Work Text:
Bombs are dropping, smoke fills the air
I wanna duck and cover but I’ve gotta stay out here
'Cause I know myself and if I hole up in my room
I'll be consumed by the doom and the gloom
/\/\/\
To Cynthia, Connor was her miracle. A rainbow baby after a handful of miscarriages, he was her pride and joy. Such a well behaved toddler, once he started school things seemed to change. The boy who was once so small and shy, hiding his eyes whenever someone tried to talk to him, was throwing tantrums and terrorizing other kids. At first it started with the typical, “Don’t leave me, Mommy!” as she’d try to drop him off to kindergarten, but it soon escalated to her getting called in nearly three times a week because of his behavior.
Connor threw a glue stick at Jake Hudson.
Connor bit Emily Garrick.
Connor cut the tip of Alex Ross’s ear with scissors!
(Well, who gave a five year-old scissors in the first place?)
Larry came home from work one day to Cynthia in tears while Connor sat on top of Zoe, hitting her with a throw pillow with little mercy. Zoe laughed, the four year-old clearly thinking it was a game. Maybe it started out that way, but Connor’s little face was contorted with rage. He bit into his tongue so hard that Larry was surprised he hadn’t bit it clean off.
“This is not my son!” Cynthia cried to her husband, a complete wreck of a woman. “This is not Connor!”
Larry was never good at comforting women (or anyone for that matter). He just kissed her gently on the forehead, which only caused her to cry harder, and went to retrieve his son. He yanked the boy off of Zoe, pried the pillow from his hands, and carried him to the back yard. Connor fought him every step of the way, squirming and kicking in his father’s arms, but he was small and skinny against a more sturdy man. Larry plopped him into a patio chair, with an order to stay put, and disappeared into the house. He returned with a beer for himself and a juice box for his son.
The two sat quietly, drinking their beverages. Neither of them said a word for nearly thirty minutes. When they did speak, Larry mentioned baseball tryouts at the local community center. Connor said he was grounded from fun. Larry said he could see his friends. Connor said he didn’t have any friends. Silence for another thirty minutes.
Larry was never good at comforting anyone.
Cynthia took Connor to therapy the following week. It was an appointment for her son, but in all honesty, she needed it for herself. Connor sat on the floor and played with magnetic tinker toys while Cynthia sobbed in an uncomfortable armchair. Eventually she was asked to leave the room so the psychologist could have a moment alone with Connor. When she reentered, the psychologist presented a list of possible diagnoses for children with behavioral issues so severe. Cynthia got two words into the list and started crying again.
(He was only five! There’s no way he could’ve had any of these!)
If only Cynthia knew more. If only she knew what to do. But when does a mother ever know what to do.
Eventually, things got better. They weren’t perfect, but it all seemed to fall into place. Connor was an incredibly smart kid; it was almost scary. He struggled with making friends, but he eventually had a few. His outbursts were less and less, and though he was moody, he was better.
Then he threw a printer at Mrs. G in second grade.
Then he started smoking cigarettes (and God knows what else) in sixth grade.
Then he got expelled from Hanover after weed was found in his locker in eleventh grade.
He was in and out of therapy, on and off of meds. Cynthia was reluctant to begin any of it. She was scared to see how it would change her little boy, even though the little boy was so full of rage and contempt at the world. That little boy was so full of hatred toward himself. Why was Cynthia so scared of changing that? Of losing that?
Because it was all she had, sometimes.
Connor had personality. He had likes and dislikes. He read so many books, sometimes he’d finish a book standing in line at Barnes and Noble. He drew on anything and everything he could find. Even when he was well beyond the age for the kids menu, he always pocketed a set of crayons to draw on the napkins and tablecloths. There was so much more to Connor than most people cared to see, or than he cared to show.
Senior year came around and Cynthia was so sure this would be the year that things stayed better.
Then he didn’t come home after the first day of school.
He wasn’t found until early the next morning, passed out at the base of a tree. A quick search of his messenger bag lead to the discovery of several empty bottles of medication. Prozac. Abilify. Xanax. (The Xanax wasn’t even his. No one knew where he got it.)
