The sun was bright that day. Wait, was it hot? It was mid-October, I don’t think it was
hot, but it was sunny. I do remember it being sunny. Blinding, almost, the rays
burning into my eyes, causing me to squint as I walked to the car.
It was a Monday and I had taken the day off from school because my mom
was going to bring me to the doctor to get some blood work done and then we were
going to head to the mall to pick out a homecoming dress for me, since the much-
anticipated dance was that coming Saturday.
I was sixteen, really irritable, and ready to leave, to get the doctor shit over
with so all the fun dress-picking-out excitement could begin. My mom had
instructed me to get the kids in the car, while she stayed inside and talked (argued)
with Michael. Liam had just turned seven and Micah was a few months over a year
old at that point. I had rolled my eyes at my mother’s request because Michael was
pissing me off lately. He was pissing everyone off lately. He was a nightmare. He and
I hadn’t even been speaking since our huge fight the week before, but that was just
fine with me. I had bigger issues to worry about, like trying to fit in at my new high
school or what I could wear to make me look less chubby.
My mom finally huffed herself into the car and we were on our way.
I do not remember the doctor’s visit at all.
We stopped back at home before we went to the mall; mom had to change
over the laundry and I think she was going to maybe ask Michael to join us. I think I
probably also rolled my eyes at that.
Michael’s truck was in the driveway, but he wasn’t in the house anywhere
that we could see. I think my mom mentioned something about how he had
probably taken a walk. I shrugged and grabbed a handful of goldfish crackers. I
didn’t care whether or not he took a million walks; I wanted to find a
homecoming dress. I remember us walking about the house for a while, my mom
going up and down the basement stairs to switch over the laundry. At long last, we
were back in the car, seatbelts on, kids in their car seats, ready to go.
My mom sat still for a moment. I can’t remember her facial expression, I was
probably staring in the mirror, out the window, or down at my lap. I didn’t have a
cell phone at that point so I know I wasn’t playing with that.
“Stay in the car,” she said. She spoke firmly, but there was nothing notable
about what she said or how she said it. Or perhaps I just didn’t notice. She exited
through the driver’s side door and walked back into the house. I leaned my forehead
against the cool glass of my window and sighed.
Maybe five minutes passed. Maybe it was ten. Maybe it was only a minute.
Time moved in all directions that day.
I heard movement from the backseat. Liam was undoing his seatbelt.
“Liam, mom said to stay in the car.” He ignored me and before I could say
anything else, he was out the side door and in the house. I sighed again and rolled
my eyes for like the tenth time that day.
I don’t know how much time passed, but it couldn’t have been much. Before
long, Liam was climbing back into the car.
“Whoah, that was really weird.” He said. He didn’t sound upset, nor did he
seem overly bothered. It was just a casual statement. I didn’t think a thing of it.
“What?” I asked noncommittally, hardly paying attention.
“Dad fell asleep on the basement floor.”
It’s odd, but years later that one sentence still reverberates through my
head, banging against one side and striking the other, leaving resonating trembling
vibrations in my brain. Looking back, that was the moment for me, I guess. That was
my “Mam, there’s been an accident.” That was my “I’m so sorry, there is nothing
more we can do.” That was my “You should probably sit down for this.”
I didn’t know exactly what had happened, but I knew it wasn’t good. The
superficial part of my brain, the part that thinks thoughts that the deep-down part
knows aren’t true, thought maybe my mom and Michael had gotten into a fight in
the basement, and maybe my mom had pushed him and he fell. That’s what it
seemed like I was thinking. But somewhere inside me knew it was much worse than
that. The part of my brain that stays locked and closed, keeping the darkness inside,
felt the horror and sent warning shocks all the way to the tips of my fingers.
I jumped out of the car and ran inside.
The next few hours exist within my memory as some sort of constantly
changing, fluid, flexible entity, ready to jump out and attack me at any moment. I
can’t recall the whole thing, I only see flashes.
Flash, I opened the screen door and let it bang against my calves as I ran
inside.
Flash, I got to the basement door and ran halfway down the stairs, leaning
over the side. I saw Michael’s legs on the ground. I heard my mom screaming and
crying. “Kaitlyn, Michael hung himself.” I remember her telling me to call 911, but
I’m not sure if I made up that memory because she was already on the phone with
them at the time.
