Page 70 of Goodbye Days

“Not as well as you, I guess.”

“But you know tons about him that I didn’t. I think the only person who knows someone completely is that person. And even then not always.”

“I pictured his future all wrong. I pictured a girl in a wedding dress and grandkids.”

“You can still picture a wedding and grandkids. Just that there’d be a tux instead of a wedding dress.” Please let me be making this better and not worse.

“I’ve only ever known one gay person. My hairdresser in Greeneville. I loved him. But it was easy to tell with him.” Nana Betsy blows her nose and presses her hand to her forehead. Her face crumples and her weeping becomes sobbing. “So often I let people talk awful ‘Adam and Steve’ sort of hateful nonsense in front of Blake and didn’t say a thing. It’s no wonder he was scared to tell me.”

My heart keeps dripping. “I’m sorry if my telling you this hurt you. I tried to do the right thing.”

Her voice quavers. “You did right. You’re here to help tell Blake’s story.” She hesitates. “Blade, do you think he ever got to love anyone the way he wanted to?”

“I don’t know. I hope so.”

“Me too.”

She goes to put the car in gear but stops again. “You can say no to this, but would you do a little playact with me?”

“I’ll try.”

“Will you be Blake and tell me so I can say out loud what I would’ve said? In case he can hear us?”

“I guess so. Okay. This won’t be as funny as if it were Blake.”

“That’s all right.”

“Okay. Um. Nana, can I talk to you about something?” I don’t know how to do this. I guess there’s no manual for coming out of the closet on behalf of your deceased best friend.

She wipes her eyes. “Yes, Blake, you can.” We both laugh even though it’s not funny.

“I’ve known this for a while, but I need to tell you I’m gay.”

Nana Betsy looks skyward. “Blake, honey, if you can hear me, listen real good now.” She faces me and swallows hard, and when she speaks, the tremor is gone from her voice and it envelops me like a down quilt. “That doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to me. I love you more than I love God himself. So if he’s got a problem with anything, he can talk to me, because I love you how you are. Now, if that’s all you had to tell me, we’d best go have some of my homemade fried chicken and cornbread. Your favorite.”

She nods once, like a judge pounding a gavel, and puts the car in gear, and we leave.

She wasn’t speaking hypothetically when she mentioned the fried chicken and cornbread. We’re sitting in her kitchen while she waits for the Crisco to heat up in one of her black cast-iron skillets. Another skillet is in the oven, getting hot for cornbread. A mound of flour-and-spice-dredged chicken thighs sits on a platter. A mixing bowl of yellow cornbread batter sits beside it.

My emotions roil. In some ways, this day has sharpened everything I’ve felt over the past weeks. The guilt. The grief. The fear. It’s honed them to a razor, singing edge. But in other ways, it’s removed that edge slightly and replaced it with a dull sense of absence. While the grief feels like a more active emotion—a process of negotiation—the absence resembles grief with a measure of acceptance. If grief is a pounding surf, the absence is a melancholy, gently tossing sea.

“Are you glad you did this?” Nana Betsy asks out of the blue. My face must have betrayed my emotion.

“Yes.” This is largely true. The untrue part of it relates mostly to my wishing I never had occasion to be sitting in Nana Betsy’s kitchen, having a goodbye day for Blake. “My therapist thought this would be a good idea.” This is also not completely true. In fact, it’s mostly not true.

“Goodness, a therapist? I thought this had hit me hard.” Nana Betsy tosses a pinch of her chicken seasoning in the oil, where it pops and sputters. Using tongs, she carefully lowers a few pieces of chicken into the oil. They sizzle and bubble.

I guess I might as well tell her. I wouldn’t have brought up Dr. Mendez if part of me didn’t want to. “I was having panic attacks. I’ve had three so far. The first was a couple hours after I left your house on the night of Blake’s funeral. The second was on the first day of school, right as I was walking in the door. The third was after I found out—” This confession is going further than I’d planned.

“Found out what?”

My mouth goes dry and I’m lightheaded. “Found out that the DA is looking at pressing charges against me for the accident.”

“Do what now?” She turns from the stove, her mouth agape, her tongs at her side.

My voice is small—that of a kid who peed his pants in class. “Mars’s dad asked the DA to investigate the accident and see if there are any charges they can bring against me.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”