Ms. Randle's Class
by Delia Keller
“Berkeley Police. Please state your emergency.” The cold, seemingly uninterested
voice began.
A worried thirteen year old girl responded, “My friend ran away from home. I think
he might be suicidal.”
“What is your name?” The monotone attendant retorted.
Nervously and afraid of the consequences, I admitted my name, “Delia Keller.”
Noises of quick fingers on a keyboard resonated over the receiver as I tried to
choke back the tears.
“Uhh...huh. And your friend’s name, Ms. Keller?”
“Oliver Boland.” I stated shortly, worried about the irrelevant calmness in her voice..
“Now, tell me what happened.”
I tried to recount the preceding events in as few words as possible, “I was talking
to him online...he seemed depressed. He told me he didn’t want to take his medications
anymore, he said they weren’t work-”
She rudely interupted, “What medications was the boy taking?”
“Anti-depressants.”
I heard the unceasing taps on the keyboard, informing the computer of the new information.
I continued, “he got into a fight with his mom about it, and she told him he couldn’t
stay in her house without obeying the doctor’s orders...so he left. I’ve been talking
to him on his cell phone, but he’s really unresponsive. I’m really scared he might
try to...” I couldn’t utter the rest of the words, they only made that possibility
more looming.
“I’m going to need his phone number.” she requested. I spat out the seven digits
as quickly as I could, praying that help would arrive soon.
After waiting ten long, difficult minutes, the phone rang.
“Hello?” I uneasily started. I faltered in my speech, I could feel my heart pounding as I awaited the possible bad news. “Wha-is he..okay? W-w-what happened?”
“You’re friend is fine. He says he’ll give you a call soon. Thanks for alerting us.” A stern sounding police officer informed me. Whew. Thank god.
I saw Oliver the next day. Nothing had changed, we laughed about the previous night’s events as if they were as serious as April Fool’s day
“I can’t believe you called the fucking cops!” He awkwardly joked.
“Shut up, I was worried!” I stubbornly defended.
“Oh man, You’d be so lost without me! I don’t even know what you’d do.”
I graduated from middle school that year. Oliver stayed behind in eighth grade. We were now separated and as time passed, we made new friends and were drawn apart.
The school bell rang and I rushed through the crowded courtyard as fast as I could
to meet my friends, eager to start my Friday afternoon. I was disappointed to see
Robbie, a class clown and loudmouth, standing ahead, probably waiting to bother
me about something that I didn’t have time for.
“Didn’t you hear?...” he said sounding distressed and clearly taken aback by my
obvious hurry, “...Oliver killed himself.”
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t find a single sequence of words that seemed appropriate.
I crumpled slowly to the ground, crying loudly, and muttering uncontrollable, wasted
pleas.
People began to crowd in on me from every direction and Robbie let them know what
had happened. All I could see was a blurred mixture of multicolored, weather beaten
shoes circling around me. Random hands were rubbing my back and unrecognizable
voices were sharing unsolicited words of comfort.
The funeral took place on a surprisingly warm autumn day. It seemed that the sun
missed the memo about a funeral happening, as it continued to wash over me with
its misplaced rays of warmth and happiness.
Dressed in uncomfortable clothes that fit too tightly, I got out of the car and
stared at the steep slanted graveyard covered with a crowd of black figures moving
simultaneously, they glided up the grassy hill. I did not hurry to join them.
The awful black color of my clothing weighed me down as I slowly trudged up the
pathway. There were more people than I ever imagined would show up. The hill was
overflowing with mourning relatives and friends. It was unbelievable. I wondered
what Oliver would say if he could see all of this:
“Wow! There’s more people here than at Disneyland!” Then, a pearly, mile wide grin
would crowd his face and he would digress into some unrelated story about his last
trip to an amusement park.
The incredible, black mass situated themselves around what was apparently the allotted
site. I looked ahead for a place I wanted to settle in, but in every section there
were people I couldn’t bear to see.
Of course, there was the familial group, those that stuck through with Oliver from
beginning to end. These people spent their time collecting sympathy from their
friends and acquaintances. I couldn’t bare to think about how his immediate family
was feeling.
Seated peacefully in the center of the commotion were those who looked for only
the good in bad experiences. They told and retold stories of Oliver’s triumphs
and his accomplishments. They celebrated his life as if he were still around, these
people were clearly hiding their feelings.
