The Tear Collector Page 6

  “I hate you,” he shouts.

  “You hate me because you loved me,” I say as I follow him to the other side of the room.

  “I don’t care what you say or think!” he shouts back, shaking a fist at me. “Maybe that’s why Scott likes you, because you’re just like Samantha Dracula.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask about his sudden insight.

  “You’re a monster!” he shouts.

  “Cody, there are no such things as monsters,” I say, laughing it off, but he’s staring through me. He takes a step toward me, and I recoil. He quickly turns and slams his fist into the paneled wall.

  “I hate you!” he shouts while slamming his fist repeatedly. Upstairs I hear chairs moving. Time is running out for me to get what I need from Cody one last time.

  “Let it out,” I say, then slowly approach him. His fist slams against the wall again. The force knocks one of the glass-framed certificates to the floor. Blood spurts from his hand.

  “Stay away from me,” he says, waving his bloody hand in my face.

  He stares at me as he moves his bloody hand against his long white wannabe gangsta T-shirt. A crimson pool forms over his heart and I whisper, “I’m sorry, Cody.” He takes a deep breath, sighs, and the anger leaves him, washed away by tears forming at the corners of his eyes.

  “It’s okay to cry, Cody,” I whisper, and he takes a step toward me. I try to avoid the blood pooling on his shirt, and instead let his head fall onto my shoulder. I take the tie-dyed bandanna from my head and wrap his hand to stop the bleeding. The door opens upstairs, and Cody’s parents come to his rescue. Before they arrive, I take the monogrammed handkerchief from my pocket and wipe away his tears. There are only a few, but like an expensive perfume or a narcotic drug, it takes just a tiny amount to make a big difference. I’m flush as I walk upstairs.

  Cody’s mom drives me home. She’s just staring at the road while I’m listening to Abbey Road on my iPod. We’ve never had anything to talk about before; now we don’t even fake it.

  It is the same world of silence when I return home. Everybody’s doors are closed. I sneak into Veronica’s room to deposit the monogrammed handkerchief sprinkled with Cody’s tears on the table next to the bed. She could thank me in the morning, but she never does. There’s no gratitude for duty; there’s never a celebration of my sacrifices.

  I jump online, quickly checking news alerts to add to my folder, but there’s nothing, yet. I glance at Cody’s page, but he’s yet to change his Facebook status to show that he’s single. Robyn’s not online either; she hasn’t been for over a week. Just like she hasn’t returned to school. I call her cell, but she doesn’t pick up. I leave another message, invite myself over to dinner with her family tomorrow, and set my phone by the computer.

  Robyn’s Facebook page remains intact from ten days ago. It’s as if she’s fallen into a coma. Maybe she’s being sentimental or maybe it’s wishful thinking, like the whole thing’s a bad dream and she’ll wake up with Craig back in her life. I click on Brittney’s busy page that contains over a thousand photos, mostly of herself. I wonder if she fears Alzheimer’s and that’s why she photographs seemingly every day of her life. It’s clear from the page that Robyn was never Brittney’s best friend; Brittney’s best friend is her camera. All the photos look the same: overexposed cleavage and emptied vodka bottles. There are gang signs, stoned group shots, and multiple attempts for weak white girls with wealthy parents to act ghetto. It’s all so silly but also a little sad, and yet I totally understand wanting to be something you’re not.

  With Cody out of the picture, I’ll need to quickly find some new emotional resources. I look for Scott again online, but find nothing. I search out Samantha. As always, she’s online. She ignored my latest friend request, but I’m persistent and patient, so I send another. On this one, I also send the message, “Hey, Samantha. Time for a truce. I don’t want to be enemies, so all that leaves is becoming friends.” I want to get inside her page; I need to get inside her head.

  I search the news for updates, then do a last check of Cody’s page. What I find confirms he knows this breakup is final. Sometime in the past hour, he’s erased our six months together.

