever just because of some poem. I mean, when she dies, she's still dead. I didn't really get it. I just thought it was some cheesy line.

Anna nods. Her gigantic eyes are starting to tear up again. She should have been a model. She's even pretty when she cries.

After Mary died, I tell her, I finally sort of got what Shakespeare was trying to do. It makes sense when you realize it doesn't have anything to do with you. It's just between him and this woman, you know? He's telling her... he's telling her that it's okay. She doesn't have to be scared. Whatever happens, whether there's an afterlife or not, she doesn't have to worry because there will always be a piece of her in the world just the way he remembers her. I mean, imagine how comforting that would be. For both of them. And hundreds of years later, we know that there was a woman who had an impact on this man, this writer. She changed him, and now she has this legacy. And when I got that, I realized that it wasn't just a cheesy line. It was actually, it was actually kind of beautiful.

When I get done trying to explain it, Anna's crying again. I don't know why she is, though, because the more I say this stuff out loud, the better I feel about it.

I'm not trying to say I'm like Shakespeare, I tell her. But after I wrote about Mary, that's when I got it. I want to tell stories about her, you know? I want to get Mary on paper just the way she was when I knew her, and then I want to get those papers everywhere, so other people can know her too. So they can know there was this girl who affected me so much that it's important for them to know about her, even after we're both dead. Because she deserves that. And anyway, it does make me feel better. Less like I lost her.

Anna's got her palms pressed to her eyes, but she's nodding, and her cigarette is so short now that it's going out. She sniffs really hard and wipes her eyes, but when she looks over at me, her face scrunches up and she covers her eyes again. She's got tears smeared down her cheeks when she finally starts talking. Shit, she says. You're so. You're so goddamn lucky.

What do you mean? I ask her. And I have to wait for her to finish crying again before she answers. I rub my arms. It's a warm night, and there are mosquitoes.

She sniffs hard and reaches for her pack of cigarettes to get another one. There's already a little pile of butts on the concrete floor beside her flip flops. Because, she says in this squeaky voice, because you've got this, this thing you can do. This fucking beautiful thing, what's it called, a tribute and shit. I ain't got anything like that. Mary... you're right, she deserves it, you know? But I can't do shit. She was my goddamn best friend, and I got stories about her too, but I can't do shit with 'em. Except cry. That's all I'm goddamn good for.

I don't know how to tell Anna she's wrong about that. I'm watching her cry, and I'm thinking about that photograph I took of Mary in eleventh grade, the one where she's looking at someone off camera with this giant smile like she's got a secret she can barely contain. After I took the picture, I turned around and saw Anna grinning back at her.

Tell me one of your Mary stories, I say.

So she does. We spend the next two hours on Brice Jackson's patio together, me and Anna Hadley, talking about Mary until just before the sun starts to come up, when the sky turns pink and lavender. And I'm watching her luminous eyes through the smoke from her cigarettes, and she's crying in between stories, filling every sob with phrases like, She was our rock, and I'm just grateful for the time we had, and At least we've got our memories.

i wrote a limerick.

there once was a girl from dubai
who said "you" every time she meant "i."
the pronouns she used
left me really confused.
you're sure that i can see why.

the suicide kids (first two sections)

Chutlah Gorge ran alongside the southern edge of the town of Berry Branch. It was about two miles long and in some places got up to 150 feet deep. There used to be a river there but it had been diverted into a lake a long time ago, so the only water at the bottom of the gorge was a few inches of black mud when it rained. According to Levi's Georgia History teacher, chutlah was an Indian word that meant "beautiful hole." Levi's father told him it meant "fox."

The narrowest part of Chutlah Gorge formed the southern border of the old Keister property near where Levi and his father lived. The Keister property used to be a dairy farm, but it had been out of business for the last twenty years or so. Some of Levi's neighbors said it was cursed. Colt Hammond told him that one night thirteen of the Keister cows got possessed and ran right off the edge of the cliff into the gorge and died, and that's why everyone called that part of the gorge Dairy Drop. Levi didn't really believe there was a curse on the Keister property or the gorge, but that was before Jubal Buckley threw himself over the edge of that same cliff in November -- and before Colt Hammond's dad drove his truck into the "beautiful hole" early that summer and broke his neck.

