More Than a Story: Part 2~Ali Cummings

More than a Story
Part 2

It was a long week. We did not attend church on Wednesday because that had been the day of the funeral. It was very nice outside for December. The birds were singing as if they had nothing better to do. The leaves, or whatever leaves were left on the ground and on the trees, rustled with the wind’s music. A few squirrels were gathering some last-minute nuts to store up for the remainder of the winter. In the living room, a weather reporter announced that it was "a clear sky with little or no precipitation, and 70 degrees".And I sat in my room on my bed, with my arms crossed behind my head, thinking. Just thinking.I wondered what I was going to do with my day. Usually when it was this warm, Hannah would come into my room about this time and ask me if I wanted to play with her. But she hadn’t asked me that since Monday. Maybe I would play video games. Or maybe I would play Game Boy. We had gotten this new game for it with all sorts of assorted sport games on it, like football and basketball and ping-pong . . .Ping-pong. The words hit me like someone dragging their nails over a chalk board. I shut my eyes tight, trying to block out the image that threatened to overwhelm me, but it only made it clearer.Just two months ago, on the 26th of October, to be exact, at church. There was the air hockey table before my eyes, and someone was gathering the two red pucks to put them with the table. He looked up at me with the most gorgeous hazel eyes I had ever seen. I smiled, and he asked, "Do you want to play ping-pong?""Sure!" I said enthusiastically. And then we were in the room playing, keeping up a steady stream of small talk as we played. And then he hit the ball too hard, and I whacked it back, almost hitting him in the process. He laughed. I had loved making him laugh.
And then he hit it back, and it bounced off of my head. I picked it up and looked at him. He was doubling over with laughter. I, standing with Sam in the angle room, was laughing. But I, laying on my bed alone in my bedroom, was crying.
"Sam!" I moaned, burying my face in my pillow.
~ ** ~ * ~ * ~ ** ~
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
I awoke the next day to my alarm clock. I rolled over and looked at the time. It was 7:30 in the morning. I rolled to face my wall and became numb to the incessant noise of my alarm clock; numb also to the fact that I had to get out of bed and get dressed and ready for church that morning. I buried my face into my pillow and tried to block out the noise issuing form my accursed alarm clock. I thought about throwing it across the room.
And then I remembered Sam telling me once about how he had thrown his alarm clock across the room. It hadn’t broken.
I wished I hadn’t thought of that. I almost broke down and cried again, but I told myself firmly that crying won’t do me any good.
"Crying won’t change things," I said stiffly. "Crying won’t make him come back."I got out of bed and opened my closet. It was like opening a closet full of memories of Sam. But in reality, it was full of clothes that I had worn so many different times. I had worn this shirt to Busch Gardens in October. I had worn these jeans every Wednesday night for a month. I had worn this jacket when Sam had asked Sara to ask me to call him while he was in West Virginia.
I tried to rip the memories out of my mind, but it did no good. So instead, I just laid out the only dress that I owned that I hadn’t worn when Sam was around. The only problem was that it was a spaghetti strap dress, and it was 49 degrees outside. The temperature, along with my mood, had dropped intensely. I would freeze to death.
So I just threw the dress back into my closet and rummaged through it until I found my denim skirt, long sleeved blue shirt, and brown boots, all of which I hadn’t worn since last winter.And then I grabbed my Bible and walked out into the living room. Seeing an open spot, I sat down and sat my Bible on my lap, and waited.
I didn’t have to wait long. Soon the house sprang to life. Renee walked down the hall in khaki dress pants and a long sleeved green shirt. She bustled into the kitchen to get breakfast, not even noticing that I was sitting on the couch.
Hannah walked right past me, muttering to Sora, her imaginary friend. She was swinging her Bible as she past, and said a quick sorry as it hit my leg. I didn’t feel it.
And then, lastly, my mom came up. She noticed me sitting there, and came over to me. Pushing a few magazines aside, she sat down next to me and asked "How are you doing?"
"Fine," I lied.
She knew I was lying. But nevertheless, she walked into the kitchen, fixing the collar on Hannah’s dress shirt as she passed.
I bit my lip to keep from filling with tears. I was a strong person, and strong people didn’t cry. I wasn’t going to cry. I couldn’t cry. I was not going to cry!
So I didn’t. I just kept a firm hold on my lip with my teeth. In fact, I held it for the thirty minute car ride to church. And by the time I stepped into the Youth Room, it was bleeding.
~ ** ~ * ~ * ~ ** ~
The smell. The familiar, welcoming smell of the Youth Room. It smelled of paint and people and the metal chairs that creaked when you tilted them the right way. Usually, I breathed in that smell as if it were oxygen.
But on this particular Sunday, it hit me and choked me. I tried to hold my breath, but I started to suffocate, so I let it out with much regret. Once again, the smell engulfed me, filling my lungs to the brim, choking me with memories of my dead friend. Tears began to well up in my eyes, but I held them back.No. I told myself. You are a strong person. You don’t cry.
So, to further distract myself, I began taking the chairs and setting them up. I started how I always did: taking one chair and sitting it on the right side of the tall, white pole in the middle of the room. And then I took three more and put them on the right side of that chair. And then I took four more and put them on the left side.
And then I started to set up the chairs for the front row, starting left to right instead of my usual right to left. Why? Because Sam had always sat on the last chair to the far right of the room. I always sat next to him.
I set up my chair and the looked longingly at the empty space next to it. It was as if the empty space in my heart of hearts had taken form right before my eyes. I thought about setting up the chair, but what good would that do? Ashlee was bound to sit in it instead.
A slow, burning rage started in me as I thought of that fact. But if I didn’t set that chair up, it would feel all too strange. And then a sudden idea hit me.
I picked up a chair and sat it at the end. It was empty, as it should be. And then I searched the cabinets for a piece of paper. By God’s Amazing Grace alone did I find one shoved into the back of the last cabinet I checked.
Smoothing it out, I grabbed a pen out of my Bible and wrote in bold, readable letters across the paper.
THE KING SAT HERE
I looked at my handiwork and frowned. It sounded like an artifact in a museum, not a monumental piece. So I erased it as best as I could (which was completely) and wrote instead:
~ A LOYAL FRIEND WAS HERE ~
It was perfect. Once again, my eyes welled up, but I forced the tears away.
And then I folded the paper and sat it carefully on the chair. And as I stepped back to view it all completely, my eyes became glued to that seat. It was too much. But I refused to cry. Instead, I sat down in my usual chair and closed my eyes, forcing every good memory out of my mind that popped up.
~ ** ~ * ~ * ~ ** ~
I told no one that it was me that set that paper out on the chair. A few people asked me who had done it, and I said that it had been there. (And it had.)
But I could not fool a handful of people. My best friend Lindsay knew immediately, and as soon as class was over, she came and hugged me hard. But she said nothing. That was fine. A hug was enough. It was like she and I had exchanged a tearful conversation without words.
Renee knew it was me because she recognized my handwriting. She hugged me and just moaned "Oh, Meg!"
Sara probably would have known too, but none of the McMillens were present that day. Hannah was disappointed that Krissy couldn’t come, but soon she busied herself with her other best friend, Meredith.
That day was the day of the covered-dish luncheon. There was one at the first Sunday of every month. I cringed, but told my mom that if Hannah and Renee wanted to stay (which they did) then I would too.
~ ** ~ * ~ * ~ ** ~