leona

When Leona gets in the car, I do as I usually do. 

I greet her, ask if she was Leona, and tell her I’m Santiago. Then I tell her she was welcome to help herself to some of the candy in the Superman bag on the seat next to her.

“I could use something to cheer me up today,” she volunteers before I could ask how her day was going.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. What’s going on?”

“My brother was murdered this weekend, and I’m responsible for arranging everything.”

I struggle to process. No. It is not possible to process. I struggle to form words. 

“I am so, so sorry, Leona. What a tragedy. I don’t know what to say except I am so sorry. Candy seems like such a foolish offering in the face of what you are going through.”

“No, thank you. I appreciate it. Any little bit helps.”

He was one of eight on his dad’s side and one of six on their (shared) mom’s. He was the oldest of all of them at thirty-four. They were very close. 

She had only just now met his father. He was the spitting image of her brother. She keeps wanting to hug his dad but stops herself. 

I wonder aloud if it might be nice for him to be hugged. She thinks so. And they have. and it has been nice.

 She’s trying to hold it together, to not fall off into critical depression again because he wouldn’t want that for her. I tell her I think he would want her just to experience whatever feelings she had. She says yes, that’s true. He would.

Her mom is having a terrible time. He died in her arms, just shot randomly on the street last Friday. She’s not being very healthy. Just numbed out. 

I ask if that’s not maybe a very healthy reaction right now. Everyone needs to grieve in their own way. She sees that. But she worries about her.

She feels guilty. She and her brother hadn’t talked in a couple of months. They’d had a minor falling out, and she was just getting ready to reach out to him because she’d been trying to find a way to tell him how she was feeling. 

“You could tell him now,” I venture.

 She nods. I see behind the tinted lens of her sunglasses that her eyes are quavering,

“My parents passed away years ago, and I talk to them almost every day,” I tell her.

She’s relieved she’s not crazy for talking to him and believing he can hear her. 

“No, not crazy. And I think he can also send you signs if you are quiet and still and attuned.”

“He loved blue,” she recalls, “ so I’ve been looking for blue jays or blue things.”

“That’s good.”

“But I feel,” she reports, “like I’ve got to be there for everyone, even if my own battery’s on empty, because I wasn’t there for him.” 

“I get that. But it also sounds quite demanding. What would you say to a good friend, someone you loved, who was in your position?”

Lips trembling, she says, “Do whatever you need to do for yourself.” The words blur into muffled sobs.

“Exactly. You know, maybe it would help you and your family to find professional support now.” I feel lame, like I’m passing the buck, but I also believe it’s true.

It turns out I’m taking her to her therapist of five years. When she texted the therapist about the murder, the therapist was like come in ASAP. Leona says she’s great.

When we get to the therapist’s office, Leona asks if she can take another piece of candy. 

I tell her I think she should just take the whole bag of candy.

“Really?!”

“Of course! Oh my gosh, yes.”

“But I don’t want to steal from other people.”

“Fuck other people. Who else could need this candy more than you right now?” She laughs out loud.

“Right! Seriously!” 

She unzips her backpack, and a rustling waterfall of Jolly Ranchers and fun-size Snickers, Milky Ways, and Three Musketeers cascades into the pack.  

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