Berry Branch Middle School had this policy that if a student's mother or father died, that student had to spend at least one entire semester in grief counseling. Colt was an extra special case since there was so much publicity about his dad being the only Berry Branch suicide in the last two decades. During Colt's first counseling session at the start of eighth grade, Ms. Underwood explained to him all the reasons why counseling was such a good idea and how it would help him so much with all the emotions he must be having. Colt listened to her speech, but when she was done, he made sure to point out that Levi Grady had never had to take counseling for his mother's death, and he was doing just fine.

Levi and Colt had been close friends ever since the time they dissected one of Colt's older sister's tampons together in third grade, but despite their long history of playing basketball in each other's driveways and sneaking down to Dairy Drop to share stolen beers, Levi never did forgive Colt for telling the counselor about his mother. "How could I know what she'd do?" Colt asked him later. "Dude, your mom died like seven years ago. How could I know she'd stick you in the Dead Parent Society now?" The "Dead Parent Society" was what Colt called the counseling sessions, although since Colt was the only other member at the start of the year, the "society" hadn't actually been a society until Ms. Underwood insisted that Levi join them.

They met twice a week in Ms. Underwood's office and filled out workbooks that asked questions like What is your happiest memory of your deceased loved one? and Is there anything you wish you could have said to your deceased loved one? Ms. Underwood always asked if either of the boys wanted to share their answers, but they never did. Levi's answers were all short: I don't remember her. No, there isn't. His mother had died when he was six and a half. Ms. Underwood told him six years was old enough to have some memories of her, but all he could remember were the few stories his father had told him about her and some vague impressions he got from looking at her photographs. Something about a bed. Flowery sheets. He wondered what it was that Colt wrote about his father in the spaces between the questions.

About three weeks into the semester, a stabbing out at Luxury Court Trailer Park landed another boy from their grade in Levi and Colt's counseling group. Boone Thigpen was a year older than them but had failed a grade and was even less enthusiastic about grief counseling than they were. He was tall with greasy dark hair, wore the same clothes to school almost every day, and was rumored to carry a condom in his wallet. Levi read Boone's stepfather's obituary in the Berry Branch Journal. It didn't indicate a cause of death, but the article on the front page detailed Boone's stepfather's numerous injuries and the subsequent arrest of Boone's uncle for murder. Ms. Underwood seemed pleased to have a third society member. There had never been three students in grief counseling at one time before, and now they could play a board game she'd modified to be more grief-appropriate. Boone called her Ms. Morning Wood.

Levi almost never saw Boone outside of Ms. Underwood's office. Under other circumstances, he figured that he and Boone could have been friends, maybe. He acknowledged Boone with a nod in the cafeteria once, but the older boy acted as though he didn't notice. In Levi's opinion, the dynamic of the Dead Parent Society had been well established by mid-September, which was when Hannah Buckley came along and changed everything.

***

The Buckleys lived three streets over and two down from Levi and his father. Although he and Colt often passed it on their bikes, Levi had only been inside the Buckley house once, when he'd first moved to Berry Branch and his father began working with Hannah's father, Barrett T. Buckley-you-can-call-me-Buck. The Buckleys had invited the two of them over for dinner. At seven years old, Levi and Hannah had been expected to entertain each other and Hannah's little brother Jubal while the adults sat in Buck's study and talked after dinner. When Levi read about Buck Buckley's death in the Berry Branch Journal, he tried to imagine exactly where in that room the body had fallen. He had a clearer memory of Buck Buckley's study than of the room where his own mother had died.

The obituary didn't say how Buck died, but the front-page article said he'd been shot in the head, and that the wound appeared to be self-inflicted. Two suicides in a place like Berry Branch within four months of each other was an unprecedented coincidence. An investigation would follow.

According to the article, eight-year-old Jubal Buckley had discovered the body.