Flash, I turned around and ran up from the basement, choking back burning
hot pain crawling up my throat from my stomach, discovering the phone was not in
its place (because my mom was on it), I was dizzy, the floor was moving.
Flash, I’m almost falling up the stairs, and into my mom’s room to see where
the other phone is. I’m vaguely aware of a damp warmth spreading down my legs as
I lost control of my bladder. I remember thinking of my cousin Jake who had
committed suicide the year before by way of the noose, as well. “Fuck guys, this is
a fun thing to deal with every month, you fucking pieces of shit.” I wanted to scream.
The floor wouldn’t stay still. I finally reached the phone.
Flash, I picked it up the phone just to hear my mother’s voice.
“Come on Mike, come on baby, stay with me,” she desperately sobbed, her
voice almost becoming a scream. She kept saying the same things over and over
again, begging him to be alive, calling him baby, saying she loved him, choking on
her own sobs. Would this nightmare just end already?
“Hello!” I was basically screaming myself.
I just barely heard the forced-calm voice of the 911 operator over my mom’s
desperate, horrified wails, telling me there was an ambulance on the way, asking me
about my brother and sister, telling me to not go back into the basement, telling me
to go out to the car with the little kids, asking me to tell the EMTs who arrived to get
my mother off the phone so I wouldn’t hear her anymore.
Flash, flash, flash, flash.
When I stepped back outside, I remember the sun was still so bright. I was
moving underwater. Each step was surreal, the feeling of the ground beneath my
feet wasn’t really there. I looked out towards the street as the ambulance and police
cars pulled up, they weren’t really there either. I found myself thinking, “When will I
get my homecoming dress now?” as one of the police officers wrapped his arms
around me and I swallowed the vomit that was forcing its way into my mouth. More
flashes.
Flash, I walked around to the back of the house, where there was a window
that looked into the basement. I saw him. Lying on the cold cement floor. He looked
like he was sleeping. What the fuck was happening.
Flash, my mom came out to where my two siblings and I were by the car.
There was blood on her shirt and tears in her eyes, but when she told us she didn’t
think that he was going to make it, she smiled slightly like everything was going to
be just fine anyway, almost shrugging as if to say “what can ya do?” People who
have been thrown into hell on Earth and have locked eyes with the Devil himself
sometimes act like that.
Flash, little Liam ran out through the backyard into the broken woods behind
my house. I guess he didn’t know what else to do. A few police officers ran to grab
him. I stood with the baby in my arms, staring.
Flash, my mom sat on our outdoor swing and screamed as loudly as she could
into a pillow. An officer walked over and told her to stop. Why? For what reason? So
as not to upset the children? Because THAT’S what was going to upset them that
day; not that their father had killed himself inside their house, but that their mother
was reacting appropriately. Life, man, sometimes it just kills me.
Flash, my mother was calling all our family members and telling them the
news. “Hey, just letting you know that Michael killed himself today,” I heard over
and over and over. And that’s all she needed to say. The explosive terror of the day
was only just that sentence. Nothing more, nothing less. An event that changed all
our lives was a statement consisting of ten words.
At some point we drove up to the middle school to let my little sister Brianna
know the news. I watched her face crumble, I saw the panicked, desperate “No no no
no come on no this isn’t real this isn’t happening no no come ON no” in her eyes.
That look you get when “that will never happen to me” happens to you. I had to look
away, up into the sky. Was Michael there yet? How long did that process take? Or
was he simply no where. Gone. Dead. Nothing else. Did I even believe in heaven?
What kind of God would allow this to happen?
At some point later on, I sat alone in one of the rooms in my house, on the
hardwood floor, behind a big chair, leaning my back against its back. I put my feet up
on the wall. Someone had brought us over donuts and I had the entire box of them
next to me on the floor. I mindlessly ate them as I thought about the last things I had
said to Michael. I had told him I hated him, I had told him I wished he would die, I
had told him I would never talk to him again. Turns out I was right about that.
I didn’t cry. I just stared. Stared and thought and stared, as I ate the powdery
cinnamon bullshit, not tasting them, but needing to do something with my hands
and mouth. Needing to distract my other senses as much as I could so I wouldn’t
feel. I never thought that it was completely my fault, I’m relatively smart and able-
minded so I knew that was impossible. But that didn’t matter because the guilt was
still there. And it would stay there for a long, long time.
Hell, it’s still here, making guest appearances in my life at any moment,
staying for as long as it likes.
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