Grief Girl (11 page)

His younger sister, Katrina, is there. She goes to my school, but she acts like she doesn't know me. His older brother, Bill, and younger brother, Pip, are there too. Chris's mother is as plastic and fake as our Christmas tree. She's overly nice to people, then talks all nasty about them when they leave. I've even overheard her bitching about Tracy.

I'd rather she just say stuff to a person's face.

         

It's so hot in here. The oven is near the dining table, which is the type that extends to seat thirteen of us. There's no dining room left. If you want to get out of your seat, you have to ask someone else to stand up, or crawl underneath, which isn't a pretty sight.

I miss being at Mum's dining table, even if it meant I had to be extra careful not to spill anything and drink like a lady with my pinkie up. I wonder what they'd do if I flicked some peas. Maybe Peter and I should teach Trent. Keep the family spirit alive. I wonder how Ronald and Peter are feeling having Christmas without their big sister?

Christmas is dead to me. I hate it. Pulling Christmas crackers and wearing stupid paper hats. Trent handing out all the presents under the tree…everyone acting so damn happy and everyone knowing we're just acting.

I hate spending Christmas in someone else's house.

It's someone else's Christmas. Not mine.

         

It's January 15, 1984. My fifteenth birthday.

It doesn't make any sense to have a birthday when the people who gave birth to me no longer exist.

It's dumb, idiotic.

I was born to Mum and Dad, and they're not here.

So I'm not having a fifteenth birthday. What's the point?

         

Maybe I am crazy. I'm definitely losing my mind. I'm starting to forget things.

I can't remember what Mum sounded like or how Dad used to laugh. I can't stand looking at photos of them, so I can't even remember what they looked like.

Why didn't I think of this juicy stuff when I was with the psychiatrist? Why am I forgetting? What's going to happen?

It's starting to seem like they never even existed.

February 1984

I
t's a new school year.

Year ten. The year I can leave school if I want. Tracy hated school and left in year ten to be a hairdresser. But I'm going to finish through year twelve. I have to make something of my life to give this all meaning.

My new English teacher, Ms. Ockenden, is a staunch feminist. I love her class.

She introduces us to the great women of modern literature, like Virginia Woolf, who drowned herself by putting rocks in her pocket, and Sylvia Plath, who gassed herself by sticking her head in an oven.

It must be hard to be a great woman.

Ms. Ockenden has given us each a different book to study and do a report on, as she says we're all individuals with varying tastes and talents. Julie was assigned
The Color Purple
by Alice Walker; I've got
The Bell Jar
by Sylvia Plath.

Ms. Ockenden hasn't said much about what's happened to me, but I get the feeling she understands me somehow.

She wants us to write about “childhood.”

“You've got fifteen minutes. Don't stop and think. Just write,” she says.

Everyone has their head down writing about the summer at the beach or about the day they got their first bike. I'm stuck. What am I going to write? Dead parents. Merry Christmas. Dead parents. Happy New Year. Dead parents. Dead parents. Dead parents.

I start to write and can't stop. I'm writing about death and coffins and skeletons and parents and more death. She's going to think I'm nuts.

         

“Time's up, pens down.”

I don't want to hand mine in. I've exposed myself to be the idiot I am.

         

“Erin, what's wrong?” Megan asks. She's next to me on the wooden bench. I must look more depressed than usual.

“I feel so stupid.”

We're all sitting outside at lunch. “We had to write about childhood in English and I went on and on about Mum and Dad and death and stuff. It was full on.”

Megan shakes her head. “That's not something to be upset about, Erin. It's good to express yourself in your writing.”

I shrug. I'm not so sure.

Julie squeezes my hand. “She asked us to write about childhood. And you did.”

         

We get our papers back the next day. I get an A+. Is that an A+, I pity you? Or an A+, you're brilliant! Somehow I think it's the former.

On my paper, Ms. Ockenden wrote, “Erin, maybe you should think about writing or journalism when you leave school.” A nice compliment, I guess. I hope that after class she'll pull me aside to discuss my writing. But she doesn't. The bell rings and she looks down at her books.

