Chapter 25

TUESDAY DECEMBER 25, 1990, CHRISTMAS DAY

I hadn’t seen Mel since Friday, and while I did miss her, it was probably good for my soul. Every moment seemed tumultuous, and drama buzzed around her like bees to flowers. We did everything at full throttle, whether it was making love or just not getting along. A few days of quiet time around my family was welcomed.

Our family had our traditional Christmas Eve meal of oyster soup and appetizers like ham-wrapped pickles with pineapple cream cheese, and then pickled herring and crackers. Certainly it was an eclectic combination of foods that would give you noxious burps, but it was our tradition. Another tradition was allowing me a little bit of wine or beer for the occasion. That just added to the toxic quality of the burps.

Grandma and grandpa Miller joined us, as usual, for the odd meal. Dad and grandpa talked about racing back in the day again. Gifts were exchanged and cards were played.

Grandpa and grandma left late in the evening. We’d be headed to the Parker Ranch in the late morning for a Christmas Day meal with the Parker side of the family. Grandma and Grandpa Miller would host a larger meal later that night for the rest of the Miller side.

Josh eagerly went to bed in wait for Santa. I headed to bed overfull of an odd combination of foods and a little more beer than either parent knew I had consumed. I slept very well that night.

Christmas morning brought gifts from mom and dad and some from Santa for Josh. I got a new catcher’s mitt to work in and a new set of cleats. We shared a light breakfast after a ton of photos and we got dressed to head to the Parker Ranch.

Dad’s brother and sister and their families were present. We had a fine meal of turkey and spiral cut ham, mashed potatoes, stuffing, a lovely vegetable casserole and a giant Black Forest Cake for dessert.

More gifts were exchanged in the big room grandma had insisted on building when they had built their ranch-style home. The big living room featured a vaulted ceiling and a huge fireplace, with plenty of room for everyone to gather to exchange gifts.

It had been a lovely day. I spent time with my little cousins, letting them chase me around, as I was the oldest. We laughed and played with new toys and reconnected as an extended family.

Finally it was time to go. Dad had cattle to feed. Yeah, cattle eat even on holidays. We shared hugs and thanks and made plans for Easter Sunday.

After we got home, I’d help dad with chores, then have a little time to veg out before we headed to Grandma and Grandpa Millers’.

Dad and I quickly took care of chores, being fairly careful to stay clean. Once back in the house, dad zipped out of his coverall and headed for a brief nap.

That idea sounded good to me as well, but I had someone on my mind and wanted to wish her a Merry Christmas.

Once out of my coverall, I grabbed a glass of water and the phone, dialing Mel’s number.

Of course, the ever-present fear of her mother answering the phone was there, but I was mostly over that.

The phone rang a fifth and sixth time. I was just about convinced that no one was home when the line picked up and I heard a male voice at the other end.

It was Mel’s father, Rick. He sounded distant and a little tired.

“Hello?”

“Hi, and Merry Christmas. This is Jake Parker. Is Mel there?”

“Uhhh...” His breath seemed to run ragged from his chest, and his voice had an unusual tone to it.

“Hi, Jake. Uh, Merry Christmas to you too.”

“Is Mel there?”

Rick sounded odd, but I was still a little relieved that Mel’s mom hadn’t picked up.

He took a long moment on the other end of the line, then seemed even more quiet.

“Jake, I don’t know how to tell you this. I’m sorry to tell you this over the phone.”

“Tell me what?” I asked to break a long silence.

It wasn’t a sob, it wasn’t quite a break in his voice, it was just a tone of defeat.

“Melody died this morning, Jake. I’m sorry to tell you on the phone like this. I know you cared about her and she cared about you very much.”

I had to strain to hear what he was saying, and it created a disconnect between what I was hearing and what my mind was processing.

“We found her this morning, Jake, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry, again to tell you something like this on the phone.”

‘He’s bullshitting me.’

“What?” I croaked through a dry throat. My mind raced along with my heart. I felt like I hadn’t taken a breath since I first said my name on the phone.

“I, I’m not sure I can repeat myself, Jake.” The poor man sounded entirely defeated and ready to cry.

