Smacked by Eilene Zimmerman

Author:Eilene Zimmerman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2020-02-03T16:00:00+00:00

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THE FRONT DOOR IS open to the street the whole night, with people coming in and out, eating, drinking, speaking softly and urgently, teary-eyed. When the night ends, I won’t even remember seeing people clean up, but the dishwasher will be running and the dining room and kitchen will look as if no one had been there.

Several of Anna’s high school friends, now college students, are in the living room with her, hugging. They have, for some odd reason, brought water balloons and Silly String—the kind of string that is shot out of a can. It occurs to me that teenagers don’t know the first thing about death etiquette. Water balloons? Silly String? That’s what you bring to cheer up a friend whose boyfriend ditched her, not what you bring when someone’s father has just died. On the other hand, they are providing comfort to Anna right now and that’s what she needs. A friend says to me, “You should sit down. Have you eaten? Eat something.” I will, I say, but first, I head down the hall to Evan’s room. I knock. “It’s me, honey, it’s Mom. Can I come in, please? Evan?” There’s no answer, so I open the door and walk in.

Evan is lying in bed, earbuds in. He’s just staring up at the ceiling, not looking at anything. He sees me and takes out the earbuds. I climb into his twin bed and put an arm around him. “Did you hear Simone and Katie knocking? They want to come in and see you. Can they?” I can see his eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed. His hair is a little sweaty and matted. I put my chin on his head and inhale deeply. My sweet boy.

“I can’t, Mom,” he says. “Is that really bad? I just can’t right now. I don’t want to talk to anyone.” We lie there together a minute, and then Evan rolls over onto his side.

No, I tell him, you don’t have to see anyone if you don’t want to. “Can I bring you in some food or something? Water? Juice?” But I know that all he wants is to lie here and try to fall asleep and wake up and have it be Saturday all over again, a regular old Saturday. No dead father. No drugs, no police. No stiff bodies covered in yellow tarp being carried downstairs. On this let’s-try-it-again Saturday, Evan will wake up, work in the garage music studio we created in his dad’s old office, and then he’ll drive up to Solana Beach with his bandmates and go to the Bro-Am, a charity concert and surf competition where one of his favorite bands is headlining. It’ll be beautiful there and he’ll come back sunburned and happy, hair smelling like salt air. I stare at his back, his earbuds in his hands, and I know he is waiting for me to leave so he can plug in again and shut out the world.

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