Maybe it's like Megan and Julie said. Or maybe she's just embarrassed for me.

Maybe she'd just rather read about swing sets and happy families.

         

I swear I've watched too many melodramatic movies.

I'm having a diva moment.

It's ten p.m. Tracy and Chris are watching TV. Trent's in bed and I'm in my bedroom. I've just done something worthy of Bette Davis.

I got my aluminum tennis racquet and, John McEnroe style, bashed my bed with its stupid orange chenille bedspread until I had no strength left. What a waste of time. It didn't do anything. The bed just bounced back. I couldn't hit hard enough.

I'm slumped on the floor with my hair hanging in my face. I don't know what to do to get this angry feeling out of me. Maybe I'm approaching it from the wrong angle. Maybe I should be hitting in, not out.

I stare at my beautiful long fingernails. Then I dig them into my skin.

Acrylic nails don't scratch.

The lady at the salon told me I could remove the nails by dipping my fingers in polish remover. I open a bottle of it and pour some in a cup. It works, sort of. My once-beautiful nails are dripping clumps of white goo. They don't come off completely. I have to rip the remains off using my short, stubby yellow nails underneath. I knew she was lying when she said they wouldn't harm my real nails.

After half an hour they're off. All traces of glamour are gone. Now I can get back to the dirty work. I have just enough nail to dig. Scratch. It works. A nice big red mark on my wrist. I like that my veins stick out more these days now that I'm not eating as much. That's a bereavement bonus right there. Scratch. I dig deeper this time. Yes! Blood. The pain feels good. Better than sadness.

Now my face. I scratch and dig my stupid childish tears and my ugly miserable face. I just want to scratch my whole face away so I don't have to look at it anymore. I won't exist as me anymore.

I look in the mirror. I look at what I've become. Oh my God. I'm an absolute mess. My face is all scratched up, all red and blotchy from crying. Welts cover my pale skin. I look like an albino mouse who's been in a fight with a cat and lost.

What have I done? Why am I really doing this? Am I doing this for attention? Everyone is going to see. I want people to think I can handle it. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. Why I do things. I never imagined I would be so desperate. I've got to stop. This is too obvious and pathetic. A Help Me sign around my neck.

         

It's morning and I'm sneaking out of the house with sunglasses on and my dirty hair over my face. I haven't washed it in weeks. There's no point when it will just get dirty again.

My friends tell me I should speak to someone.

“Erin, it's time to admit you can't do this on your own,” Julie says.

But the teachers…can't they see that my face is all scratched up? Mrs. Stockbridge would, but she's sick today. Great timing, Erin.

I've been walking around school all day and not one teacher has said anything. Don't they think it's strange that I look like this? Maybe they're pretending not to notice. How embarrassing! It's obvious attention-seeking behavior, they're thinking. I must look like a fool.

They say a person does this stuff to feel physical pain, which takes your mind off the emotional pain. That's bullshit. You just end up feeling both. Great. Now I've got a throbbing face and I'm miserable.

Finally, toward the end of the day, Mrs. C-J, of all people, acknowledges the obvious. “Erin, what happened to your face?”

“Oh, I walked into some bushes on the way to school.” I laugh. “Aren't I a klutz?”

I don't really want her to buy this. I want her to think I'm like those battered women who say they walked into a door.

“My goodness, have you put anything on it?” She touches my cheek, which makes me want to cry, for some stupid reason.

“No, it's okay. It doesn't hurt.” Ask me more questions.

But she doesn't.

“Well, be more careful in the future, Erin. You have such a pretty face.” Yeah, right.

What? That's it? She must know I did this to myself. Maybe she's trying the “ignore the attention-seeking behavior” tactic so I'll give up. Maybe she does believe the bush story.

Maybe sometimes people have better things to think about than me me me.

         

I've finished my assignment for English class. I hope Ms. Ockenden doesn't think of me the way people did of Sylvia Plath. She supposedly wrote her book as fiction, but everybody knows it's about her.