I reached over to set my water glass down on the table, only I missed. The full glass fell to the floor with a crash and shatter of wet glass.

“We uh, we’re making arrangements tomorrow morning. No one is open today, I guess,” he trailed off. “We will call the school tomorrow so they know.”

Rick Rogers had just lost his oldest daughter, but his mind was in a different place than mine. He was thinking about burying his daughter, making arrangements, calling relatives. I was trying to force my mind to coalesce around the reality.

“I’m. I’m sorry,” I finally found something to say.

Mom had come around the corner to see what the commotion was about. One look at my face told her something was very, very wrong.

“It’s not your fault, Jake. We need you to know it’s not your fault. We have a pretty good idea of why she did this, but we know it’s not your fault. You need to know that, OK?”

“OK...”

My head was spinning. My legs were weak. I leaned against the cabinet with the phone still against my ear and I slid down to the floor.

“What’s wrong?” mom asked in a near panic.

I held the phone up to her in both hands like an offering. Like she could take the phone and get this straightened out. Like she could fix whatever this was. A joke? A sick joke?

I hugged my knees there on the floor, looking at a hundred shards of wet glass that had been my glass of water. I never felt more thirsty, but I couldn’t have a drop of it.

“This is Donna Parker, who’s this?”

Mom’s eyes widened as Rick spoke, likely in that same eerie tone.

“Oh, oh my God! I’m so sorry for your loss, Rick.”

Mom stepped closer to me, putting her trembling hand on my head.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Is there anything we can do for you?”

Tear drops fell from mom’s face, landing among the shards of glass.

“I understand. We’ll be waiting to hear more. And if there is anything we can do for you, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

She leaned toward the phone, seeming to want to end the conversation as fast as possible.

“We’ll make sure he knows. Thank you so much for that. And again, I’m so sorry for your loss. No one should have to go through this, especially at Christmas.”

A part of my tumultuous mind was upset that mom hadn’t fixed a darn thing. It wasn’t a joke. It was real.

Melody Rogers was dead.

“Yes, thank you. I’m so sorry. Good bye.”

In a moment the phone was hung up, forgotten, and mom was on her knees holding me. I remained latched to my own knees. Oddly, not a single tear had fallen from my eyes. I really felt like crying, but I wasn’t there yet. I was floating on some cloud in my mind, where none of it was real.

“Oh, Jacob, I’m so sorry,” mom cried into my neck, holding me tight.

“What’s wrong?” dad asked, just walking into the room.

“Give me a second, Johnathan,” mom said in the measured tone she reserved for serious moments. “Can you grab an old towel and clean up this broken glass?”

“Sure,” dad replied with a little skepticism.

Mom cried and held and rocked me. Dad kneeled down next to us with the towel, looking at mom for answers.

“Sorry about the glass,” I said with an empty tone in my voice.

“It’s OK,” mom said and then repeated it over and over. “It’s OK.”

But it wasn’t OK. I felt like I was already starting to forget everything Mel’s dad had just said, but it was front and center in my mind.

“We found her this morning...”

‘Where had they found her?’ I thought. ‘Was she missing?’

The first huge tears fell from my eyes. Running down my face.

“Mom, what did he say?”

“I’m so sorry, Jake,” mom replied in tears, hugging and rocking me close.

“I know, mom, what did he say to you? What happened?”

“It wasn’t your fault,” she cried, holding me almost too tightly.

“I know that part,” I said, starting to get testy with her. “What happened? Did he say what happened?”

“Oh, Jake,” she sobbed. “He said she killed herself.”

I went silent. More tears rolled down my face. I felt dizzy. I felt sick.

“They found her in the bathtub this morning,” she finished, unable to say more.

I don’t know how long I was on the floor. I don’t know how long mom held me there. But I was in my bed now, fully clothed and on top of my bedspread. It felt like hours or just mere seconds had passed. I was still trying to gather the facts. I hadn’t put much emotion into what had happened. I needed to know exactly what happened first.

But mom had told me. Mom said Mel had killed herself. I remember Rick telling me it wasn’t my fault. But was it? Why would she do that? Why would that beautiful girl end her life?

