CHAPTER 6

Once I’m home, I message Jared and tell him in a hurricane of words what happened with my letter, how it was finally returned to me (temporarily) by Connor’s parents, who were under the impression that it was a letter written by Connor to me, and how they now think that Connor and I were best friends, and how that ridiculous belief was then corroborated when they caught a last-minute glimpse of my cast. After I see all this typed out on my screen, Jared’s response seems like the only appropriate one:

Holy. Shit.

I know.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

I know.

I tried to tell them the truth.

I did.

I tried.

Holy. Motherfucking. Shit.

I can’t believe this happened.

I mean, about Connor.

He’s really gone.

 

I spoke to him just a few days ago. Now I’ll never speak to him again. Or walk past him. Or hear a rumor about him defacing school property. Never. I’ve known this kid since we were in grade school. He disappeared for chunks at a time, and we weren’t friends or anything, but he was still part of our whole group, our class, our year.

No one I know has ever died before. All my grandparents are still alive. I’ve never even lost a pet. I guess the closest thing I can relate to is when a famous person dies. You feel like you’ve spent so much time with this person, watching their movies, listening to their music, and then they die and you feel this swift loss of air and this powerful, full-body sadness, but then, pretty soon after, within minutes even, the feeling passes and you go on with your life. But it’s been hours now since I spoke with Connor’s parents and I still can’t calm the waves in my stomach.

Of course, Connor’s death is just the half of it. The other half is what’s really making me uneasy. This whole misunderstanding about us being friends. I have to fix it.

Are you going to the wake?

No. Why would I?

I don’t know. Isn’t it the right thing to do?

I feel like maybe I have to go.

You realize you weren’t actually friends with him, right?

I know that.
But you should have seen their faces. His mom…

And his dad gave me this look as I was leaving.

I think they expect me to be there.

What am I supposed to do?

You stay home.

That’s what you do.

But what if I run into them one day

and they ask me why I never came to Connor’s wake?

How often do you run into the Murphys?

What are you supposed to wear to a wake?

How the fuck should I know?

My people don’t do it that way.

We hang at someone’s house

and load up on pastrami and bagels.

It starts in two hours.

Can you meet me there?

I wait for Jared’s response, but it never comes.

Who am I kidding? I’m not going to Connor’s wake. I’ll stay home. It’s fine. It’s a wake for their son; they won’t even notice I’m missing. Besides, it’s not my responsibility to be there. Like Jared said, we weren’t actually friends.

I kick off my sneakers and open my laptop. The goal is to get my mind off Connor, but that’s impossible. Everyone at school is talking about him.

Rox: Rest in peace bro!

Kristen Caballero: So sad right now

Kayla Mitchell: Never thought CM would go out like that.

Alana Beck: Still can’t believe the terrible news about Connor Murphy. He looks so happy in this photo. It really shows his spirit. This is how we should remember him. Share this post if you agree.

Everyone seems to be circulating the same photo of Connor. It must be from a couple years ago, because Connor’s hair is short and it makes his ears more pronounced. He’s wearing a button-down shirt in light blue, a color I’m not used to seeing on him, and even weirder, he’s got a big smile on his face. His arm is wrapped around someone, another guy, it looks like, but the other guy has been cropped out of the photo and all you can see is his shoulder. The whole thing is just odd because when I close my eyes and picture Connor, the image I see is pretty much the total opposite of this photo.

Why would he do this? I mean, I understand how low a person can get. I also know that when you’re not in the best headspace, the trivial can turn into the insurmountable and all of a sudden you’re heading down a dark path and you can’t find your way back. But what if I’m the thing that happened to Connor? What if he did it because of me and my letter? That pointless letter. I should have never written it in the first place. I finally expressed the truth, and look what happened: it got turned into a lie.

I look down at my cast. If I could rip it off my arm, I would. I don’t care if I’m not fully healed yet. I want it off. I want him off.