I must say I'm rather proud of my work. I took a ring binder and covered the front with brown fabric. I padded the inside cover with quilted fabric and included all my notes on the misunderstood Sylvia. It's supposed to represent a padded cell. And the back cover is ripped and ruined, just as poor Sylvia was.

I can really relate to Sylvia Plath. She's incredibly unhappy and feels that no one understands her, and she's right. She doesn't wash her hair because she knows that it's silly, that you just have to do it again another day and another day. It wears her out like it wears me out. She sees that everything is so stupid when you only die in the end anyhow. She has trouble sleeping and then doesn't really see the point of getting out of bed in the morning when there's nothing to look forward to.

She thinks about killing herself and so do I.

“No matter how much you knelt and prayed, you still had to eat three meals a day and have a job and live in the world,” she writes.

You better believe it, Sylvia!

Her father has died, but his death seems unreal to her. Plus, if he had lived, he would have been a cripple, just like mine. The similarities are amazing. There's even a character in the book named Mrs. Ockenden!

Was I destined to read Sylvia? Are some things already mapped out? I think so. I hope so. Maybe there is some meaning to things.

I love Sylvia and wish she were still alive, but I can understand why she's not. Killing yourself can seem like the only way out sometimes.

I get an A+. This death thing really gets a girl good grades.

         

So the party's over. But where has everyone gone?

My parents' friends sobbed at the funerals, ate cakes at the wakes, looked at us with great sadness, and said, “If there's anything we can do, just let us know.”

They seemed to mean it at the time, they really did.

Then they were gone.

I didn't notice at first. But after a few weeks I started to wonder why we hadn't seen anyone. The phone calls and visits just stopped. Of course, there's always Auntie Connie making sure our fridge is stocked with dinners, but that's it. I haven't seen Evelyn for ages, and she was Mum's best friend! She must be so upset and missing Mum that she just can't face us. Actually, everyone must be upset, because no one has come to our house since the big giveaway of all my parents' things.

I thought it would be like in the movies where all the adults flock around. You know, the community pulls together, making pies and stews, babysitting, coming over with cleaning supplies, saying, “Stay right there. I'll clean the house for you.” The suffering ones cry from the joy of knowing there is so much loving and caring in the world.

People really come through at a time like this.

I thought Mum's friends would hug us and tell us everything would be all right. I thought they'd offer advice and words of wisdom about being a young woman in the world without a mother. I thought they'd talk about Mum and Dad and we'd smile, thinking about Mum's silly mishaps and Dad's wheezy laugh.

“Remember the time they did this and that?”
we'd say.

I mean, I know we're not the cheeriest house around and it must be a bit depressing for people, but aren't they even just a bit curious? I've spent my whole life around Mum and Dad's friends, and now they're gone. Well, not exactly gone…some of them live just around the corner.

They're gone to us, I suppose. I can't blame them. They've got their own lives. But…

I'm so glad Mum and Dad aren't around to witness the exodus of their lifelong friends. What a lie it all was.

March 1984

I
t's almost time for the Shopfront Theater tour.

I still feel weird about going. It seems frivolous and morally wrong, and just plain selfish.

My friends say I should go to honor my parents. One minute Tracy says I should go; the next, she seems angry that I'm considering it.

But Shopfront is where I had that horrible thought, and a week later it happened, though not exactly the way I imagined. Mum died instantly and Dad lasted a month. It happened, and I didn't feel powerful and brave and strong like I imagined I would.

Did God punish me for my thoughts, for being so evil and self-serving? They say every kid imagines being an orphan. But how many kids actually become one?

I hate the word
orphan.
Everyone feels sorry for the poor little orphan. I'm not a pathetic orphan. My parents just happened to die, that's all.

         

Auntie Connie and Uncle Steele have turned their house into a circus-style casino for a big party in my honor. They've organized a surprise fund-raising event for the Shopfront tour. Qantas (the airline) is sponsoring us, but every little bit helps.

