Choose Me (40 page)

And then there was a padded envelope from Adam. Maya had mentioned that she got a call from Adam and I half-expected him at
the wake or funeral. When he didn’t show, I was disappointed, but at the same time relieved because I wasn’t ready to face
him. Inside the envelope, there was a gift wrapped in Christmas paper with brown-skinned, curly-haired angels. I didn’t have
to open it to know it was a CD. There was also a brand new, clean copy of his book of poems. On the title page of the book
an inscription read:
Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all. Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the
Lord is to be praised.
Below that, he had signed his name in Spanish:
Adán.
On the dedication page, he had written:
I am so sorry about your son. I miss you. Call me.
With a composure that was becoming a typical and normal emotion for me, I placed everything inside the envelope and put it
back into the drawer.

Day by day, Eli became morose and distant, and it was evident that he was taking Tony’s death especially hard. He barely spoke
to the point of muteness, never asked for anything, and responded in grunts or monosyllables whenever I tried to initiate
conversation. If some news update or feature about the shooting came on, he would quickly change the channel. He unbraided
his hair but wouldn’t let me rebraid it, nor would he untangle it. Getting him to bathe and shave was a battle. King sensed
that Eli was not the same master who played and teased him. He barked constantly at the wheelchair for the first few days,
before settling down at Eli’s feet whenever Eli sat listlessly in front of the TV, or followed him as he rolled aimlessly
throughout the house.

It was hard to tell if Eli’s weekly visits to the therapist were helping since he wasn’t speaking. I also had sessions with
Kahinde, the therapist, who was a faith-based counselor. Although she couldn’t divulge the specifics of their conversations,
she assured me that Eli’s moods were normal considering what he had been through. She diagnosed Eli with posttraumatic stress
disorder and said it could be months before his mood would change or he was back to normal, with God’s help, of course. Kahinde
insisted on concentrating on my own therapy sessions, but when I told her I had already accepted Tony’s death as God’s will,
she decided I was in denial. Since she was the expert, I didn’t disagree with her or argue when she insisted on extending
my sessions.

Anthony stopped by more often to visit Eli, which seemed to lift his spirits, especially since Anthony had never visited the
house. We talked very little about our past together, concentrating on the topic of Eli’s recovery.

The week after Tony’s funeral, Anthony and I were having coffee in the dining room, talking quietly while Eli slept, something
he was doing a lot of lately. It had been years since we had talked face-to-face. Most of our conversations had always been
over the phone or from car windows when dropping off or picking up the boys when they were younger.

“I think he needs to go back to school,” Anthony said.

“When he wants to go back, he’ll go back. And I doubt he wants to go back there.”

“A lot of the students have gone back.”

“A lot of the students didn’t get shot.”

“The sooner he goes back, the better off he’ll be.”

“I see. He should just pretend nothing happened,” I said, my voice rising.

“No, Eva, that’s not what I’m saying. But he can’t let this incident define his whole life.”

His statement made me angry, something I had reserved for my son’s killer. As selfish as it sounded, I wanted the world to
stop for a while and acknowledge my son’s death. It didn’t seem fair that everyone was going about their daily lives when
Tony no longer could.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not one of those people who thinks life should go on,” I told him, abruptly clearing the table. “I think
he should be as angry and as sad for as long as he needs to. I’m sick of people acting like getting shot is something we have
to live with! Like, oh well, it’s a sign of the times.” I stopped because my voice was quivering and I didn’t want to get
hysterical in front of Anthony. “Did you forget his brother was killed?”

Anthony glared at me, his chin sticking out and trembling. “He was my son.”

My heart softened for him, but only for a moment. I exhaled and lowered my voice. “He’ll go back when he’s ready.”

Anthony got up and when he moved toward me, I looked at him like he was crazy. “Come here,” he said, his voice low and gentle.
It had been twenty years since his voice had pacified me and a part of me wanted to collapse against him, find comfort in
his embrace. It didn’t take much to please me back then.

“No,” I said sharply.

When he advanced, I retreated and he backed off, shaking his head. “Still Tough Diva-Eva,” he scoffed. He didn’t understand;
it wasn’t his arms I wanted to be in.