As I’m staring at Connor’s sloppy signature, I’m reminded of what’s in my pocket. I pull out the business card that Connor’s father gave me and flip it over to reveal his handwritten message:

McDougal Funeral Home
Bowers & Franklin
5–7 pm

Not only handwritten, but hand-delivered, too. That look in his eyes when he gave it to me was so primal. Deeper than words. It was as if he was reminding me that attending Connor’s wake was my duty as a man.

I look again at the address. The funeral home is within walking distance from my house.

How could I not show up? His parents are expecting me. I don’t want to let them down. Or Connor. I owe it to him, don’t I? I didn’t know him well, but I still feel some kind of connection with him, after all this, and it’s the right thing to do, to pay your respects when someone passes. I’d want others to do the same for me. Actually, now that I think of it, I wonder who would even come to my funeral. My mom, obviously. My grandparents, yes. But who else? Would my dad fly in or would he just send flowers?

I stand up from my bed and swing open my closet door. Buried somewhere in here is a pair of black dress shoes. I can’t remember the last time I wore them. Who knows if they still fit.

I’ll just go for a few minutes, make an appearance. I can clear up this misunderstanding quickly and leave. It’s really nothing. And it’s the right thing to do. And maybe it’s the only thing that will finally exorcise these demon butterflies from my stomach.

• • •

According to the map on my phone, I’ve arrived. It’s a nondescript one-story building set back from the road, a parking lot in the rear. I must have passed this place a thousand times on my way to and from school and never once thought about its purpose. Now I’m pretty sure I will never not think about it.

On my way up the path, I roll down my sleeves and cover as much of my forearms as possible. After much debate about what to wear, I settled on khakis, my nicest dress shirt, and the black shoes from my closet, which I had to wipe clean with a kitchen sponge (sorry, Mom).

Before I even get close to the building, the front door opens and a suited man steps aside, waiting for my arrival. I had planned on stalling a bit more, lingering until I could follow someone (anyone) inside, but it’s too late now. I’ve been spotted. I pick up my pace. The suited man bows his head as I pass and closes the door behind me.

Inside the well-lit hallway, I’m met with light chatter and a trail of perfume. On a side table is a family photo. In it, Connor is just a boy, pale and slight, maybe ten years old. Zoe stands obediently by her brother’s side, hiding behind his shoulder. I miss seeing her face. Maybe it’s an inappropriate thought for this moment, but it’s true. I wonder how she’s been taking this. I hope she’s okay.

Next to the photo is a guest book that’s been signed by a dozen people. I don’t recognize any of the names. I look back to the suited man, who’s busy window watching. I write my name in the book. In case the Murphys don’t spot me in the crowd, at least there will be proof that I attended.

When I reach the end of the hall, my legs shaking, I realize instantly that there is no chance of my presence going undetected. I had thought, as I was nearing this back room, how remarkable it was that my classmates, even at such a somber event, were able to keep their voices so low. Now I know why. They aren’t talking, because they aren’t here. None of them.

Leave. Immediately. Of course that’s what I should do. It’s obvious. But there’s no time. My sudden appearance in the doorway is observed by all. Mrs. Murphy, midconversation, makes eye contact with me. There’s no way out now.

I order my leg to step forward, and then my other leg after that, and pretty soon I’m walking from one end of the room to the other like a regular, functioning person. On my way to find a seat, I spot a familiar face that interrupts all the momentum I’ve built.

“Mrs. G? What are you—” I stop myself. I didn’t mean to say any of that out loud. It came out in a spill of surprise, and now I have to clean up my spill. “It’s good to see you. I mean, you know, it’s good that you, that… you’re here.” I don’t know what I’m saying.

She seems unfazed, lost in her own thoughts. For a second, I wonder if that ponderous look on her face is her trying to identify me as one of her former students. But when she finally speaks, it has nothing to do with me or the clumsy words I’ve just mumbled.

With a stoic smile, she says only, “Connor was a special boy.”

