Read Online Stay With Me by Garret Freymann-Weyr - Free Book Online
Authors: Garret Freymann-Weyr
Tags: General, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Suicide, Social Issues, Emotions & Feelings, Stepfamilies, Social Themes
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wanted to sit and split a pastry with Rebecca. Had there been a pastry on the table? I put the whole thing out of my mind as I went home. Someday, after all, I would sit and split a pastry with her. I had, in fact, already done so. Many times. It was unlikely that such a common occurrence would find its way into my fantasy of the future.
And yet.
As sitting with Rebecca turns itself into a strictly past-tense event, I find myself returning over and over to that moment outside of Caffe Acca. I can't make myself stop, although there are better, longer memories I could dwell on. Memories where I do more than watch her through a window.
It takes me a while to guess. It isn't whether or not she had a pastry that's important; the detail that counts is the possibility she was waving goodbye.
Nine
A FTER I PUT TOGETHER that Rebecca's
goodbye
happened without my realizing it, I try being extra kind, polite and patient with everyone I see. People on the bus, my math teacher, and even the seventh grade boys who voted me most-fun-to-look-at. I usually go out of my way to ignore them (I mean, gross), but you just never know. It could be the final time I see any of them.
Only this doesn't last long, as it's not possible to get out of bed while remembering that for someone, somewhere, this is it, the end of the story. Eventually, brushing my teeth and finding a sharp pencil become more important. In fact, my brain is so foggy lately that it's amazing I remember half of what I need to in order to navigate my days. If my being so clueless were happening to someone else, I'd find the things I'm failing to see (to know, remember, and understand) kind of hilarious.
They're big, red flag kinds of things.
For example, it's suddenly impossible to care about stage sets. The drama club is putting on
The Children's Hour
for the Spring Arts Festival. I read the play several times last year and had been looking forward to building sets of the plush library and the grim sitting room that would be required. I had thought of a big bay window for the grandmother's house and narrow shuttered windows for the teachers accused of being lesbians.
Now, I simply sit through crew meetings wondering why anyone would want to see this play. Can it be worth an entire evening? Even with three changes of scenery? And then suddenly, the deal an audience makes with the actors (where everyone pretends that what's happening is real) strikes me as silly. And a waste of time.
"And I used to think it was so interesting," I say to Raphael. "The way the audience
and
the actors pretend different things for the same reason."
"For the sake of the play," Raphael says. "Is that what you mean?"
"Yes," I say. "That's exactly what I mean."
"It sounds like you still think it's interesting," he says.
"I guess," I say. "I just don't want to build these sets."
"
The Children's Hour
is about more than a false accusation, right?" Raphael asks. "Isn't there a suicide at the end?"
"Offstage," I say. "At the very end. The teacher who believes the lie the most. She blows her brains out."
"That's what I thought," Raphael says. "Pass me that, will you?"
We are making salad and I hand him the bowl of cucumber slices, and then—not immediately but after a bit—I put down the knife I am using to chop spinach.
"Oh," I say. "Of course. She kills herself at the end."
"Maybe it's not the right play for you just now," he says.
I watch him make a couple of flower-shaped radishes.
"Maybe not so much," I say.
Raphael is staying with me for a few days. He and Clare have decided that when she's away for work, I go to Brooklyn. When she's away because Gyula's in town, Raphael comes to the apartment and sleeps in the living room.
"She already feels bad about how much disruption you have," Raphael said when he explained who would go where, when, and why.
I suspect that Clare feels guilty about how often she is away. Raphael says that she thinks I've had entirely too many people leave
And yet.
As sitting with Rebecca turns itself into a strictly past-tense event, I find myself returning over and over to that moment outside of Caffe Acca. I can't make myself stop, although there are better, longer memories I could dwell on. Memories where I do more than watch her through a window.
It takes me a while to guess. It isn't whether or not she had a pastry that's important; the detail that counts is the possibility she was waving goodbye.
Nine
A FTER I PUT TOGETHER that Rebecca's
goodbye
happened without my realizing it, I try being extra kind, polite and patient with everyone I see. People on the bus, my math teacher, and even the seventh grade boys who voted me most-fun-to-look-at. I usually go out of my way to ignore them (I mean, gross), but you just never know. It could be the final time I see any of them.
Only this doesn't last long, as it's not possible to get out of bed while remembering that for someone, somewhere, this is it, the end of the story. Eventually, brushing my teeth and finding a sharp pencil become more important. In fact, my brain is so foggy lately that it's amazing I remember half of what I need to in order to navigate my days. If my being so clueless were happening to someone else, I'd find the things I'm failing to see (to know, remember, and understand) kind of hilarious.
They're big, red flag kinds of things.
For example, it's suddenly impossible to care about stage sets. The drama club is putting on
The Children's Hour
for the Spring Arts Festival. I read the play several times last year and had been looking forward to building sets of the plush library and the grim sitting room that would be required. I had thought of a big bay window for the grandmother's house and narrow shuttered windows for the teachers accused of being lesbians.
Now, I simply sit through crew meetings wondering why anyone would want to see this play. Can it be worth an entire evening? Even with three changes of scenery? And then suddenly, the deal an audience makes with the actors (where everyone pretends that what's happening is real) strikes me as silly. And a waste of time.
"And I used to think it was so interesting," I say to Raphael. "The way the audience
and
the actors pretend different things for the same reason."
"For the sake of the play," Raphael says. "Is that what you mean?"
"Yes," I say. "That's exactly what I mean."
"It sounds like you still think it's interesting," he says.
"I guess," I say. "I just don't want to build these sets."
"
The Children's Hour
is about more than a false accusation, right?" Raphael asks. "Isn't there a suicide at the end?"
"Offstage," I say. "At the very end. The teacher who believes the lie the most. She blows her brains out."
"That's what I thought," Raphael says. "Pass me that, will you?"
We are making salad and I hand him the bowl of cucumber slices, and then—not immediately but after a bit—I put down the knife I am using to chop spinach.
"Oh," I say. "Of course. She kills herself at the end."
"Maybe it's not the right play for you just now," he says.
I watch him make a couple of flower-shaped radishes.
"Maybe not so much," I say.
Raphael is staying with me for a few days. He and Clare have decided that when she's away for work, I go to Brooklyn. When she's away because Gyula's in town, Raphael comes to the apartment and sleeps in the living room.
"She already feels bad about how much disruption you have," Raphael said when he explained who would go where, when, and why.
I suspect that Clare feels guilty about how often she is away. Raphael says that she thinks I've had entirely too many people leave
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