‘Would you run away with me?’

Her words echoed in my mind. What did it mean? I asked if there were problems at home. She denied it, but wanted to live her life her own way.

‘Killing yourself is not living your life your own way, Mel.’

‘I want to remember you just like this.’

Her voice haunted my thoughts. A thousands images of her flashed through my mind, moments on the bus, rocking her swing next to mine at the park, her bedroom, Marcy’s bedroom, her car, the theatre, homecoming dance, Mel dancing in her cheer gear and ending with the image of her pale body dead in her bathtub, eyes wide open. I hadn’t seen her in that way, but my mind could see it clearly.

I wavered between feeling guilty that it was my fault, and angry that it was her fault.

Why?

The ever lingering question. My mind couldn’t work through anything else until I knew why. Why would she do this to herself? Why would she do this to her family? Why would she do this to me?

At my own feelings of loss and grief, I cried. Not racked with sobs, but with eyes open and leaking huge tears.

I was suddenly aware of more. Mom was in the kitchen, on the phone, making some quiet arrangements. Dad was spending time with Josh in another room, keeping him occupied.

I had no idea how long it had been since I made the call. I had no idea how I got into my room. The gray December sky outside my window was no help.

I was thirsty. There was a fresh plastic cup of water on my nightstand, as if my need for it had made it appear.

I took a long drink and collapsed back onto the bed, the idea of getting up fleeing me.

No, I would stay in this room as long as I would be allowed to. I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

I was replaying what I could remember from Rick on the phone in my head when I heard our garage door open.

A few soft words were spoken, then I heard my bedroom door open. Before I could turn over and look, she was on me.

She was all at once cold from the outdoors, and warm to the touch, sobbing tears and trying to console me.

Shelby had run into my room and smothered me. She was crying much harder than I was.

“Hey,” I said weakly. “It’s going to be OK.”

She almost laughed, then pressed her lips to my cheek and held me.

“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, for me, for Mel and for herself. I knew she looked up to Mel, talking girly talk and getting fashion tips from time to time. Mel was almost always kind to her, unless we were fighting and, of course, Shelby took my side.

“I’m so sorry,” she cried, holding me down on the bed.

“Everyone keeps saying that,” I said flatly. “But what happened? Why?”

Shelby looked toward my bedroom door for a moment.

“I don’t know,” she said with sorrow. “All I know is that she committed suicide this morning.”

“But why?”

“I don’t think anyone knows that,” Shelby cried. “No one knows.”

“Why?”

I cried at a measured pace. I didn’t sob. I would have lost my breath and maybe passed out. Maybe I already had passed out. I just meekly, weakly laid almost face down on my bed and cried in pain, and grief.

“Why?”

Shelby was like a human blanket. No longer cold from the outside, she was a warm relief.

By the time the gray sky outside my window turned dark, Shelby had brought me more water and had switched to sitting Indian-style on the bed next to me, rather than laying on me or next to me. She made sure I knew she was there, with a hand always somewhere touching me.

We spoke a few words from time to time. She still cried along with me. My mind kept wandering back to the question I didn’t know the answer to.

“Why?”

Shelby couldn’t bring herself to try to answer me anymore. I was starting to sound like a broken record with a very long skip. I could calm down and nearly stop crying before the question would haunt me again.

“Why?”

“Jake,” I heard mom’s voice from my doorway. “Shelby has to go home soon.”

The thought was disheartening, but I understood.

“I could stay,” Shelby offered. “Even just outside his door.”

“You have family to see, Shelby,” mom said warmly. “You’ve done what you can for him for now. He’s going to need you again later. Will you be there for him later?”

“Of course,” Shelby said, a little in defeat. “Will you keep an eye on him?”

“Mom nearly chuckled with a small smile. “Of course I will.”

Through blearly, teary eyes I saw Shelby lean down and kiss my forehead. Then she hugged me tightly again.

“I’m so sorry,” she said sadly, and left my room.

Dad gave her a ride home. Her mom had brought her over and spent some time talking to my parents, then gave up on trying to get Shelby to leave and left with the promise that dad would drive her home before it was too late.

