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CHAPTER ONE

My best friend died. That’s where my story begins. Alex would argue that the story began with his diagnosis. But I disagree. My story definitely begins with his death. He had cancer. I know why Alex would think the story begins with the diagnosis. It had all the makings of a cathartic scene. We all sat huddled in that little office. The desk took over most of the room. What little floor space remained was crowded with an orange colored loveseat, stacks of books with yellow sticky notes peaking from their covers, an overflowing in box and an empty out box. It smelled like old Chinese food and antiseptic. I remember frantically looking around the room attempting to find the origin of those smells. Dr. Bergstrom seemed overwhelmed at the sight of us packed like sardines on his little orange couch. He was used to having these types of meetings with parents and patients only. I was there. Alex’s brother Ben was there. Five of us were squeezed onto that orange couch. Alex insisted that I come. I am almost convinced that he knew it was going to be bad news. I needed to be there to hold his hand.

The diagnosis hung in the air like a bad smell. Like the fish that the immigrant neighbors used to hang on their clothesline in August. Sucking the summer smells from our house and replacing them with rancid, rotting codfish stench. No one breathed. We were all afraid that moving in any way would pull the word out of the air and allow it to invade our tight group. Cancer. My best friend had cancer.
This isn’t the story of my best friend’s death, though. It isn’t the story of his life, either. It is the story of me, Kelsey. It is the story of my life without Alex in it.
I was angry. I was angry with Alex. I was angry with the doctors. Angry with Alex’s family. Angry at the stupid God that would take Alex away from me. I didn’t understand at the time. There was so much I didn’t understand.

When I heard the news of Alex’s death, I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. You know the feeling. All the air is forced from your lungs. Your diaphragm refuses to recover and allow another breath. You wonder if you’ll die from asphyxiation. You see spots. You try to blink them away, but they refuse to go. You can feel the heat creep up your neck. You know your face is turning purple. Your brain finally kicks in and tells your diaphragm to contract, sending a rush of air to your lungs. Your heart races to keep up with the sudden rush of oxygen. Your eyes slowly recover and return to normal. Then, and only then, does it register. Your gut hurts.

I headed home from school in a haze. He died while I was in school. I sat by his bed for thirteen days, knowing that the end was near. On the thirteenth day, Alex had a moment of clarity and looked deep into my eyes. “Go to school” he said. “Go to school”. So I went. And on the fourteenth day, Alex died. Alex died alone. His parents were drinking coffee in the hospital cafeteria. Ben and I had gone to school, per Alex’s instructions. Part of me wants to believe that Alex hung on until the fourteenth day so that he could be alone.

I knew when the PA system crackled to life in the middle of sophomore English that it couldn’t be good news. Other than a tragedy, why else would the principal interrupt classes in the middle of the day? Our principal, who values order and discipline above all other things, was interrupting fourth period to bring us the news of Alex’s death. “It is my sad duty to inform you…” is all I heard. “It is my sad duty to inform you…” is how I heard about Alex dying. I stood up in the middle of sophomore English and walked out of the room. I didn’t bring my backpack with me. I just stood up and left. I walked out into the hallway and glanced around. It was very surreal. It was almost as if I were walking around the school in the middle of the night. Or on a Sunday morning. Things were very still. The sound of my own heartbeat filled my ears as I wandered the hallway. My eyes darted back and forth like a cat’s. Daring anyone to ask why I wasn’t in class. Not that there was anyone there to ask me. They were tucked away in fourth period. I wandered the hallway alone. My feet carried me to Alex’s locker. There I found Ben, collapsed on the floor. He was sobbing. I didn’t know what to do. What do you do when you are fifteen and you find your best friend’s big brother sobbing in the middle of the floor? I sat down with Ben and we sobbed together. Ben held me and we cried together. We knew the day was coming. It was not made any easier just because we knew it was coming. The rest of the day passed in a haze. Someone came and moved us from the hallway and took us to the principal’s office. We sat together on the principal’s couch for a time. It could have been five minutes. It could have been two hours. The passage of time seemed to become wrinkled in those moments following the announcement of Alex’s death. Two minutes would pass and feel like an eternity. Three hours would go by and I could not recall doing or thinking anything in that time period. Some time later, Ben took me home. We climbed into his beater of a car and he drove me home. Just like a normal day. Ben, Alex, and I had been riding to and from school together ever since the first day of Alex and my freshman year. For the past few months, the rides had been lonelier, of course. Ben and I rode alone. We didn’t talk much without Alex.

