Page 32 of The Way the Heart Breaks: Jade’s Story

Tessa sits down beside me. “Annoying and obnoxious at times.”

“I hated that, and now? Now I would give anything to have it all back.”

Ryan crouches down, pulling his hat down so low it covers his eyes. “Songs.”

“Something To Believe In,” I admit.

Tessa rests her head on my shoulder. “Same.”

“Same,” Alex whispers.

Ryan lifts his chin. “Sure, same.” It’s getting too dark, too sad; they would hate this. Ryan smirks and says, “Cherry Pie for them.”

“They would’ve absolutely tormented us, screaming every word of it in public.” I laugh.

After we’ve eaten the sandwiches Aunt Maggie packed and roasted marshmallows while lying in a sleeping bag inside the cabin, the fire dying down, I wonder if Dad’s okay. Aunt Maggie assured me Uncle John had talked to him, and Dad said it was a good idea. She promised Josie and John would check in. It hurt a little and sparked worry, but I saw him this morning, made him lunch, hugged him, and told him I loved him when I got out of the truck at the farm where he dropped me off before heading to work.

I miss them, the boys, Dad, and the real Janet Ross, who I pick If I Could Turn Back Time by Cher as her song this week.

If I were asked what grief looks like, I would say it’s invisible. Not because you can’t see it, but because most people eventually stop looking for it. But for those who still live it, no two versions look the same. My grief looks like burned wood and cassette tapes. Dad’s looks like overtime shifts and falling asleep in the recliner with the television still on because the silence is unbearable. Ryan’s looks like chopped wood. Tessa’s like summoned strength. Alex’s barely makes a sound at all.

If somebody asked me what grief feels like, I would say it feels like an emptiness you spend the rest of your life trying to fill without anybody noticing you’re doing it. Sometimes you fill it successfully for a moment, and sometimes you just can’t.

If somebody asked me what grief sounds like, I would tell them that it depends on the distance. From far away, grief sounds polite. Like casseroles dropped off in aluminum trays. Like people lowering their voices when they say your name. Like teachers asking if you’re “doing okay” in the hallway, even though anyone who has ever experienced it would know what a stupid question that is.

Up close, though? Grief sounds different.

It sounds like Dad standing in the kitchen at midnight, thinking I can’t hear him crying. It sounds like Ryan is throwing rocks at the pond hard enough to hurt his shoulder because pain and anger feel better than helplessness. It sounds like Tessa laughing too loudly because silence scares her now. But it can also sound like Alex finally laughing again after a year of barely speaking, and all of us nearly falling apart from relief when he does.

And sometimes grief sounds exactly like a song coming through blown-out speakers on an old radio at the wrong moment. Music is my therapist and my vault. It puts words to feelings I didn’t understand and holds the things I can’t say out loud yet.

The songs change every month, but the people in them somehow don’t. They live forever. Like the two of you.

Song: When The Children Cry

November

Tessa’s little sister, Kendall, asked today if you two can still hear us. Nobody answered right away, and then, all at once, everyone in the room answered yes, at exactly the same moment. I know that was from you, and that was for Kendall. Then the song on the radio changed. Tessa, Alex, Ry, and I all laughed so hard…it hurt. ‘Ow… ow…”

Song: Heaven- Warrant

December

Dad left the stockings in the attic; he bought us new ones.

I think that hurt more than hanging them would’ve, which was not his intent.

I have both of yours in my room and made you each a mixed tape.

Aunt Josie came over Christmas Eve, and we went to Church. Dad left in the middle; I left to find him. We miss you so much.

Christmas Day was nice. I got a new boom box and fifty-two new blank tapes. Can you guess what you’ll be getting next year?

Song: Right Here Waiting- Richard Marks

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