It was late. I had no idea how late. I checked my alarm clock and it was well past 11:30 p.m.

Shelby had been there for hours. It had been hours since the call. It had been hours since I’d been to the bathroom.

I got up on sleepy legs and headed for some relief.

“Where are you going?” mom asked insistently.

“The bathroom,” I said as I headed in that direction.

Mom followed, and I could tell she waited just outside as I unleashed a long piss.

“Are you OK?”

“Am I OK? I’m just going to the bathroom,” I said in mild irritation.

I finished up, washed my hands and looked at my reflection in the mirror.

I looked awful. My eyes were very red. My face drained of color and looking gaunt. I washed away what I could of that and wiped my face with a towel.

Mom was waiting for me outside the bathroom, and walked with me back to my room.

“Why don’t you get dressed for bed,” she intoned, nodding toward my bed.

She gave me my privacy, and I stripped down and added a set of shorts. I pulled back my blankets and went to turn off my light and shut my door when mom appeared with a pillow and blanket. She went to work spreading it out on the living room couch, just outside my room.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m just going to be close by, OK?”

“OK,” I shrugged. I didn’t have the energy or the emotional power to argue.

Sleep came to me in short, fitful bursts. Real life was the nightmare I kept waking up to. Mel was very much alive in my dreams. We were together, at our happiest. Waking up with a start brought a few moments of confusion, then the reality.

Mel was dead.

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 26, 1990

Mom was reading on the couch when I went to the bathroom early the next morning. She gave me a close inspection, the set her book down and followed me.

I paused to study her. She looked exhausted. She waited for me to continue.

I turned and headed to the bathroom and she followed once again. I closed the bathroom door with the distinct impression that mom was going to wait outside.

“Are you OK?” she asked softly through the door.

“Not really,” I sighed as I struggled to get a stream started. “Can you give me some privacy?”

“Sorry. Just forget I’m out here.”

“Uh, OK.”

I managed a stream to start the day, washed my hands and left the bathroom on unsteady legs.

Mom led me back to the other end of the house. She watched me go back into my room and she took her place on the couch again. It was clear that she was going to keep a pretty close eye on me.

I went back to bed, collapsing face-first into it again.

Without even thinking, tears started slowly streaming down my face again.

Before long, I could smell hot food in the air. Bacon. Maybe toast? My stomach went into cramps, and I realized I hadn’t eaten since noon the day before. Christmas dinner.

Mom walked into my room with a plate. Two slices of buttered toast, a couple of over-easy eggs and three slices of bacon.

“You have to eat.”

“I want to eat,” I shrugged, accepting the plate.

“I’m making a tater tot hotdish for the Rogers family, and I’m going to bring it over there before noon. Would you like to come with?”

I had set about arranging my breakfast into a sandwich when her proposition locked into my mind. I did not want to be there. Some sense of dread overcame any curiosity I had that could perhaps be answered by going over there.

I was alive. Their daughter was not. How could they look at me with anything other than envy, or even hate? I had to have been responsible for this in some way, surely they’d believe that somewhere deep inside, just like I did now.

“Uh, probably not,” I offered softly. “Not up to seeing anyone.”

“I understand,” mom said and squeezed my hand. “I’ll get you some napkins and some milk and juice, but please be careful with all that in bed.”

“I will...”

I polished off my breakfast and brought the dishes out to the kitchen.

Mom indeed did make a hotdish for the Rogers family. I could smell it. She had covered it in aluminum foil and marked our name on it in hopes of getting the casserole dish back.

She asked me if I wanted to go again, just to be sure. I begged off, and mom left with her dish as dad came in from chores. I could tell I would not be left alone. Josh had been handed off to one of the sets of grandparents. Dad did not press me one ounce, he just sort of hovered around the house conspicuously.

My parents were not oppressing me by any stretch, but they were not letting their son far out of their sight so soon after his girlfriend had taken her own life. I understood that. I didn’t begrudge them that, but I felt some need to prove to them I had no similar intentions before things did get oppressive.

