Being Counseled

I sat with Jake at dinner the other night and we talked about whether or not there were any movies out to see on the weekend.  (This was before Batman vs. Superman came out, mind you).  Pretty much, there weren't.  We like to go with my Mom to the Saturday matinees and catch up in the car...Mom and I doing most of the talking, with Jake nodding in the appropriate places because he never really talks anymore.

We'd decided we'd have to wait until another weekend because the only movie that wasn't raunchy or animated was a little number called Miracle From Heaven that I vetoed in a hot second.  "Does it look boring?"  Jake asked.

"No, I guess it's supposed to be pretty good, but I know it would make me really mad so I think I'd better not see it."  At the very least, I have learned to identify my triggers.

Jake raised an eyebrow, so I went on, "You know, the whole 'my kid was dying but God chose to save them instead of letting them die and they'll go on to have a normal life full of husbands and babies and jobs and crap.  The kid lives in the end, of course, so you gotta love that."

I stopped and fumed a moment while his fourteen year old eyes measured mine.  I expected him to chime in on this little tirade of mine- after all, she was his Cory Girl, too.  When he sat there silently, appearing not ruffled in the least by the thought of other people's siblings getting to live while his died on the street, I was a little disappointed.  Misery does love company.

He scanned the menu and waited for me to calm down, which i didn't.  Instead, I said, "Aren't you angry?  Don't you ever get angry about it?  It's okay to be angry, you know."  Listen to me, such the knowledgeable grownup, helping this poor wayward teenager to identify his feelings and say them out loud to at least one person in his life.

He shrugged his shoulders, his most steadfast response in any situation that makes him feel vulnerable.  "I don't know.  Yeah, I guess, sometimes."

I countered with, "Who do you get angry with?  Do you ever get angry at God?"

He nearly chuckled at the thought, "No."

"The driver?"I asked.

"No." he said calmly.

At that, my scalp shrunk on my skull and I broke out in gooseflesh.  "Well, who then?  Me?  Are you mad at me?"  I knew it,I knew he must blame me deep down.  I'm his mom. I'm the one who's supposed to make sure everything is okay and I let her get killed.  

"No, Mom, I don't get mad at you.  It's not your fault.  You know...you can be mad without being mad at somebody.  I'm just mad she had to die because I loved her so much."

I stopped, speechless.  And while I suppose plenty of grieving parents look to point the finger and feel the relentless compulsion to lay the blame, I have to say he made me feel small.  He made me feel small and mean.  Somehow despite missing her desperately, he's made peace with her death.  If he does get mad, it's fleeting because I never see it.  He's not out to make anyone bleed over it.  He doesn't begrudge anyone else their big sister.  He just goes on, not talking unless pressed, and enjoying whatever he can find that is still good in the world.  Maybe next week, at dinner out, he'll tell me a little bit more about how he does it.  I know I don't have the faintest clue.