Page 49 of Goodbye Days

“I’ve talked a little with the grandma of one of my friends who died.”

“I’ve noticed that you haven’t said their names. You’ve referred to them as ‘a friend’ or ‘friends.’ Do you find it difficult to say their names?”

“I—yeah. I guess I kinda do.”

“Do you know why?”

I ponder. “I’m not sure this is why, but I hate saying their names while talking about them dying. It’s stupid, but I’m almost afraid if I do, it’ll make it real.”

Dr. Mendez shakes his head. “I’ve seen people who were afraid to throw out clothes or shoes of a loved one, because they worried that by doing so, they would make the death final. Nonnegotiable. What would their loved one do if she came home and needed her shoes?”

My hands tremble, but imperceptibly so. Like one of those weird eye twitches you can’t see if you look in the mirror. “Can I tell you their names?” My voice trembles too. I can hear it.

“If you’d like to.”

I hesitate. “Blake Lloyd. Eli Bauer. Mars Edwards.” I say the names like a benediction. It feels good and it hurts.

Dr. Mendez absorbs them. “Thank you for telling me their names. I can tell how important they are to you; how sacred you keep them.”

I’m uncertain why I blurt this out. “So. A while ago I was at Blake’s grandma’s house, helping her with some of the yard work that Blake was supposed to do…before he died. And while I was there, she suggested we have a goodbye day for Blake. I’m wondering if I should do it.”

“What’s a goodbye day?”

“The way she talked about it, we’d spend a day together doing the things she’d have done with Blake if she’d gotten to have a last day with him. I guess we’d try to give life to his story for one more day. Pay tribute. Say goodbye. I have no idea how it works.”

Dr. Mendez sits back in his chair, gazing past me, tapping his lips. “Hmm.”

After a few seconds, I say, “So, doctor. Tell me about your mother.”

He laughs and leans forward. “If I understand correctly, you would be acting as a sort of surrogate for Blake?”

“Kind of? I mean I wouldn’t be wearing Blake’s clothes or anything, but…”

“No, but it would be the two of you interacting in some way with his memory. Perhaps the sharing of stories or experiences that would have been meaningful.”

“I guess.”

He taps his lips again. “Interesting.” His brow wrinkles in thought.

“Interesting good or interesting bad? Or interesting that I have to figure out on my own?”

“The latter. Grief is a valley from which there are multiple points of exit. I have no experience with this goodbye day idea, but there are proven therapies that work on a similar principle, where you give yourself a new context for experiencing something. If, for example, you’re afraid of relationships, you go and enter a relationship and try to experience it in a new, healthier way. So maybe interacting with Blake’s memory in this manner would give you a new context for experiencing his loss.”

“So do it?”

“That would be difficult for me to know even if we had talked more. I’d say that’s a decision you have to make for yourself. The question is: Do you want to do it? Does it feel right? If so, and it turns out to not be what you hoped, we can work through it. Lesson learned. It’s not something that would have occurred to me to suggest, but what occurs to me is not necessarily the benchmark for excellence in an idea.”

I continue to mull while Dr. Mendez and I talk about how I’m coping, sleeping, eating.

Our session ends. Dr. Mendez and Georgia bid each other a happy farewell. He wishes her luck with the coming school year. She wishes him the best with his new marriage. I walk out with my Zoloft prescription in hand.

I feel lighter. Not like I’ve taken off a heavy backpack, but like I’ve temporarily purged myself of some poison. Empty, hollow, blank.

When we get outside, the sky is greenish-gray and the air has a sort of feral vitality, like a storm is coming. A balmy gust whips our faces, and in the distance I hear the metallic clanging of a flagpole’s clip against the pole. It’s the only sound other than the wind in my ears.

We sit in the car and I abruptly start crying. I have no idea why and Georgia doesn’t ask. Maybe it’s how forlorn that flagpole line sounded. Maybe it’s relief. Maybe it felt good to talk to someone who I thought wasn’t judging me. Maybe the grieving don’t need a reason to cry. It’s open season on crying. A cry-all-you-want buffet.

Georgia squeezes my hand. “Hey.”