What I remember in the days following Alex’s death is sleep. I slept. And I would wake up and shuffle to the kitchen and peek at the hummingbird feeder Alex and I had constructed in third grade. And then I would shuffle back to my room and go back to sleep. I wore Alex’s Boston College t-shirt with the taco sauce stain on the collar and the rip in the armpit. I shuffled to the kitchen and back like an old man. I slept. I shuffled. Then I slept some more. Somewhere during that shuffle/sleep time was the funeral. I somehow dressed in black and was escorted to my best friend’s funeral and wake by my mother. I remember being weirded out by having to kneel by Alex’s casket and stare at his face, bloated by the embalming fluid. I was supposed to be praying for Alex’s soul, my mother said. All I could think about was that Alex would laugh about his face being so fat and round. I noticed that his hands were folded across his chest. Was he really comfortable this way? Shouldn’t he be making a rude gesture with one hand? The other hand should be in his pocket, jingling change. And why was he wearing a suit and tie? Did God really care if you got dressed up for Him? My mother poked me and I knew it was time for me to stand up and greet Alex’s family. It was someone else’s turn to pray for Alex’s soul. Or laugh at the absurdity of Alex in a suit and tie.

I shook hands with Alex’s family and didn’t look them in the eye. The formalness of the situation was uncomfortable for me. I had never shaken hands with anyone in Alex’s family before. I was greeted at their house the same way I was greeted at home. With noogies and hugs and chocolate chip cookies. Where were the cookies?

I floated my way through Alex’s funeral, too. I spent most of my time watching the other funeral attendees. There was that kid from our Algebra class freshman year. What was he doing here? He used to make fun of Alex for having a girl best friend. Called him gay. And that ditzy cheerleader. Did she even know Alex? She sure was crying a lot. Maybe she did know him. Did they have any classes together? The church choir was singing Ave Maria. Their voices floated somewhere above my head. I felt like I was listening to them through the telephone. The music seemed so far away. Alex’s family had invited me to join them in the front of the church, but I felt weird. Not that any feeling I’d had in the past seventy two hours wasn’t weird or uncomfortable. I just thought that Alex’s family should be alone. My mom and I sat in the back of the church. Partly because we arrived a little bit late. And partly because back here, I felt more removed from the situation. We were very far away from the cherry wood coffin. If not for the 10x13 framed photograph of Alex displayed on top, I could almost convince myself that he was not in there. That I was somehow transported here to the funeral in a bad dream. That if I pinched myself hard enough, the scene around me would melt away like butter in the sun and I would find myself back in my bedroom, drenched in a cold sweat. The family followed Alex’s casket out of the church, with five of Alex’s uncles and Ben acting as pallbearers.

My mom and I exited the church quickly and headed to her car. My mother was sniffling into a handkerchief. I had never seen my mother use a handkerchief before. It again dawned on me how formal and foreign everything felt. Here I was in a black dress, sitting in my mom’s car on a Tuesday morning, listening to her sniffle into a handkerchief. Did she buy the handkerchief just for this occasion? Or did she keep one on hand for funerals? I turned to ask her, but the words wouldn’t come. Sitting next to her in the car, the heaviness of the past few days fell on my shoulders. I could feel it crushing my chest, making it difficult to breathe. I opened the window, letting in the frigid bitterness of February. I filled my lungs with icy air, willing the tightness there to go away. Like so many times in the last three days, the words died on my lips. I had so many thoughts, so many ideas. But my brain wasn’t willing to let them past my teeth and out of my lips. Like the effort was too much for my lips to handle. Moving, parting, it was all too much. Rest, my body seemed to be saying. Rest.

The scene at Alex’s graveside was right out of a movie. I had only been to one burial before. When Alex’s salamander Earl died in the summer after fourth grade, Alex donned a black turtleneck and a priest’s white collar made from first aid tape. He stood in the July sunshine with his black turtleneck on, sweat dripping down onto the cigar box that would be Earl’s final resting place. I didn’t expect Alex’s burial to be much like Earl’s.

The priest spoke about Alex’s soul ascending to heaven while the throngs of mourners sobbed into their handkerchiefs. What was it with these handkerchiefs? Why had I not noticed people carrying them before? It had to be something that you only used at a funeral. What was wrong with a plain old tissue? When the service was over and Alex’s casket was being lowered into the ground, I made my way over to Ben and stood by him. I noticed him teetering earlier and I wanted to be next to him in case he needed a shoulder to lean on. Anyone who knows Ben and me can attest to how silly this is. Ben is at least 6’4”. He is a big burly football player with arms like tree trunks and legs like concrete pillars. I, on the other hand, am 5’4”. There is no way I could hold him up if he started to fall. Alex’s mom tossed a white rose onto Alex’s casket after it was lowered into its hole. Alex would be there forever, right between David Wizlowski, 1902 – 1999, beloved father and husband, and Grace Ann Shoemaker, April 15 1989 – April 19 1989, our angel. Alex’s mom and dad and Ben each took a handful of dirt from the big pile next to Alex’s hole and threw a fistful on top of the casket. Ben nudged me to do the same. I bent down lamely in my black dress and picked up a handful of dirt, letting it slip through my fingers and shower Alex’s coffin.