I took a family medical leave from work, partly because I didn’t want to go on with “business as usual,” but mostly because
I was afraid Eli would hurt himself, although he never specifically threatened to do anything. For the most part, I continued
going to church, but my heart wasn’t in it. I sang and clapped during praise and worship, going through the motions. Once,
during spiritual emphasis week, I caught my reflection in one of the church’s mirrors and I was amazed at how normal I looked,
as if nothing had happened.
Tough Diva-Eva.
Eli, who had always viewed church as a social gathering where he could flirt with church girls, refused to go at all.

At the gym, the punching bag became the killer, the NRA, all the senseless, stupid violence that threatened the world on a
daily basis, and forever changed my life and that of my sons. Ordinarily, I didn’t like to sweat, but as it trickled from
every pore, it was as if my body were weeping, compensating for my dry eyes.

New Year’s Day came and left. All of the TV channels ran stories about the year in review, featuring the shootings at ISU
as one of three major incidents of gun violence that had occurred. I couldn’t watch any of it. I couldn’t understand how the
parents of the murdered students could talk to reporters about their personal pain, crying on camera for all the world to
see. It all seemed so sadistic. I turned down all requests for interviews. One reporter was especially persistent, speaking
to me in Spanish as if that would make me open up to her. My patience worn, I finally told her in Spanish, “When
your
son is killed, then we can talk.” She stopped calling.

After a few weeks, Eli’s moods did change—for the worse. He became angry and nasty, prone to sudden outbursts of violence.
Whenever King climbed the stairs to Tony’s room and whined at the door, Eli yelled or threw objects at him. Out of the blue,
he would punch the walls or anything in his way, making dents in the refrigerator, dishwasher, and a hole in the pantry’s
faux wood door. With his hair turning into untamed dreadlocks, he began to look like a deranged homeless man.

Finally, after he punched yet another dent in the fridge, I confronted him, gripping the armrests of his wheelchair and leaning
into his face, his wild, untamed hair hanging in his apathetic eyes. “Look, if you want to hit something, you can come to
the gym with me and we’ll hit the bag together. But
do not
take your anger out on my house. I know you’re angry, but making
me
angry is not going to make your life easier.”

“Leave me alone!” he snapped, trying to wheel the chair around me. I held on to it. He screamed louder, “Get out of my face!”

“If you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine. But don’t scream at me, okay?”

He bit his bottom lip and looked away. I knew he was on the verge of breaking down into tears and he was trying hard not to
do it in front of me, so I left him alone.

As I walked away, I heard him mutter under his breath, “I told you I didn’t want to go away to school.”

I stopped, and turned languidly around to face him.

He was glaring at me through his snarled hair with a hatred in his eyes I had never seen. He had always been the good-natured
one, who could make me laugh with his mischievous smile, a smile I hadn’t seen in weeks.

“You should’ve let me join the air force like I wanted. This never would’ve happened. Tony would still be alive.”

I stood paralyzed, as his words sunk in. I couldn’t think of a response to defend myself or to console him, so I grabbed my
keys and left the house. I thought of driving to Montrose, but with the exception of the day Adam and I broke up, it had been
my sanctuary and I was in no mood to feel good.

When I returned later that night after driving around aimlessly, the house was dark and eerily quiet. I had driven by Simone’s
place, and then Maya’s house, but the last thing I wanted to do was talk. I then drove by Adam’s building and noticed his
windows were dark. I didn’t want to talk to him; I just wanted to feel that pang of desire sweep through me once more, to
force myself to remember the feelings I could never allow him to ignite again.

As I walked down the hallway, I heard the faint sound of snipping and found Eli in the darkened bathroom. Flipping the light
switch, I watched in horror as he haphazardly clipped his hair, his long tangled brown locks floating to the floor. He hadn’t
cut his hair in five years.

“Elias,” I gasped, when I found my voice.

“I was watching the History Channel,” he said in dull, flat tone. “Did you know the Indians used to cut their hair when somebody
died?”

