Read Online Grief Girl by Erin Vincent - Free Book Online

But this isn’t a game.
    Tracy and I are in the waiting room. Trent is at home with Ronald, Peter, Gai, and Frances. We sit and stare straight ahead at the reproduction modern art on the walls until Dad’s parents arrive. I hate when they come to the hospital; they’re so dramatic it’s sickening.
    â€œWhat’s happening to our Ronnie?” Grandma shrieks while Grandpa walks behind her picking his nose. Grief sure doesn’t stop some people from being their annoying selves.
    â€œStop yelling, for God’s sake! He’s being operated on now,” Tracy says.
    Grandma frowns. “I’ve got to talk to someone about this.” And with that, my grandparents walk toward the nursing station.
    Tracy and I look at each other and roll our eyes. All they do is make every situation more tense. But at least hating them gives Tracy and me something to bond over.
    â€œHe will come out? He won’t die in there, will he?” I ask the doctor when he comes to see us. He’s dressed in scrubs and ready to operate.
    He smiles. “Don’t worry. We do this kind of surgery all the time.”
    I believe him when he says it’s a common operation, but death’s common too. People can die when you least expect it. But I can’t think like that. I’ve got to stay positive. I can’t have bad thoughts. Bad thoughts make bad things happen.
    Stay happy.
    When we see Dad hours later, he doesn’t seem to be in much pain. He just looks sleepy. It probably helps that Dad’s always been really big and strong. I have to admit, though, he doesn’t look very strong right now with his white hospital gown and bedpan under the bed. I wonder if he’s hiding the pain or if the sadness just numbs everything else.
    â€œHow are you feeling, Dad?” I whisper. Why am I whispering? It’s weird, but I feel like if I talk loud, my voice will reverberate through the air and the sound waves will hurt his legs.
    Sometimes when we visit Dad we just make small talk, which seems really stupid. But you can’t talk about death and crushed legs and stuff all the time. Trent helps. He keeps our minds off why we’re here. We watch him run around the room, sit “very still, now” on Dad’s bed, and just generally act like his cute three-year-old self.
    He reminds us all to be strong.
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    Mum’s funeral is today and Dad can’t go. He’s begged the doctors to put him on a stretcher and take him there in an ambulance, but they say he can’t be moved. So Dad has to just lie there in the hospital while his wife’s funeral takes place. That can’t be good for his mental health. Mrs. C-J told me that a funeral is necessary to help you accept that someone has died. How will Dad accept it? I suppose he saw Mum’s body lying there on the road, so maybe that’s enough for him to know she’s dead for sure.
    It’s weird getting dressed for your mother’s funeral.
    It’s almost like dressing for a party. Then you notice the silence all around you. There’s no laughing. No music playing. No mother to call from another room to see how you’re doing. Then you remember what you’re really dressing for.
    You’re putting on a pink dress to bury your mother.
    It was Mum’s favorite, and I’ll be damned if I’ll wear depressing old black! I’m not some sheep who follows the flock…although right now I kind of feel like the black sheep. No one thinks I’m old enough to know all the details of today.
    I’m dressed and ready. I look in the mirror.
    It’s amazing how good I look. I should look terrible and grief stricken, but I don’t. I look so wonderful, people will probably think I didn’t really love my mother and this is just another day in the park for me.
    Peter comes in. “The cars are here. It’s time to leave.” He’s been speaking