  Just as I’m about to call it a night, my phone rings. The ringtone of “Imagine” lets me know Robyn is alive and well. I tell her about my breakup with Cody, although not in detail. She continues to talk about her breakup with Craig in detail, but for someone as smart as Robyn, I’m surprised that she doesn’t see the big picture. Yes, she’s heartbroken over the loss of love coupled with the sense of betrayal, but I sense it is more than that. People like Robyn, who are used to success, often are not resilient and overreact when things go wrong. Robyn’s perfect world has crashed around her. She now questions everything, even her self-worth as a person. She can’t see (and I can’t tell her) that she can survive without a boyfriend; it just takes time. We talk deep into the morning, but I feel my energy level drain toward empty. Like most of our time together, Cody took more energy than he gave, even in our breakup.

  I say good-bye, then Robyn says, “It’s okay, Cass, there’s nothing left to say.”

  “I’ll see you at school tomorrow, right?” I ask.

  “Tomorrow morning for sure, I promise,” she says. I don’t remind her she said the same thing about showing up this morning.

  “Maybe after school, I’ll come over for dinner. What do you think?”

  “I’d like that,” she says, then adds, “and Becca would love it.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  There’s a short pause, then Robyn says, “Thanks for everything, Cass.”

  “I’m here—or there—whenever you need a shoulder to cry on,” I remind her.

  She laughs; a laugh not of amusement, but one of total exhaustion. “I don’t think I have any more tears left to cry.”

  “There’s always more tears,” I say with total confidence. “They are infinite.”

  It’s like the phone goes dead with sixty seconds of total silence. “Robyn, are you there?”

  There’s still more silence, then Robyn says, “Tomorrow morning, I’m getting up, looking in the mirror, putting on my smile again, and all of this hurting is going to stop.”

  I try to imagine her on the other end of the phone. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?” I ask.

  But once again it is as if the phone’s dead; there’s no answer, like I’m talking into a void.

  “Robyn, this isn’t funny,” I say.

  Still no answer.

  “Robyn, please, are you there?”

  “I was just practicing my smile,” she finally says.

  “Give it time. You won’t need to practice or fake it, it will come back,” I say.

  “Along with those infinite tears,” she says after another long, scary pause.

  “I gotta go,” I whisper. “I’ll see you tomorrow. You promised, remember.”

  “Cass, just one more thing, okay?” Robyn asks.

  “What’s that?”

  She pauses, then says, “Thanks for everything. I love you, Cassandra. Good-bye.”

  CHAPTER 8

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 18

  What’s going on?”

  Like a fire alarm, there’s loud ringing everywhere. It sounds like every phone in every purse and pocket is ringing simultaneously. I’m in sixth-period history class, the only class I share with Brittney and Robyn. Given the history between us, somehow that seems right. Robyn, however, isn’t in school. I’d call her, but Mr. A snatched my phone this morning.

  “What’s wrong?” I say to Brittney. She turns to look at me; her heavily made-up face starts to drain. All around the room, I see similar looks, especially among the most popular girls.

  “It’s Robyn,” she says.

  “What about her?”

  Brittney’s wearing a shocked smile on her face as she answers, “She’s dead.”

  Our history teacher, Mr. Lane, looks befuddled as most of the class ignores the tragedi
es of the past to deal with the one before us. I bolt from my chair and race out the door. During first period, Mr. Abraham caught me answering my phone. It was Robyn. Before I could shut off the phone or speak to her, he took my cell per school rules. Those rules don’t apply now.

  I race down the halls like the anchor in a relay. I burst into the door of Mr. A’s room, and his blue eyes grow wide. The room is full of freshmen; they don’t have a clue.

  “Cassandra, what are you doing here?” he asks, more annoyed than angry.

  “I need my phone!” I shout.

  “I’m sorry, but the—”

  “Something’s happened with Robyn,” I say, and I hear a murmur go through the class. There are lots of girls at school named Robyn, but just the way I say it, everybody knows who I mean. I pause, then speak loud enough for everyone to hear as I say, “Robyn’s dead.”

  He ignores the gasps, then reaches into his desk to hand me my phone. I turn it on, and there are six messages. One’s from Robyn’s cell, which was from first period, and then two from her home number two hours later. I don’t recognize the last three calls, one just ten minutes ago.