I can't believe how many people are here; I don't even know most of them. They're friends and family of Auntie Connie and Uncle Steele.

It's amazing. You can be feeling so unlucky, and the next day you're the luckiest person alive! The whole cast is here, and we're performing songs from the show. Trent is running around with his face painted like a tiger; people are playing cards, spinning the chocolate wheel, and having their future told for three dollars by Auntie Connie's cousin, who's dressed as a fortune-teller. I wonder what future I could get for three dollars. I'm too scared to find out.

I'm giddy with happiness. But I sober up quickly the next day.

“Isn't it wonderful, Erin?” Auntie Connie tells me. She's sitting at our kitchen table with an envelope in front of her. “We've raised five hundred dollars for you to go and have a fantastic time.”

“Thank you so much,” I tell her. “The kids will be so excited.”

“What do you mean, the kids will be excited?” Auntie Connie asks, looking confused.

I tap the envelope. “For the extra money for the tour.”

Auntie Connie shakes her head. “Erin, we all did this for
you,
so
you
would have some spending money while you're over there. Not the others.”

I close my eyes. It was a benefit for me. But that's not what I'd told everyone.

         

When I tell Errol the next day at rehearsals, he's furious. “If we'd known that, why would we have come and performed?”

Maybe because people help each other out? But all I do is shrug.

“You don't need spending money.” He is seething.

“No one's taking spending money!”

“Well, I don't know what to do.” This is so humiliating.

“Don't worry about it. It's your money. Do what you want,” he says, walking off to the front office.

If it's fine, why are you acting so pissed off? I wish people would just say what's really on their mind instead of saying one thing but letting you know they're really angry. Assholes! I swear that when I'm older I'll never do that.

I don't want the damn money. It's not right. It's selfish to keep it all for myself. That's not the theatrical spirit.

“Auntie Connie, couldn't I just put half of it toward the tour?” I try one last time.

“Erin, it's not that much money to start with. Everybody who came that night came for
you,
not some kids they don't know. Kids with parents who I'm sure are giving them a bit of money to take along, I might add.” Now Auntie Connie's getting annoyed.

God. Now everybody is annoyed with me!

I wish we'd never had the stupid fund-raiser.

         

We're putting on the show for family and friends before we leave for England. At least if we make a mistake, it will be in front of people who know us. In a way, that feels worse. I'd rather screw up in front of strangers.

I'm so nervous. All my friends are coming.

The lights have gone down and I'm onstage. It's strange. I have that feeling I had that terrible day when I thought the bad thought. I do feel brave and strong…sort of.

The lights are up and we're all singing. Our hard work is paying off. The show zips along, and then I'm in the spotlight, wearing tap shoes and mock-sadly singing,
“If I only had a dancing partner.”
Everyone is laughing, thank goodness. I wasn't sure if I had it in me to be funny anymore.

Toward the end of the show I walk out deadpan, stare at the audience, and say, “Nobody loves me. Nobody even likes me. I must be horrible.” I'm starting to understand why Errol gave me these lines. I've become that girl.

I can see my friends in the back row. They're holding a white banner that says
BREAK A LEG
!
ERIN VINCENT SUPER-STAR
! I am so lucky to have such good friends. I could never get through this without them. I know everyone says it, but I really do have the best friends in the world. They clap and cheer louder than anyone in the audience, and when we run offstage after the last song, they start stomping their feet, whistling, and chanting my name.

Mum would be so proud.

“Erin, that was amazing,” Megan says when I go out to greet them.

“Speech! Speech!” Meredith shouts.

Julie begins imitating a Hollywood movie star. “I'd like to thank God, my fans, my parents—” She claps a hand over her mouth, horrified. And my tears come.

Why do I have to cry now?

“Oh, Erin. I didn't mean to—”

“I just wish they were here, that's all,” I say. Then I start laughing. I can do that on cue now that I'm an actress. We group hug. “Hey, but how many people get a rowdy crowd like you guys to cheer them on!”