{10} The Call of A Lifetime

The wail of the phone ringing, vibrating against the cushion of the couch, is a sound that will never be forgotten.     

     “Slide to answer,” the screen tempts. Having a mind of its own, my hand reaches for the phone, as if detached from its owner, knowing that the reason for the unexpected call can’t be good. The words coming from the caller seem as if from a dream. My heart drops, feeling like a weight in the pit of my stomach. “What?” I ask, not actually needing the information repeated. Aaron, a friend that had graduated only months earlier, had committed suicide late the night before.
Charlie confirms the news over the phone, his baritone voice bursting into tears and choking out the end of the sentence, cracking more with each syllable. Sounds fade and the walls collapse around me. Suddenly, I’m alone in space. There’s no sights or sounds, only the oblivion that exists in the furthest reachable corners of my mind. Nothing to distract from the catastrophe that I’m coming to realize is reality. The walls spin around me, my mind races, snapping me back to real life. This isn’t supposed to happen. It’s my junior year of high school. It’s supposed to be a good year, but it seems that with each month comes a new tragedy. With the weight of an elephant sitting on my chest, I finish the day in my own world. November 30, 2012 would be a day never forgotten, even if only by me.
Days pass me by without a glance. Without realizing it, Aaron’s funeral is upon me. “Weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth” does not only exist in times of battle, but in times of pain. My heart breaks for the pain that surrounds my life. Watching as a family is torn apart by recent events, the love that I have for my own eternal family grows within. Walking up the hill to the cemetery and the dark, open grave in front of me looms from between the trees. The cold, frozen ground envelops the coffin, accepting it for safe keeping. A slight breeze carries the grieving cries across the valley, letting the world know of a mother’s pain.
         As per Apache tradition, I watch as some of Aaron’s personal items are placed into the grave with his casket. An old detention slip, an unreturned textbook, and a crate full of his collection of used shotgun shells are among those that are placed within the hallowed ground. Charlie’s muffled sobs become a soundtrack to the tune of his scarred and battered, tattooed hands breaking Aaron’s guitars and cutting strings before placing them alongside their owner. As I stand at the top of the hill, burying a friend that December afternoon, my eyes open. I look around and see the pain that comes from living a simple life on earth. I know I shouldn’t let Aaron’s death affect me this way. I know I should be strong, but I just don’t want to be anymore. The weight crushes my resolve and I give in. Atop a hill of cedars in the heart of the reservation, a switch is flipped within. It’s too late for me now, the pain is turned off.
Days turn to weeks and then into months. Our group of friends pulls together, splits apart, and pulls together again. Days at a time are spent without so much as a text between us. My heart longed to reminisce on the crazy days with Aaron at our side, but I was alone. Being the only active member of the Church in my group of friends, I hold it together the best, but still not as well as I should. I question everything. I asked myself, 

What went wrong? Why wasn’t he happy? He was so gentle and kind, how could such a storm be raging within? Was there something I could have done for him? Was he reaching out for me and I just wasn't paying attention? 

With torturing thoughts racing through my mind, emotions went from the pain of loss to the guilt in wondering if in some way it was my fault or if I could have prevented it. 

Through the next few months it seems that nothing can help what had happened, I will never heal from this shock. Months continue to pass and all I accomplish is attaining record amounts of sleep and somehow passing all my classes with only giving minimal effort. Mornings are plagued with the thought of having to return to school, pretending that all is well in my world. Teachers barely notice as I let my work slide. My mask is so effective that they have no idea as to what is going on behind it. I spend my hours at school doing homework in class to avoid having to do it (or anything else) at home. All that I can emotionally handle at home is sleeping until dinner and returning to my reclusive cave the second that I am allowed. My parents’s faces don’t hide their concern. “Talk to someone,” they plead with me. “I can’t. I have nothing to say.”  It was like being in a trance. I have no memory of what has happened in the months that I’ve given up hope. 
Finally, March. Please let spring be a new start, I beg. After weeks of incessant pleading and bribes from friends, I walk into the office of the track coach and join the team a month into the season. Having been one of Aaron’s coaches in high school, he knows what I’ve been through and why I am here: I need to run it out. Running is my own cheap form of therapy and I haven’t been running since Aaron’s death. This first day at practice is just what I’ve been needing and looking for in all the wrong places. The brisk air freezes my fingers and ears, propelling me forward. The emotions that I’ve held bottled within for months come bubbling out and fuel the pace at which I work. I run the workout with the distance team and finish with hill sprints, pushing myself to exceed the limits of what I can handle. With each practice, I push even harder. For a few hours after school each day, I act as if nothing is wrong and, for once, it feels true. The track and weigh room workouts clear my mind and allow me to think clearly, without the pressures of the world surrounding me. It’s just me and the task at hand. I can’t escape forever and the crushing weight falls upon my shoulders as I leave the track to return home each day. 

       
       At such a small school like mine, even a large track team becomes a family. We support each other through thick and thin. Study sessions become a regular thing to help keep everyone’s grades up. My track family are the ones that I know will be at every race, cheering me on through the end. As I come around each bend in the track, I know that most of the roaring of the crowd is coming from my track team. They cheer and encourage until their lungs can’t handle any more, they warn me of competitors getting close behind me. They push me and support me, carrying me when I can’t stand on my own. Through early morning bus rides, stops at grungy gas stations in the desert, and group naps on the bleachers, we’ve become not just a team, but a family. They stick to my side through sweaty practices and snowy meets, always being the support that I need, not just through the good, but also the bad.