  I pick up the last message first. It’s Robyn’s dad. His voice crackles like sparks. A car crash. Holly Rec Area. The EMTs tried. Massive brain damage. At the hospital now. I rush out into the hall, then push Return Call. Mr. Berry picks up. Before he speaks, I say, “I’m so sorry.”

  He doesn’t speak; the language of death is new to him.

  I wait, then finally ask, “Where’s Becca?”

  There’s no reply as my words echo off towers and satellites, so I ask, “What can I do?”

  “There’s nothing to do,” he said, defeated. His words are nails driving into his heart.

  “Is Becca there with you?”

  “No, we didn’t want to upset her,” he says. “My sister is meeting her at home.”

  “I’m leaving school so I’m there when she gets home,” I say. “Unless you need me at the hospital. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

  There’s quiet. He’s overwhelmed by events; he can’t choose. He probably can barely manage to pull air into his lungs and push it back out. He’s acting only on animal instinct.

  I think of calling Mom, but decide against it. Instead, I look in the parking lot for Scott’s Cobalt, easy to spot with the Powers bumper sticker. Inside, I see a backseat filled with books, CDs, and clothes. When the final bell rings, everyone leaving school appears to be moving in slow motion. Even from the distance, I sense the moist tears in everyone’s eyes.

  “Did you hear?” Scott shouts once he spots me leaning against his car.

  “I heard,” I reply softly, then look at the ground, hiding my eyes from him. “I need a ride.”

  “You don’t drive?” he asks, and I shake my head.

  “I need to get to Robyn’s house,” I say. Scott opens the door for me, and I climb in.

  “Okay, sure, just tell me where to go,” he says. He climbs in and quickly pulls out of the parking lot. The juniors gathered by the front doors all have the same dazed look, like people who’ve just witnessed an accident. I want to be with them, but I need to be next to Becca.

  I give Scott directions, and then I lapse into silence, staring out the window. Life’s not real now; it’s another movie that I’m looking at on a screen. Scott tries to talk, but I shut him down, nicely. I can’t talk; it is taking all of my energy to hide my dark, swelling human emotions.

  “Thanks, Scott, thanks for everything. I owe you,” I say when he drops me off. I kiss him on the cheek. He smiles in surprise and delight. That’s nice, that’s enough, for now. For now.

  Robyn’s aunt greets me. Like her brother, this woman can barely speak.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. “How much misfortune can one family withstand?”

  My question prompts not an answer, but a gusher of grief. I comfort her, the best I can. Like people I meet at the hospital, she’s a stranger made instantly intimate through tragedy. I let her cry long and hard. Without Cody’s jacket, my bare shoulders easily swallow her sorrow.

  “Becca’s upstairs,” she says through sniffles.

  “Does she know yet?” I ask.

  “I just told her Robyn had to do something after school with her parents,” she says, still sounding distraught. “I’ve made it worse.”

  “You had to lie,” I say. “What is happening now?”

  “I heard from my brother. They’ve got decisions to make. Then they’ll be coming home,” she says. Her tone is one of shock. People never expect the inevitable demon of death to touch them. “I need to go and be with my brother at the hospital.”

  “I’ll stay with Becca,” I say. She doesn’t answer. Instead, she gives me another hug as she heads out the door. I’m not related, but in the shadow of death, people pull together like one large family. Tragedy creates human connections, even as it severs the mortal coil.

  I go upstairs. Before I check in on Becca, I look around Robyn’s room. I’m wondering what secrets she’s hidden from her family and me. I look through desk and dresser drawers, but I find nothing but evidence of Robyn’s desire for perfection: makeup, study guides, and a mirror on every table. I log on to her computer, then her Facebook page using her password, “Becca4ever.” I hunt around for a while, but there’s nothing—nothing to tell me that this crash wasn’t an accident. I take a moment to check my messages and they’re overflowing. Death creates a flood of words. This is Lapeer’s Hurricane Katrina and September 11th. I check a news alert, see the story, make a quick printout, and then shut down Robyn’s computer.