When Cynthia finally received the call, Connor had already been transported to the ER. They didn’t tell her over the phone that her son had been dead since around 11 p.m. the previous night. She went alone, just expecting him to have gotten into trouble. He’d gotten into fights plenty of times. Stitches were no stranger.
She didn’t believe the nurse at first. It didn’t make sense. He couldn’t be dead. She just had to see him, and he would be fine! It was just an accident! He probably just broke his arm or busted his nose!
“We tried everything we could, ma’am, but it was too late,” the nurse said gently.
Then she watched as a ghostly white sheet was pulled away to reveal a ghostly white boy. His lips were just as pale as his face, foamy vomit dried and crusted on his chin. His eyes were slightly open, glazed and gazing off beyond her.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She just took his hand, already cold and stiff, and sat next to him. The nurse left the room and let her have her moment.
“This isn’t my son,” she whispered to herself. “This isn’t my Connor… It can’t be.”
Then she felt guilty for referring to her own dead son as it.
An hour passed before she could bring herself to call Larry.
Another hour passed before he arrived with Zoe in tow. Larry seemed more inconvenienced than upset. Zoe just wanted to go back to school. She just wanted to be anywhere that wasn’t that tiny little ER room. Cynthia never felt like more of a failure than she did holding her son’s lifeless hand while her husband and daughter tapped away on their phones. She never wanted to hear a notification sound again.
They held the wake a week later. The only people outside of family to show were an assortment of Connor’s old teachers. The funeral was the next day, family only. Larry wanted his hair cut off or tied away. Cynthia insisted he be left just the way he was. So, his hair stayed long. His fingernails stayed painted. He was dressed in a suit, but he still had his boots on, hidden under the lid so few knew. But Cynthia knew.
For the next month, she was lost. Being a stay-at-home mom, lack of direction was already something she knew. She went to Pilates. She went to yoga. But when she wasn’t doing those two things, she was sitting at home, reading or watching reruns of shows she had seen a million times before. She didn’t do much before. She did even less after.
Some days, she didn’t even get out of bed. She’d hide under the covers for hours, only getting up to use the restroom or refill her water. Even after Larry and Zoe would return from work and school, she would stay in bed. They’d make dinner. She’d stay in bed. They’d watch a movie. She’d stay in bed. They’d try to talk to her, involve her. She’d stay in bed, quiet.
Her phone sat on her nightstand, buzzing away with notifications of condolences and love. A month had passed. Why were so many people still posting on her Facebook? She just wanted to go a day without seeing “Lots of love!” or an old little league photo from women she barely talked to. Even the lady at the gas station gave her a sad smile when she actually got out of bed days ago. (She had gone to buy a pack of cigarettes. She hadn’t had one since college. Larry didn’t know she was smoking again.)
She couldn’t admit it to herself, or anyone else, but she just wanted to fall asleep forever. She had failed Connor, she would fail Zoe. She didn’t see a point in going on. She didn’t know how to go on.
It took over a month for her to try.
One day, after a shower so long her fingers pruned, she trudged into Connor’s room with several empty plastic tubs and a handful of garbage bags. The room had remained untouched with the door close since he died. They always joked that once Connor moved out, that room would because a workout room with a shiny new treadmill and weights. Now she just wanted to saw the room off from the house altogether.
She started with the posters. Bands, movies, art, random paper objects—she tore it all down, shoving them into the trash bags. She cleared off his nightstand, not stopping to examine any of it. She originally planned to go through the whole room, organize everything, trash some things, donate others. But she was angry. Something inside her snapped and she stormed through the room, throwing everything into the trash bags. Comic books, headphones, art supplies, novels, shoes, shirts—everything went, and Cynthia didn’t care. Her tears practically boiled on her cheeks.
She continued until she finally collapsed, violent sobs overtaking her frame.
Zoe found her passed out among a mess of overstuffed garbage bags and haphazardly discarded clothing. She carefully stepped around the obstacles to lay down next to her. Cynthia didn’t notice, she was too deep asleep. Zoe opened one of the bags, a hard and heavy one full of books. A sketchbook sat at the very top, the cover beaten up and covered in stickers. She had seen Connor carry it around before, but she had never seen what was in it.