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 27, 1990

I had more time to process my thoughts, my emotions. I felt darker by the moment. I knew in the pit of my stomach that it was my fault. I hadn’t done enough to let her know I wasn’t going to leave her, and she’d taken her own life rather than get dumped. It was the dread gnawing at my insides all night. Sure, I had slept some. Sleep was my time of peace. Mel’s death had not yet entered my dream time. Only when awake was that nightmare real.

Our phone had rang many times since I found out about Mel’s death. Relatives had called to see how I was doing, or to express their condolences. Mom and dad kept vigil over the phone, shielding me from it and keeping me in their periphery. Mom kept an actual vigil, sleeping on the couch near my room.

It was late Thursday morning when mom told me I was going to visit school for a bit to talk to the counselor they had brought in. She didn’t ask if I wanted this, she told me this was happening.

“I don’t need to,” I argued.

“We want you to do this,” she countered. “It can only help.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone about this, much less a stranger,”

“Jake, they are having counselors there this week and next week, and that’s it. We’d like you to go while they are offering this, please.”

“Fine,” I complied, having no fight left in me.

I rode along with mom, staring out the passenger window at the dreary and dead landscape of the midwest winter. The trees were without leaves. Dirty snow piled up along the road and in the ditches and nothing alive or cheerful could be seen. It did nothing to relieve my funk.

At the school, mom led me inside, kicking the snow off our boots. Just inside the school offices, mom spoke quietly with a receptionist and I was led into a small room and introduced to a short, older woman with kind eyes.

“I’m Claudia, and I’m a therapist here for students like you. Would you like to talk?”

I glanced at mom and nodded, following her into a small room.

She took my coat and hung it on the back of the door. She had to be all of 60, and maybe five feet tall, with silvery gray hair and a pair of bifocals perched on her nose.

A small table was set against the wall, and had one chair on each side. She bid me to sit down, and I did.

She reached into a satchel on the ground and produced a small, round candle, then set it on the small table and lit it.

“I’m not supposed to do that, but I think it adds a nice calming effect. You won’t tell anyone, will you?” her smiling eyes asked as she sat down with the white candle burning between us.

I shook my head, realizing she was only asking questions that could be answered without using words.

“No,” I cleared my throat. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Would you tell me your name?”

“I’m Jake Parker,” I said with a little more authority.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Jake, but I wish the circumstances were better.”

She let the words hang in the air, and seemed to take my verbalized answers as a sign to move forward.

“So, Jake, how have you been feeling this week? I know you all have suffered a terrible loss.”

How I was feeling was pretty hard to describe, I needed a moment to think about it.

“Take your time, of course.”

I nodded again, thinking about putting words to how I felt.

“Well, I, um, when I found out at first I couldn’t believe it. I had called to wish her ‘Merry Christmas.’ Her dad answered the phone, and he sounded strange, and quiet. He told me what happened and I didn’t believe him. I remember I dropped my water glass and it broke all over the kitchen floor. I don’t remember a lot after that.”

“That’s perfectly normal, Jake. We often feel disbelief right away when we get terrible news like this, it’s difficult for our minds to handle.”

I nodded with a small sigh, watching the small candle flicker at my breath. The flames seemed to dance between us with a life of its own.

“Have you felt other feelings this week? I know this all just happened two days ago, but what else have you felt?”

I looked at her closely while I thought about her second question.

“Uh, confused. Confused, I guess. I don’t understand. I heard what Rick told me on the phone, and I, I guess I know she killed herself but I don’t know how. No one will tell me how. And why, more importantly why. Do you know why?”

“Ah, Jake, you’re all the way to the hardest question when someone takes their own life. We may never know why. Only she knows why, and she can’t tell us, can she?”

‘But that’s the biggest thing. If I don’t know why, I assume it’s my fault,” I admitted with a touch of sadness and frustration.

“It’s not your fault, Jake. There is only one person at fault in a suicide. That is the person who chooses to take their own life. It’s an awful thing to do to those who love you most.”

“Oh, I agree,” I added quickly. “But how do I know it isn’t my fault?”

I realized Claudia had no idea of the relationship between Mel and me.

