We were told that we had the rest of that week off. Two days after, that Thursday, Kenny and I went to Stark's Pond. We both brought a book, maybe to feel like we were doing something. We'd been sitting on the grass for an hour and neither of us had turned a page or said a word.
The wind blew gently around us, carrying bits of mist and drizzle with it. I watched the small waves appear on the surface of the pond and the fallen leaves that drifted across it. On normal days, I could probably lose myself staring at the water, but there was only so much I could do to keep from reality at that point. The images from Tuesday kept creeping back into my mind, in every corner of it.
I wanted it to stop. It felt both like it had been a dream and like it was far too real. I had barely slept the night before, and I'd never felt so awake, so alert, so immersed in reality. I'd also never felt so much like escaping reality, so desperate to sleep and to dream, to take a break from the world.
From the corner of my eye, I could see Kenny tentatively look up at me. "Have you heard from Kyle yet?"
I shook my head. "I'm not sure if I want to. I don't know what he'll say."
Kenny nodded. "Yeah, I know what you mean."
"We have to face him sometime, though."
"Yeah. I'll try and go over there later today," I said, though my voice didn't even sound convincing to me. I wanted to believe that I would go over there and see Kyle, but I knew I'd be much happier just curling up in bed and continuing to not speak to people.
My parents had tried to convince me that I needed to talk about it. That I needed to "get everything off my chest and open up." They might be right, but I don't want to talk about it. Certainly not less than a week after it had happened. I had barely washed my hands and hair of the suicide, let alone become ready to relive it.
It felt like everything was happening way too fast. The death was so sudden. I've had grandparents die, old family friends, pets. But every time, there were things leading up to it. Doctor's appointments, serious talks from parents, sicknesses and sadness for weeks or months. Dragging out the tragedy so long that it was almost a relief by the time it was over. This time, no one had prepared me, no one had warned me. There must have been signs. And now the funeral is on Sunday.
"I saw him two days ago," Kenny said quietly, staring at the water. "He was alive two days ago."
I looked at Kenny. We hadn't really said anything directly about him since Tuesday. We talked about Kyle, about missing school, about "it." But not directly about Cartman. Kenny, it seemed, still couldn't quite say his name. I don't think I could either.
My gaze shifted to the water again and I felt like my blood had turned to lead, I felt so heavy. My heart felt like it was going to drop into my stomach, and I spoke before I even realized the meaning of what I said. "I don't even remember the last time I saw him alive."
The silence between us was thick for a moment before a sob rose in my throat. I had promised myself that I wasn't going to cry, I wouldn't, couldn't cry. But the tears flowed and I crumpled up into myself, burying my face in my lap letting the tears seep through my jeans.
The last words I said about Cartman when I still thought he was alive were cruel. I don't remember my last words to him, his last words to me, when the last time I saw him was. He was supposed to be my friend. I was supposed to be his friend.
What kind of person am I? Is this how I treated people? What's wrong with me?
Kenny said nothing, did not offer me a hug or comforting words. I was grateful, because I did not feel like I had earned any kindness.
The drizzle had become a thin snowfall, snowflakes getting caught in my hair and melting on my arms.
By the time I had calmed down, there was a thin layer of snow all across the grass and Kenny and I left circles of untouched grass where we'd been sitting.
The next day, I finally got the courage to go to Kyle's house. Though when I got to the porch, I stood there for ten or fifteen minutes without hitting the doorbell.
It took so long for anyone to answer that I almost left. Right before I turned away, Mrs. Broflovski opened the door, her face coated in tears.
"Oh, Stan, sweetheart," she said, sniffling. "What a nice surprise, I'm so happy to see you."
"Good to see you, too," I said, hesitant. She hated Cartman, why was she crying?
"Won't you come in? I'll make you some tea." She wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands but new ones quickly replaced them.
She looked so pitiful I couldn't say no. I ended up sitting at the kitchen table as the made camomile tea within a minute.
"I'm so sorry to hear about your friend," she said, looking over her shoulder. Her words sounded forced, rehearsed. I wasn't sure if she was actually too broken up about it, or how much sympathy she really had. She had, after all, heard many of the complaints Kyle and I had said about Cartman.
My heart felt heavy again as I thought about how much we had complained. Maybe I felt grief, or maybe it was only regret and guilt. I could barely tell how self-serving my feelings were, or how much of it was genuine.
I remembered why I came here as Mrs. Broflovski set the tea down in front of me. "Um, is Kyle around?"
A sob escaped her lips. "I could also make lunch, if you're hungry. Do you feel like a grilled cheese sandwich? Or maybe some pasta, I know how much you like it."
She spoke so quickly I could barely hear the words. Her voice sounded so strained, so distant. So pleading.
I was confused. My mouth opened, but I couldn't think of what to say.
"Or maybe it's too early for lunch. How about some eggs? French toast with challah bread?"
Her voice was sounding more and more desperate, cracking at the end of sentences.
"Or maybe you're not hungry. I'm so sorry, it's just that-" she sniffed again. "You're a growing boy and I-" she let out a sob. "I just want to look out for you, you're like another-" her shoulders started to shake as she completely lost control. "another son to me."
She put her hands in her face and sobbed, loudly and without the dignity she usually had.
I froze, uncertain of what to do. I was never good at comfort, especially when I had no idea what it was that I was comforting. Then I snapped back and stood up. I threw my arms around her and hugged her tightly. She cried into my shoulder. I hadn't realized how much taller than her I had grown. It occurred to me, maybe because of the pain in my chest from seeing and hearing her cry, that in addition to her thinking of me as another son, I thought of her as a second mother. And I hated seeing her upset. I just wanted to see her stop crying.
"I don't know what I did wrong," she said into my shoulder, in a voice so quiet and broken that I wan't convinced it had come from her mouth.
"What are you talking about?" I said gently, pulling away to look at her. She looked so tired, so much older than she had a week ago.
"He's gone," she whispered.
"Cartman?" I replied, his name barely making it past my mouth.
She shook her head. "Kyle."
All at once, my whole body felt cold and distant. "What?"
"He left. He told me that he's eighteen, an adult, that I can't tell him what to do. He took his car, his clothes, everything. He's not coming back. He left him phone so no one could contact him."
My feeling of emptiness was suddenly filled with fury. He didn't tell me anything, hasn't talked to me in days. "Why?" I said, too sharply. She flinched.
"I don't know," she sobbed. "I'm so sorry. I wanted to stop him, I tried, I- he seemed so unhinged, so not himself. I didn't know what to do."
I regretted my tone; she thought I blamed her. "It's not your fault," I said gently.
"I thought he'd come back, but… I'm not sure anymore."
I spent a while there at the house with Sheila, drinking tea and letting her cry to me, reassuring her that she was a good mother. Ike had holed himself up in his room, and Gerald was away. I comforted her as best I could, but I was so empty and broken, I was in no position to help anyone else.
I spent most of the rest of the week with Kenny, who was so calm and collected about Kyle's disappearance that it scared me. It felt so foreign to me, the ability to disconnect from the loss of two best friends at once.
We spent some time at the pond, some time with Mrs. Broflovski, some time with my venting my anger to Kenny. I knew I was only angry so that I could keep from being sad, but I didn't care. I needed that.
That Sunday, Kenny and I didn't go to the funeral.
That Monday, it was back to school.
