Chrissy Bruzek

9-15-04

Red and Blue Make Purple

     Walking out of the electric door to the van that would bring me back home, I took my time strolling through the Jewel parking lot. I stepped over the diagonal line designating where customers were allowed to park. The dark night felt soothing and its cool breeze propelled me forward. Walking up to the plum van, I grabbed the handle and pulled the door open. My mom and I exchanged our usual “hello’s” and she asked me how work went, usually I say it was awful, but today it was actually tolerable so I was in a decent mood.

     We backed out of the parking spot, she put the car in Drive, and we began to move towards the street, her facial expression quickly changed as if she waved her hand from forehead to her chin, “I have something to tell you.” Always expecting the worst when anyone says something like that, too many thoughts jumped in and out of my mind. Blood rushed to my hands and face. The look my mom shot me frightened me and “What happened?” spurted out of my mouth. I grabbed onto the arm rest to brace myself for whatever was about to be thrown at me. I breathed in once and my mom parted her lips to speak.

     “Chris has a brother named Greg, right?”

     “Yeah,” I said skeptically, “why?”

       A short pause. “He was killed in a car accident earlier this morning. I didn’t want to tell you until you got off work because I . . . ..”  but I had stopped listening because her voice began fading in my ears. Everything blacked out. My jaw locked. Air stopped circulating through my body and my hand covered my mouth as I began what would seem like days of crying. By covering the sobs exiting my mouth, I thought I could stop whatever had just happened: funny how I though my hand would comfort me.

     No thought entered my mind; pictures of how he died, how his family felt, how Chris was reacting, and emotion was the only thing running through my blood, overtaking by body. All that emotion channeled through my eyes and formed into little drops of water flooding my senses.

     Hardly remembering the drive back home my mom might have said some comforting words, or expressed her sadness, by none of that would have rung a bell if she repeated any of it now. With my face hot and my lungs exhausting their supply of air, I stepped into my house trying to hide my face from my little brother and his friends. I rushed to my room where I could shut everything out and stop time for a while. Waves entered and exited my room, my eyes, and my mind. Facing the wall and curled up with my pillow for fear of floating away, I heard, “You should go visit him.” My mom’s voice. She’s been to numerous wakes and funerals, I don’t know how she deals with it. “You need to go over there.”

       “Are you sure?” I said quietly between a sniffle.

       “Yes of course, You need to be there for him right now,” she said as she walked up to my bed and sat down. The mattress sank towards her body. I sat up.

     “Okay. Let’s go. You’ll drive me?”

     “Yeah, I’ll go with you.” The comfort in her eyes helped me get out of bed.

     The drive over seemed quick and I stared out the window with my head cupped in my hand. Landscape turned into blur scape like in movies when the camera moves around in a circle so fast that you can’t make out the picture anymore.

     Stepping out of the van, I waited on the curb until my mom came around from the driver’s side. I grabbed her arm and slid mine through it. Other cars were lined up and down the street like soldiers, some people walking around or standing about their vehicles waiting for someone to save them. Posters of Greg adorned the window and patio outside the front door while twenty-somethings stood in front of the pictures staring, speechless, wondering if it could have been them. Shuffling past them, we entered the house that had grown so familiar. I saw people standing at the end of the hallway in the kitchen. With most people there as strangers to me, I looked for a familiar face when Mrs. Vasich walked up to my mom and I, looking like she had been beaten up or was getting over a nasty cold. Her eyes drooped and the corners of her mouth were turned down, yet she forced a slight smile somehow.

     “Thanks for coming Chrissy.” She said in a hushed voice. Wrapping her arms around me, I rubbed her back because I thought that’s what you’re supposed to do when someone dies. To give them reassurance or relief that everything will be okay. My mom hugged her next. Mr. Vasich stood behind his wife with sadness in his eyes, and thanked us for coming, too. Chris walked down the hallway and emerged into view from the people standing around us.

       “My mom told me what happened.” We held each other without words and the tears started exiting their homes again. I don’t remember letting go of him, but I must have eventually because he led me through the kitchen between family, friends, and relatives who looked at us out of the corners of their watchful eyes. No one wanted to look at each other. Attempting to supply them with a smile, my face muscles wouldn’t form to the mold I usually have when I’m here.

     We sat on opposite sides of the couch in his basement where just the night before we sat laughing and joking at the stand-up comics on tv. I tried to persuade myself to stop staring at the pictures of Greg in lovely frames on the walls.

     Everything welded together like a kindergartner mixing paint once we started our awkward conversation about what happened and what was to happen in the future. The walls melted away. The couch was the only thing in the room accompanying us. Isolated, we couldn’t hear any hushed voices that tried to avoid the topic upstairs.

     One leg on the couch and the other planted on the ground for stability, Chris held a hand on his forehead so it was in close range for wiping away tears. He kept mentioning how Paul, his little brother felt. He’s so small…He’s so small he repeated. Oblivious to the emotion he felt, I tried to give consoling words, for I had never lost a family member, let alone an immediate family member.

     Images in my mind at this point were outlines and shadows projected from a movie screen. Nothing felt authentic. It felt like one of those scary movies you’re skeptical of and contemplate it happening to you before drifting off to dreamland. The scene cuts to a monster attacking you in your sleep, grabbing your feet and stealing you from your bed into their dark and creepy cave.

     Chris was glad to have some company because he had no one to talk to. Rather, no one would talk to him except for  “I’m sorry” or a short and swift hug from someone he didn’t know that well because the people thought they should at least say something.

     We managed to hold each other up that night as people cried, reminisced, and told stories about Greg Vasich. In their eyes, he truly was the perfect person, someone to look up to and admire, to serve as a role model, to love music, and to be a good friend, son and brother.