Levi had been in the habit of reading obituaries for as long as he could remember. He read them first, even before the front page news. Often he didn't even read the rest of the newspaper, which he divided over breakfast with his father three times a week. While Levi’s father had been one of the first people Mrs. Buckley had called with the news of her husband's death, no one had mentioned it to Levi, and so Levi found out by seeing the obit and the article two days later over a bowl of Lucky Charms.

"This," he said to his father, "this says that Buck Buckley died. Did Buck Buckley die?"

"Mm," said his father. "Night before last." He took a sip of coffee and looked down at his section of the paper. "It's too bad," he added. "Terrible thing."

Levi reread the obituary. Survived by his wife, Linda Harrison Buckley, and two children, Hannah and Jubal. "Hannah Buckley's in my Georgia History class," he said.

"That so?"

"She wears all black. Every day."

"Mm. Georgia's had a dark past."

The obituary included a picture. Levi looked at it. "What are you going to do? About work? Buck's cases and all."

"I'm taking it one day at a time, son." His father took another sip of coffee. He didn't say anything else. Levi didn't bring it up again.

Hannah Buckley wasn't in class for the rest of that week, but when she did come back, Ms. Underwood had signed her up for grief counseling. Levi had been expecting this, but what he hadn't expected was how distracting it was for her to be there. She sat beside him at the round table in the counselor's office wearing all black, her pale arms crossed over her chest, dark hair absolutely straight down to the middle of her back and tiny freckles scattered right across the bridge of her nose, and she didn't say very much, but Levi could hardly concentrate on his workbook questions when she was in the room. His answers got even shorter. Hers were always long paragraphs, and she wrote them in purple ink. He didn't read what she wrote, but her letters all looked fat and perfectly round or perfectly straight, like a string of binary code. In the tradition of the other members of the Dead Parent Society, Hannah didn't share her answers.

It was different with Hannah in the counseling group, different from her being in Georgia History with Levi. In Georgia History, she sat all the way across the room and slightly behind him. He couldn't smell her shampoo in Georgia History. In counseling, the table was so small that Levi and Hannah had to sit very close to each other. Their knees sometimes bumped. He almost never looked at her face during their sessions, but he couldn't look away from her hands. She wore dark fingernail polish. The way she held her pen was different from the way he held his.

Levi had never really enjoyed counseling, but once Hannah joined, he began to dread it. Every session seemed to last longer than the previous one. Ms. Underwood's startlingly high voice hurt his ears, but the silences were even worse; he always seemed to be breathing too loud. He was thrilled to get out of there at the end of each session, but whenever Hannah slung her backpack over her shoulder and walked out, Levi found himself wishing they’d had more time together. Since their dads had worked at the same law office, he kept meaning to say something to her about what had happened, that he was sorry or something. But he never managed to do it, and the longer he went on not saying anything, the less likely it seemed that he ever would. He watched Hannah leave four times without once speaking directly to her.

On the day of Hannah's fifth session in the Dead Parent Society, Levi was the last to arrive in the counseling office. Hannah, Colt, Boone, and Ms. Underwood were already seated around the little table. They each had a different colored balloon floating in front of their faces. The balloon strings were taped to the table to keep them from floating away, and each string had a small slip of paper tied to the end. Levi took his seat in front of the last balloon. It was pink.

"Today we're going on a little fieldtrip," Ms. Underwood told them. "I'm sure you've all noticed the balloons."

Hannah sat with her arms crossed, staring straight over the counselor's shoulder as usual. Boone sprawled in his chair with a bored look. Colt was tapping his pen lightly against his balloon string, making the blue balloon bounce a little. He looked over at Levi and then at Levi's pink balloon and tried to suppress a grin.

"We're going to use these balloons for a closure activity. Remember last week when we talked about how important closure is?" Ms. Underwood looked around. "Remember? Boone, remember when we talked about closure?