  I get ready to close the door when it hits me: I’ll probably never walk in this room again. I soak up all the good times, but mostly the tears, and head for the door. I stop, however, when I see the smoking gun. On a small table, by her door, buried under makeup jars is Robyn’s iPod. Did she know she wouldn’t need it again? Did she know she was taking her last ride?

  I peek into Becca’s room. She’s playing a fantasy video game. This is just another day for her; another of her last days. She doesn’t know that, in the time it takes to click that mouse in her fantasy world, her parents, and everyone who knew Robyn, now live in a real world changed forever. In Becca, death lingers; in Robyn, death took seconds and it had mercy.

  “What are you doing here, Cass?” she asks, staring at me rather than the screen.

  “I thought I’d come visit,” I say, forcing a smile.

  “Great!” she shouts.

  “Great!” I shout louder, even if the stronger part of me wants to whisper the tragic news.

  “Who keeps calling?” she asks. The phones in the house have been ringing nonstop almost since I arrived, but I won’t pick up. Becca wants to, but her parents forbid her to answer the phone. More protection; more water in the moat they’ve tried to build around her.

  “I bet it’s American Idol calling to invite you on,” I say. Robyn told me that her parents approached the Make-a-Wish Foundation, but have not heard back. We talk for a while, mostly about nothing at all. I try not to say much, since it would only create more lies I’ll have to remember, more trust that I’m already stretching to the heartbreaking point. She needs to trust me. We then play a video game, which I let her win. It only seems right.

  Just as we’re about to play another game, I hear the garage door. I take a big sip from my water bottle and head downstairs toward the opening front door. Mr. Berry is holding up his wife like she’s been shot in the legs and can’t walk on her own. He looks like he’s been shot in the heart and head. “I’m so sorry,” I say almost the second they walk in the front door.

  “Our sweet baby girl is gone.” Mr. Berry mutters these six short words, barely discernable over his wife’s countless sobs. They turn to look at each other seeking strength, but it doesn’t come.

  “I need to sit down,” Mrs. Berry says, then stumbles to the sofa. She collapses into the soft fabric as the hard truth of Robyn’s death hits. Robyn will neve
r walk in the door again, and every time her parents walk in the door, they’ll remember that cruel fact. It won’t be the big things, but the small things that will come later, last longer, and cling to them like a thirsty leech.

  I sit next to Mrs. Berry on the sofa. I offer her my handkerchief, but she refuses.

  “Please, it is the least I can do,” I say, almost begging. “Let me do something.”

  “You are, were, are a good friend to Robyn.” Her tenses tangled; her voice strangled.

  “What happened?” I ask Mr. Berry.

  “I told her not to drive so fast,” is all Mr. Berry says. I know there are so many things I can say, but now is not the time. They’re at their grief limit; they have very little more to give.

  “It’s not your fault, John,” Mrs. Berry whispers. Her voice is parched; she’s cried out. Like a sponge expelled from the sea and left out in the sun, she’s dehydrated and nearly dead. While there seems to be a limit on grief, the threshold on guilt is much higher.

  “What about Becca?” I ask Mr. Berry.

  “We’ll have to tell her,” he says, but he’s not talking to me. He’s answering on autopilot.

  “Do you want me to do it?” I ask.

  “That’s sweet of you,” Mrs. Berry says. “But that’s a parent’s responsibility.”

  “I just want to do whatever I can to make this easier on all of you,” I say. “Robyn was like a sister, and Becca means so much to me.”

  “Thank you, but we’ll need to do it,” Mr. Berry says. “I just don’t know how. How do you tell a dying child that the person she loves the most won’t be there anymore?”

  “I want to be strong for Becca,” I say instead of answering the question. “That’s what Robyn would have wanted.”

  “Would have wanted,” Mr. Berry repeats and the past tense knocks the wind out of him. He buckles onto the sofa now, next to his wife. I hand him my handkerchief, but he’s fighting it. He’s a good man, but he’s a man. He doesn’t want to cry; he wants to be strong. For him, there’s no strength in tears.