“I was her boyfriend,” I admitted to a nod of recognition from the older woman. “We had, uh, problems on and off and she wasn’t always up front with me and I guess we had been close to breaking up more than once. She seemed very desperate to keep that from happening.”

I paused to take a moment to think.

“And there were signs, and I didn’t do anything,” I shook my head. “She asked me if I would run off with her. I asked her if there were problems at home, and she said ‘no,’ but did I do enough?”

“Jake, you did everything you could. Everyone your age thinks about running off. Maybe she was just testing you? How serious do you think she was?”

I looked down at that candle again, watching the flames ebb and flow between us.

“At the time? Not at all. Now? Serious enough to kill herself.”

“I understand,” Claudia said warmly. “It seems like you two were close, even in your ups and downs. Do you mind telling me if you were love?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “I would feel bad if any classmate died, but this was Mel, you know? We were in love, and now she’s gone.”

Unbidden, tears formed in my eyes and fell down my cheeks. Claudia was quick with a tissue and offered me an open box. I didn’t say any other words as I softly cried, again. There was just no avoiding it. I couldn’t stop it.

“I understand, Jake. You’re still in a very raw emotional state. This is still very shocking to you.”

I nodded as I dabbed my eyes and then blew my nose. I felt like a child crying in front of this stranger, kind as she was.

As I got myself together emotionally, still feeling raw, Claudia had more questions.

“Are there other feelings you’ve had this week that you can tell me about? Have you had any dark thoughts?”

“Dark thoughts?”

“Dark thoughts. Thoughts of anger, or thoughts of harming someone or yourself?”

“Oh no,” I added quickly. “Nothing like that at all, but I guess I, like, want to feel angry. I want to feel angry about this, but I don’t know why she did it? Like I want to be mad at her, but I don’t understand. I keep asking. No one will tell me.”

“What if I told you it was OK to be angry, Jake? It’s perfectly normal to be angry at her, or at God or at anyone. It’s a natural part of what you’re going through. I just want to know if you feel mad at yourself, or if you’ve thought about harming yourself.”

“No,” I said flatly, shaking my head. “I would never do that to my family, my friends. I would never have done to that to her.”

‘Oh shit’ Another round of tears sprang forth.

“Why would she do that to me?” I asked the most selfish question on my mind. “I wouldn’t do that to her. Why would she do that to me? Why?”

Claudia had no answer, other than a pained look of sorrow for me. The conversation had indeed sparked the first flickers of anger inside me. She did this. She did this to herself. She did this to her family. She did this to me. I was sitting in a glorified closet on my Christmas break crying to a stranger because my girlfriend had done the most selfish thing a person could possibly do.

‘Why?’

“Jake, I understand the funeral is set for Sunday. How are you feeling about that?”

That was the first I’d heard of it. Claudia could tell from my face.

“I don’t know, I guess,” I admitted. “I didn’t know.”

“Do you feel like you’ll be up to attending it?”

She had asked me at an inopportune moment.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t feel like I’m done ... Done crying, or done being mad, or done. I don’t know. I don’t know if I can be there and not be pathetic.”

She gave me another pained expression of pity.

“There is no such thing as pathetic in grief. We all grieve in different ways and at our own pace. Jake, I know you won’t be done with your grief by Sunday, and you shouldn’t try to be. That’s why we’re going to be here all next week to talk as well.”

That sort of made sense. “Jake, I have just one more question, if you’ll allow me,” she asked with a small smile.

“Sure.”

“Do you feel better having talked to me today? Are you feeling better about yourself?”

“Yes,” I had to admit. I did feel better.

“Then would you like to come back tomorrow and chat some more?”

“Yeah,” said with a small nod.

“Great,” Claudia said, clapping her hands together once. She quickly cupped her hand around the small candle and blew it out, waving the curls of smoke out of the air between us. Then held a finger at her lips with meaning. She gave me a wink and got up from her chair.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Jake, and I hope I’ll see you again here tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” I said in earnest.

I left the office. Mom had a very brief conversation with Claudia, and we left.

“Do you think you’ll be able to go to the funeral?”

Mom’s sudden question slapped me into focus. I was staring out the passenger window again, feeling a touch better about myself, less so about Mel.