"Sometimes when we lose a loved one, there are still things we wish we could tell them. Things we never got to say while they were still with us, or even things we said that we didn't mean and want to take back. So what we're going to do today is write those messages for our deceased loved ones on the um, the little papers there. See? On the end of your string? Does everyone see? You write whatever you want to say, and then we're going to go outside to the soccer field and let the balloons go. Alright? This is your chance to say anything you want to your deceased loved one. You could say 'I love you' or even just 'Goodbye.' If you want to write a longer message, that's fine too. Does everyone understand? Boone, do you understand what we're doing?"

The assignment was stupid. Levi didn't even remember his mother, so what could he possibly have to say to her? Seven years seemed a bit late for goodbye. And anyway, it was just a balloon. It wasn't some kind of pandimensional delivery service. Dead people didn't get letters by balloon. He stared for a while at the little paper on the end of his string, holding his pen over it as though writing something.

Boone had scribbled something on his paper and was leaning back, balancing his chair on the back two legs. A moment later, Colt put his pen down and began folding the message he'd written. Hannah was still writing her fat purple letters. Even Ms. Underwood was writing something.

Levi looked at Hannah's hands.

When Hannah began folding her message, Ms. Underwood said, "Is everyone finished? Levi, are you finished?"

Levi quickly folded his blank slip of paper in half. He nodded.

The five of them untaped their strings from the table and filed out of the office with Ms. Underwood's yellow balloon leading the way. When they got to the teachers' parking lot, Ms. Underwood told them to wait there while she checked to see if the soccer field was being used. "I just want to make sure we have privacy," she said.

After the counselor walked away, Levi said to Colt, "Why does it matter where we stand when we let these go? It's not like we're aiming for anything."

"Maybe she thinks the soccer field's closer to heaven," said Colt.

Boone leaned back against a dusty parked van. He was holding his green balloon by the rubber instead of the string. The message was touching the ground. "Your balloon looks like a tit," he said to Levi.

"Your face looks like a tit," Levi said.

"Don't say tit," said Hannah. She was leaning against the car in the space next to Boone's van with her arms crossed, the string from her purple balloon extending up from the crook of her elbow. She didn't appear to be addressing anyone in particular. Levi watched the side of the parking lot for Ms. Underwood. No one said anything.

“This is bullshit,” said Boone after they’d waited for a while.

Levi leaned against the car beside Hannah. He held his string near the top and then let the pink balloon pull it up through his fingers. Over and over. The empty message fluttered around at the end. Now would be a good time, maybe. To speak to her.

Just when he’d decided to say something, he saw Ms. Underwood reappear at the far end of the lot. Her balloon swayed back and forth as she walked. Levi watched the yellow ball bounce and weave at the end of its tether. He wasn’t paying attention to his own balloon, and as the string slid up between his fingers, he forgot to catch it. The balloon kept going up. Shit.

He jumped once and batted at the paper tied to the end, but a sudden breeze swept the balloon and its empty message away. With neutral expressions, Colt, Boone, and Hannah watched it sail off.

“Shit,” said Levi. The other two boys looked at him.

Hannah kept her eyes on the retreating pink balloon. After a moment, she unfolded her arms and let her own balloon go. It floated up a little more slowly than Levi’s had. He imagined it was because hers was heavier with all the words she’d written on it. He looked at her. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, watching the balloons. “They’re not really going anywhere.”

Ms. Underwood was only a few yards away now. She was frowning at them as she walked forward. Boone glanced at Hannah, shrugged, and let his green balloon go. He actually gave it a little push into the air.

“Wait,” Ms. Underwood called.

Almost immediately, Colt let go of his balloon as well. “Oops,” he said.

“Wait, I—” Ms. Underwood stopped a few feet away and looked up at the sky, at the purple, green, and blue balloons floating off, the distant speck of the pink one. Her shoulders slumped. Then she released her yellow balloon. “They were using the soccer field anyway,” she muttered.

The five of them stood there for a while with their heads tilted back, looking up until the last four balloons were just tiny dots. The pink one was already invisible behind a cloud.

“I’m sorry about your dad,” Levi said.

Hannah didn’t say anything.

***