I watched him wordlessly as he continued clipping, his eyes distant and dazed, recalling the times I had braided his hair,
oiled his scalp, some of our most cherished bonding moments. After a while, I gestured for the scissors and he surrendered
them silently, remaining immobile as I finished the job. Then I took the electric clippers and gave him a nice fade. I ran
my hand over his smooth new cut, remembering his misshapen newborn head, recalling how Tony’s head felt, the last part of
him I kissed. Realizing that it had been some time since I kissed Eli, I bent to kiss his head, but he saw me leaning in the
mirror and flinched away from me. Tears filled my eyes but I held them back.

“Cut it lower,” he said. “Like Tony’s.”

In the empty space in my heart, I felt a stab of pain and I clutched at my chest. It was all I could do to keep from bawling
when I heard him say his brother’s name.

*   *   *

As the days went by, things improved somewhat for both of us. There were times when I began to feel some semblance of my old
life returning, but then I’d remember Tony was forever gone, that things would never be the same.

One evening, just as I was turning off a news program after yet another story regarding the shootings, I caught a clip of
the makeshift memorial students had erected in front of the dorm with stuffed animals, flowers, posters with messages, and
photos. As the camera panned the memorial, I saw Tony’s yearbook photo and I literally got sick, making it to the bathroom
just in time. The last thing I wanted was to remember the site where my son had met his fate.

Eli’s leg was in a cast for six weeks and as soon as it came off, he seemed to come to life. With a brace on his leg, he was
able to get around with more ease. Using a cane, he took King on short walks and began to shoot baskets in the yard.

One day, I caught him standing in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom, staring at the scars on his bare torso:
one in his chest, one in his belly. I leaned in the doorway and he glanced at me in the mirror.

“Ma, look,” he said, chuckling, and just as suddenly stopped. “They look funny.”

They didn’t look funny to me at all, but it was something that the old Eli would have said, so I took it to heart. Eli was
back.

Nights were the worst when I would lay wide awake, praying to God to plug the hole in my heart, as I tried to remember Tony’s
face, tried to forget what the last minutes of his life were like before the shooting. Even though I wasn’t there, the image
of him dropping to the ground would replay over and over in my mind. It was during the nights that I thought of Adam, how
he was also forever gone from my life. I tried not to think about Adam in the same space as Tony’s memory, how Adam had looked
at me the last time we were together, how he had kissed me with such tenderness, how good it would’ve been to bury myself
in his arms until I fell asleep. One day, I finally opened his gift and found a CD he had burned of Tracy Chapman and India.Arie’s
greatest hits. On the disc, in permanent marker, he had written, “To Eva; Love, Adam.” I picked up the phone, telling myself
I was only going to thank him, but my guilty conscience won over my gratitude and I hung up. Thinking of him made me feel
selfish and wicked. Although Kahinde constantly reiterated that it wasn’t my fault, I blamed myself. If I hadn’t insisted
Eli go to ISU, he wouldn’t have been shot. If I hadn’t constantly nagged Tony to watch out for his brother, he never would
have come out of the dorm room to check on him when he heard the shots. If I hadn’t given into temptation, God wouldn’t have
needed to test my faith. And Tony would still be alive.

One night, I awoke with a sensation that something, someone was hovering over me. Even though I don’t believe in ghosts, I
had heard of people who dreamed of deceased loved ones, so my first thought was that it was Tony. I shot up in bed as my heart
fought to jump out of my chest, rubbed my eyes until Eli came into focus. With his newly shaven head, he resembled Tony, but
Eli was taller, thinner. Ordinarily, his hobbling gait and cane coming down the basement stairs would have been enough to
awaken me, so I must have fallen into a deep sleep.

“What?!” I yelled, frantically.

“Ma …” was all he could say.

I snapped on the lamp and looked at his contorted face. He looked like a little boy again, awakened by a thunderstorm or a
bad dream. “Eli. What is it? Are you in pain?”

I lifted the covers and he readily crawled into bed next to me. I pulled him to me in spoon fashion just as I had when he
was little, although now his body was too long to fit in the cocoon I formed with my body. But I held on to him tightly as
his body shook with sobs. It had been so long since he allowed me to hug him.