Page 14 - Contrast1998

What To Do W~en a Stranger Dies
Valerie Kann
Listen through the doorway as your co-
workers talk about the accident. Kelly, the one
in yellow stripes who's about to get married,
tells the story. Kim says "Oh Christ" and
bursts into tears. Try to make sense of the un-
familiar names, to figure out who died. Hope
it's the stepfather or the best friend, but not
the boyfriend. Anyone but the boyfriend.
Look at your monitor. Stop yourself from
wanting to go into the reception area, to hear
the story's missing fragments. Don't ask,
"What happened?" Instead, wonder. Keep
hoping it's not the boyfriend.
Pretend this tragedy is like one in a maga-
zine, like the ones you used to read in your
mom's Family Circle. They were called True-
Life Dramas. When you need to get to the
files, float to them like a zombie.
Accept not knowing. Reach for a folder.
The fat girl with the pig nose says, "That
makes me sick. That makes me want to throw
up." Nod. Ask why, because you feel you
have to.
She tells it like the words are just words.
"Wendy's boyfriend was in a car accident, and
he died. And she doesn't know it yet."
Say "Oh" soft and low, a sympathetic moan-
ing. Keep the other moaning, the feral howl-
ing, the real sound of pain, quiet. Let it bite at you were waiting for him to come home, and
you. Lower your eyes and walk back to your
desk, observing the tacit code of behavior that
people observe when a tragedy has happened.
Sit down. Hate God. Hate yourself because
you don't believe in God anyway, and this
death means nothing. It is not part of a big
plan, and nobody will get any rewards or learn
great moral truths or go to paradise. Picture
yourself screaming at a minister, "He will not
go to heaven! He is gone! His body will rot!
This is the end!" You scream this about your
own boyfriend as you cry hysterically. Recall
what they write in books about bereavement:
12
Survivors may express their anger by "lashing
out" at God, or even by renouncing belief Prac-
tice telling the concerned people you know
will pray for you to go to hell.
Think about the word ~(died."Hate the
word.
When a tear falls, makes
a salty circle of wet on
your desk, get embar-
rassed and wipe it up.
Say, "It didn't happen to
me."
Cry a minimal cry, only tears and running
mucus, no sobbing gulping or irregular
breathing. When a tear falls, makes a salty
circle of wet on your desk, get embarrassed
and wipe it up. Say, "It didn't happen to me."
See Wendy at the hospital, finding out the
news that her boyfriend is dead, and remem-
ber the dreams. All of them. The bloody fig-
ure slumped on the pavement on a rainy day
on Lincoln Avenue, you walking by calmly,
passing his mother but not looking, thinking
about becoming a nun. The piece of paper
next to the school phone that said "Dx: myo-
cardial infarction" and the secretary that
wouldn't tell you the truth, but you knew that
it was him because he took a strange car out
on the road at four in the morning. The de-
formed babies you held, one at a time, while
he didn't.
Remember what you did not dream: the
perpetual electrification of waiting, waiting
by the phone for the news. Drowning in the