The Effect of Grieving

The Effect of Grieving

I stuck the landing perfectly. No wobble, no rebound, I just let go of the bar and landed. I heard the familiar, five-note good-luck whistle my sister and I made up when we first started competing. The sound of the crowd made my spirit grow bigger, listening to the crowd cheering for me, Ryan Michelson, the best male gymnast in Raleigh!
I jogged off the court, high-fiving my coach. My twin sister, Isabel, was beaming. She hugged me tightly around my neck and whispered, “The scout’ll have to recommend you now!” I whispered back, “Make sure you’re invited too!”
She ran onto the court, her milk chocolate ponytail bobbing. I tossed on my jacket and sweatpants, watching Isabel expertly perform her complicated routine. I peered over to the judges’ box, trying to see the scout from the American Gymnastics Team, destined to go to the Olympics. Our coach had received a letter saying the team was interested in Isabel and I and they were sending a scout. Isabel and I trained and prepared for two months. Isabel finished her routine and the crowd once again exploded!
“We are going to make it!” I thought, but quickly brushed it away. I didn’t want to get my hopes up.
“Hey, Ryan,” I turned to see Terrence Rover goofily waving at me, a couple of his buddies cracking up behind him. “Saw you in that leotard! You looked… stunning! You should wear that to the prom when you and your gay boyfriend go together.” He and his friends started making kissy faces at me again. Mom was sitting right behind them, and she stared at me. She smiled and mouthed, “Ignore them. You did great.” She clutched her hands together like she always did whenever she was proud of me. I smiled and I turned around. I had become pretty good at turning the other cheek, but the insults did hurt, and I didn’t even have a boyfriend. But I was determined that the gay jokes wouldn’t ruin my night. After all, who would be laughing when I was at the Olympics, receiving a gold medal?
Isabel ran off the court. Her caramel eyes landed on Terrence and his friends and they all stopped laughing.
“Hey, Isabel, um, really great job out there!” Terrence said and smiled that goofy smile. She coldly disregarded him and sat next to me, swishing her ponytail over her shoulder. That was the good thing about having a gorgeous sister. She shut up the bullies quickly.
“Really awesome job! You landed the back handspring perfectly!” I said. Isabel was distracted, staring back at Terrence and his friends. She knew how much they teased me, no matter how nice they were to her, she always knew whenever they had been teasing me.
“Just leave it alone. They’re just a bunch of big jerks” I said.
“Yeah, I know, but it makes me so pissed. They tease you about your sexuality, but whenever I’m around, they always flirt with me and act like big suck-ups.” She pulled her iPod out of her bag and offered me an ear bud. I put it in and we sat, listening to the soundtrack of Rent, our favorite musical. We waited for the winners to be announced, and with no surprise, both of us won first for our division. We stood on the blue mat as the crowd roared our names. We were local celebrities, with the scout coming specifically to see if we were gold medal material, and we hoped we had impressed him. Going to the Olympics was Isabel and I’s dream and we were so close to making that happen.
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It was at about midnight and storming when we finally headed home. My mother took the keys from her purse and we ran to our car, trying to stay as dry as possible. As we drove along the highway, Mom reminded us that making the national team was not all that mattered. Her hands clutched the steering wheel, her knuckles white from the lack of blood. Mom hated driving late on a Friday night. She always said she was scared of idiot teenagers driving home drunk or smoking who-knows-what. Isabel and I started to joke about if we make it to the national team, it would be the only thing we loved and it would consume all of our lives. Mom understood we were joking and went right along with it, getting all mother-like and saying she’d force us to quit if we spent too much time at the gymnasium. Mom knew both of us loved gymnastics and there was no way she would ever make us quit. If we even said we wanted to quit, she would most likely send us to the insane asylum. Mom supported gymnastics all the way, and thankfully, her job managed to pay the expenses that came with it. Mom was my hero. After Dad died, she was the only person who would listen to me trash and rant about the boys who called me “gay” and said gymnastics was a “homosexual sport.” I told her about the anonymous locker notes and the kissy faces behind my back. When Dad died, my mom had to become my dad’s understudy, and play his part when he couldn’t. My mom sacrificed everything for Isabel and me. I wanted to tell her how much she meant to me, but I didn’t know how to start the subject. I stared out of the dark, splattered car window, watching the wipers wave back and forth, back and forth, like someone waving goodbye.
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Later, I walked into my room, smoothing the comforter with my palm. Everything looked the same, as though it never happened. I paused, watching my dog, Jasper, asleep on my pillow. I looked at the poster of Paul Hamm. I remembered when I first got that. It was Christmas of one year and my mom bought Isabel and me a huge poster of our favorite gymnast. Paul Hamm was mine and Nastia Lukin was Isabel’s. Quickly walking out, I headed to our tree, where I was supposed to meet Isabel.
         Approaching our tree, I noticed someone other than Isabel was there. Isabel ran to me, her caramel eyes sparkling with tears, and whispered, “Mom’s here, Ryan.” I didn’t want to see my mother, not after what happened. I didn’t want to see the disappointment on her face, or the grief.
         Taking a deep breath, I walked up to my mother. Though I couldn’t see her face, I could hear the huge, heavy sobs coming from deep inside her tiny figure. She cried, “I know you are here.” In her hand, she clutched the newspaper article announcing the deaths of two fourteen-year-olds, Ryan and Isabel Michelson, the finest gymnasts Raleigh, North Carolina has seen. The article told about the thunderstorm as they were coming back from their biggest competition, and the drunk teenage driver coming back from a party. No one could have seen it. The drunk driver didn’t have their headlights on. The article says the mother was thrown from the car, but the children weren’t so lucky. When the paramedics arrived, they had to cut the kids out of the metal nest. Only the mother survived but suffered a severe break in her pelvis bone. It went on to tell that the Michaelson twins were headed to the Olympics and, at their competition, there was a scout for the U.S. team. The reporter interviewed the scout. He said, “They would have been great, especially in the Olympics. They were both naturals. It’s a shame their dead, just a horrible, tragic shame.”
         I touched my mother and a shudder passed through her body. She tried to grasp my hand, only passing through me and gripping her shoulder. She turned and stared, trying to see my unseen face. Isabel came up behind me and stroked my mother’s face. Like a wave on a beach, my mother leaned into her touch.
         “I’m not crazy,” she said, “You are here.” We stayed like that, trying to comfort our mom, even though she couldn’t see or hear us. I looked up and sitting in our tree was Dad. He smiled and motioned us towards him. I tapped Isabel’s shoulder and we both stood and walked toward Dad. Isabel made a weird noise and I looked back at Mom. She was walking back down the street, the wounds of her heart tended and recovering. We watched her stop at our door and quietly slide in. We knew how quiet the house would seem to Mom, how skeletal it would be, but there was nothing we could do. Mom had to make it on her own now. I turned around and started climbing our tree, one last time. Isabel still stood in the yard, watching our house, waiting for something to happen. I whistled our good-luck whistle, five melodic notes, and she joined me in our tree. Dad had disappeared, but we climbed, higher than we had ever been until, somehow, we disappeared too.