The first page was a self-portrait, all done in ink. It was an older drawing, meaning a younger Connor. He had grown his hair out several times in his life, eventually getting it cut short. It was never his choice to cut his hair. Cynthia or Larry made an appointment at a salon and they’d make sure he went. This portrait had to be from junior year at Hanover. Not so fresh cut, but just shaggy enough so that his hair curled up at his ears. It was messy and shaded in solid black, contrasting the white of his face. The angles of his cheeks, his jaw, his nose were all dramatic and sharp. Heavy bags sat under tired eyes, the irises looking as though they were rolling back into his head. The only pop of color was a vibrant red dripping from his nose.
It was less realistic and more expressive, but anyone who saw that would know it was Connor.
Zoe continued through the sketchbook.
There were finished pieces and simple doodles, all in graphite or ink. He used very little color, but when he did, it was intense and loud, often angry. There were drawings of some boy with short, curly hair. Almost every drawing he had a wide smile. Connor captured every detail, from the thin mustache to the diamond earrings to the birthmark on his neck. Zoe had never seen anyone that resembled him in Rochester. Maybe he was just a made up character.
Connor drew a lot of self-portraits, all dynamic and intense in emotion. Faces, hands, torsos, legs, and full bodies, almost all of them of him. (There may have even been a nude or two, but Zoe skipped over those.) She knew he drew, but she had only ever seen abstract doodles and patterns on napkins and homework assignments. She didn’t know he was this good.
He could’ve had a future in art.
Cynthia and Larry had given up on a set future for him long ago, but they still talked about college and careers like it would happen. Zoe just assumed he’d be a basement dweller until their parents kicked him out. (If Cynthia had any say in that, Connor could stay at home forever. She had trouble saying no.)
Zoe rummaged through several of the bags, grabbing out books, clothes, and other odds and ends she felt were important. She left the room without her mother waking and stored it all away in her closet. She knew her mom would go back through the bags and actually pack things, that trashing everything was just her emotions taking over, but a small part of her worried that certain things of Connor would be gone forever.
She didn’t want to admit that she missed him.
Eventually, Cynthia woke up and immediately started undoing her worked. She undid the garbage bags and pulled everything out, surrounding her in a nest of everything that was Connor. She couldn’t do anything but just sit and stare at it all, wondering if she even knew her son.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. For once, she checked it.
It was a message from another mom she knew vaguely. They weren’t friends on Facebook, but she’d seen her around town and back when their kids were in elementary school. She always seemed frantic and busy, yet she was bubbly and youthful. Cynthia wondered how she managed it all on her own, a single working mother. She opened the message.
“There’s no right way to word this,” the message began, causing Cynthia to roll her eyes, “but I heard about what happened with Connor. I lost my son, Evan, back in July. I’ll cut the shit, I won’t overwhelm you with condolences, just let me know if you want to meet for coffee sometime, one grieving mother to another.”
Cynthia didn’t know whether to be flattered or enraged.
One grieving mother to another.
Connor killed himself (purposefully). Evan fell out of tree (accidentally).
What could Heidi possibly know?
She threw her phone across the room, but she was too tired to do anything else. She thought a three hour nap on the floor would’ve helped, but she just felt more drained than before. Next to her sat a wool knit sweater that she had gotten Connor for Christmas freshman year. It was a deep maroon, but the yarn speckled with black and gray. He wore it three times. Two of those times he complained.
The sleeves were too short.
The width was too big.
The neck was too tight.
The third time he wore it was his choice. She hadn’t forced him like the first two times. He just came down on morning with it on, a white button up under it. He still wore torn jeans and scuffed boots, but it was formal for Connor. He had an art show at school that day. Zoe had a jazz band concert.
Cynthia and Larry went to the jazz band concert.
Connor never wore the sweater again.
/\/\/\
Little bitty baby so far away
We hope that you can come home soon
When we're not together, now or ever
Always remember I love you