Next, the kids from our middle school attended. There were the incessant, sobbing
girls from middle school who somehow managed to produce innumerable, nonstop amounts
of tears since they had received the bad news. Kneeling in line under a tree were
Ben’s fellow boy scout troops. They sat respectively in uniform, awaiting order.
Sitting peacefully, alone, furthest from the crowd, I saw one of Oliver’s closest
friends. David was the perfect, most loyal friend. He didn’t leave anyone behind
and he put more effort into his relationship with Ben, than I did with any five
of my friendships added together. David wasn’t crying. He sat pensively reflecting,
very slyly avoiding the chaos. It was obvious, he didnt feel unresolved. There
was nothing weighing him down, not a drop of guilt around him. I was jealous.
Every group seemed to be working towards fulfilling one unique goal, specific to
each. Some were there to gain support, to connect with others going through the
same thing. They bonded together in an attempt to get through the tough times more
smoothly. I was sure that this technique would not be successful in making me feel
any better. Other people can’t help me with my own feelings. They have no idea.
Others came out of respect, to honor Oliver’s good qualities, and to help his memory
live on. Many people came to find closure. They apologized for their mistakes
and wished for second chances.
I , however, fell completely into my own category. Yes, I did come to pay respects
to his family. I did show up in search of closure. I did wish for second chances.
I was there for everything, although I felt completely unresolved afterwards and
it looked as though the family had more than enough support. It seemed that I was
alone in feeling anger towards Oliver. I was disappointed in him for giving up,
for not trying to get through it and just taking the easy way out. I was hurt that
he didn’t consider the people he would leave behind. He forgot about all his friends
and family, all the people that loved him. He forgot about me.
I wanted to feel like David. I wanted to be rid of these guilty feelings. I’m
not asking for a free pass, I don’t want to avoid the mourning process all together.
I needed someone to tell me that I had tried my hardest, there was nothing else
I could have done. It wasn’t my fault.
As I weaved in and out of the crowds, I tried to avoid Patty, Oliver’s mom. She
Always tried to sneak in different slang words when she spoke to us or if we drove somewhere
she would turn up her dated oldies so loud that the car vibrated The Temptations.
We never told her that the colloquialisms she desperately peppered her speech with
were decades late, and sadly separated us further apart rather than brought us closer
together. I have to say that I didn’t feel bad for her. She only seemed to go half
way with her parenting. The extent of her thinking seemed to stop at ‘kids like
loud music,’ therefore, ‘I will play my music loud.’
When I saw Patty slowly hobbling closer, towards me, I contemplated running. My
eyes searched desperately through the flocks of people, just one small diversion
and I could dodge this bullet. Realizing there wasn’t an out, my legs instantly
froze and I grew rooted to the dirt beneath me, forced to await the imminent sentence.
“Doin’ okay?” she idiotically asked.
No. I’m not “okay.” I just lost one of my best friends. No warning. No goodbye.
No Patty, I am not doing “okay” and there’s no way I ever will be.
“Yeah...” I pitifully responded.
Fat, meaty tear drops flooded my eyes and I turned my gaze pathetically to the
grassy rug at my feet. The next thing I knew, I was enveloped in a suffocating,
inescapable hug from Patty. That was it. I was triggered, and every shred of emotion
erupted.
“I’m so sorry. It’s not fair…this shouldn’t have happened.” I sobbed still trapped in her arms.
“Shhhhhh,” she consoled while rubbing my back in circular motions. She released me from her grasp and I gazed directly into her eyes. For the first time, we connected. The pain in her eyes told me that she understood. She was part of my group. She too felt like she had not done enough. She too carried guilt with her. I was not alone
I sat in my room and remembered back to the last conversation I had with Oliver.
It was short and weak.
SWATTEAM002: Hey D, what’s up?
Mourninstar14: Hey, not much
SWATTEAM002: yeah I’m just hangin out at home trying to do homework
Mourninstar14: I hate homework
SWATTEAM002: yea...
SWATTEAM002: So nothing new with you?
Mourninstar14: not really, I have hella homework too
SWATTEAM002: A lot of homework in high school?
Mourninstar14: Yea kinda
SWATTEAM002: Bet you wish you were in 8th grade still ey?
Mourninstar14: I guess
SWATTEAM002: ok well I guess I’m gunna go soon
Mourninstar14: k well ill talk to you later then
SWATTEAM002: I miss you, we should hang out soon
I carelessly ignored his blinking IM box.
SWATTEAM002: signed off at 9:25 p.m.
Bye.