I nod in agreement and hurry away, finding a seat in the last row of chairs. I stare at the back of Mrs. G’s head, the veins in her neck, her short gray hair. She’s the last person I would have expected to be here. I never had her for a teacher, and was glad for it, because she was super intimidating and had a reputation for being strict. If she saw you in the hall, even if you were barely moving, she’d tell you to slow down. It’s no surprise that she and Connor were a combustible combo. And yet, even after he threw a printer at her, she’s here.

Which is saying something, because there can’t be more than twenty people total in attendance. Nearly everyone is an adult. All the men are wearing suits. I’m the only idiot who looks like a waiter. I check around for a hint of red hair. Zoe isn’t here, and I can’t fathom why that would be.

Most of the attendees are gathered around Connor’s parents at the front of the flower-filled room. Behind them is the casket. I wasn’t expecting to see it. I assumed caskets were reserved for funerals. Thankfully, it’s closed. Still, it’s hard to ignore its presence. His presence.

Where is everybody? Connor Murphy wasn’t popular or well liked, but I assumed some people would be here. We all knew the kid, grew up with him, passed him in the halls. Doesn’t that count for something? Where are Rox and Kristen Caballero and Alana Beck? They’ll post something about Connor online but couldn’t be bothered to pay their respects in person?

I should have listened to Jared and stayed home. I’ll slip out the back door when no one’s looking. Pretend like I’m going to the bathroom and just keep going. I give my legs a mental heads-up, needing them to buy in to my plan.

But I don’t get a chance to refine my exit strategy. Mrs. Murphy’s hand goes up and starts swiping at the air. I turn around. There’s no one behind me. Her eyes enlarge to better signal her intentions. Yes, it’s me she wants. I wish she’d come over to me, instead of making me go to her—and all those people.

Slowly, carefully, strenuously, I stand and will myself to the aisle, past Mrs. G, and up to the front of the room. I practice the script I came up with on the walk over: I wrote the letter. We weren’t friends, but I liked him a lot. I’m sorry for your loss.

I’m missing a few lines. Some key explanatory words. My brain is overheating. My socks feel soaked.

Mrs. Murphy clears a path, beckons me into her huddle.

Mr. Murphy reaches out his hand. “It’s good to see you, Evan. Thanks for coming.” His grip is scary strong. I apologize for my sweatiness, but he doesn’t seem to hear me.

Mrs. Murphy wraps me in her arms, squeezes me harder than my own mother would. Her jagged necklace impales my chest.

I’m sorry for your loss.

“Oh, you’re shaking, you poor thing.”

I wrote the letter, not Connor.

She eases up and holds me in such a way that I have no choice but to look her in the eyes. She forces a smile, then turns me around by the shoulders so that I’m facing the others. “This is Evan, everyone.”

“Hi, Evan.”

“Evan was Connor’s closest friend,” Mrs. Murphy says.

We weren’t friends, but I liked him a lot.

“We’re so sorry for your loss.”

They say this to me. I’m the one they feel sorry for.

Mrs. Murphy guides me away from the others and plants me directly in front of Connor’s casket. I turn away and face the room.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” Mrs. Murphy says, and yet absolutely nothing about her or this place feels happy.

I wrote the letter for my therapist. Connor took it from me.

The words are right there, but they won’t come out.

“Larry and I were talking,” she says, stopping to take a long and deep breath, her hand almost helping her chest draw in the oxygen. “We would love to have you over to the house for dinner. We have so many questions about…” She pauses again, ingesting more air. Clearly, I’m not the only one having trouble speaking right now. “About everything. About you and Connor. Your friendship. If you could find a free night to spend with us, we would be so grateful. So grateful. Just to sit down with you would mean so much.”

“I…”

“Think about it. No rush.”

She exhales and hugs me again before returning to the group. Escape is now possible. I turn for the door, and in my haste, I nearly run into someone: Zoe.

I regain my balance as she works through her confusion. “What are you doing here?” she asks.

Such an astute question. If only I had a good answer.

She’s been crying. I can tell by her puffy pink eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “About your brother.”

Arms crossed, crossed so tightly, giving herself a hug. She nods, just once, and walks away.

I take one more look—at him, or the box he’s in—before letting myself out.