All the Bright Places

emotional
survival—will depend on how well you learn
to cope with your tragedy. The bad news: Surviving this will be the second
worst experience of your life. The good news: The worst is already over.’ ”
He hands the booklet to me. 
SOS: A Handbook for Survivors of Suicide
.
“I want you to read it, but I also want you to come talk to me, talk to your
parents, talk to your friends. The last thing we want you to do is bottle all this
in. You were closest to him, which means you’re going to feel all the anger
and loss and denial and grief that you would feel over any death, but this
death is different, so don’t be hard on yourself.”
“His family says it was an accident.”
“So maybe it was. People are going to deal with it however they can. My
only concern is you. You can’t be responsible for everyone—not your sister,
not Finch. What happened to your sister—she didn’t have a choice. And
maybe Finch felt like he didn’t either, even though he did.” He frowns at a
spot just over my shoulder, and I can see him going back over it all in his
mind—every conversation or meeting with Finch—the same way I’ve been
doing since it happened.
The thing I can’t, won’t, mention to him is that I see Finch everywhere—in
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the hallways at school, on the street, in my neighborhood. Someone’s face
will remind me of him, or someone’s walk or someone’s laugh. It’s like being
surrounded by a thousand different Finches. I wonder if this is normal, but I
don’t ask.
At home, I lie on my bed and read the entire book, and because it’s only
thirty-six pages, it doesn’t take long. Afterward, the thing that sticks in my
mind are these two lines: 
Your
hope lies in accepting your life as it now lies
before you, forever changed. If you can do that, the peace you seek will
follow
.
Forever changed
.
I am forever changed.
At dinner, I show my mom the book Mr. Embry gave me. She reads it as she
eats, not saying a word, while my dad and I try to carry on a conversation
about college.
“Have you decided which school you’re going to, V?”
“Maybe UCLA.” I want to tell my dad to choose a school for me, because
what does it matter? They’re all the same.
“We should probably let them know soon.”
“I guess. I’ll be sure to get right on that.”
My dad looks at my mom for help, but she is still reading, her food
forgotten. “Have you given any thought to applying to NYU for spring
admission?”
I say, “No, but maybe I should go work on that now. Do you guys mind?” I
want to get away from the booklet and from them and any talk of the future.
My dad looks relieved. “Of course not. Go.” He is glad I’m going, and I’m
glad I’m going. It’s easier this way, because otherwise we might all have to
face each other and Eleanor and this thing that has happened with Finch. In
that moment, I’m thankful I’m not a parent and I wonder if I ever will be.
What a terrible feeling to love someone and not be able to help them.
Actually, I know exactly how that feels.
* * *
At an all-school assembly the second Thursday after Finch’s funeral, they
bring in a martial arts expert from Indianapolis to talk to us about safety and
how to defend ourselves, as if suicide is something that might attack us on the
street, and then they show us this film about teenagers on drugs. Before they
turn off the lights, Principal Wertz announces that some of the content is
pretty graphic, but that it’s important we see the realities of drug use.
As the movie starts up, Charlie leans over and tells me the only reason
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they’re showing it is because there’s a rumor going around that Finch was on
something, and this is why he died. The only people who know this isn’t true
are Charlie, Brenda, and me.
When one of the teen actors overdoses, I walk out. Outside the auditorium,
I throw up in one of the trash cans.
“Are you okay?” Amanda is sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall.
“I didn’t see you there.” I move away from the trash can.
“I couldn’t get through five minutes of that.”
I sit down on the floor, a couple of feet away from her. “What goes through
your mind when you’re thinking about it?”
“About …”
“Killing yourself. I want to know what that feels like, what a person thinks
about. I want to know why.”
Amanda stares at her hands. “I can only tell you how I felt. Ugly.
Disgusting. Stupid. Small. Worthless. Forgotten. It just feels like there’s no
choice. Like it’s the most logical thing to do because what else is there? You
think, ‘No will even miss me. They won’t know I’m gone. The world will go
on, and it won’t matter that I’m not here. Maybe it’s better if I was never
here.’ ”
“But you don’t feel that way all the time. I mean, you’re Amanda Monk.
You’re popular. Your parents are nice to you. Your brothers are nice to you.”
Everyone’s nice to you
, I think, 
because they’re too afraid not to be
.
She looks at me. “In those moments, none of it matters. It’s like that stuff is
happening to someone else because all you feel is dark inside, and that
darkness just kind of takes over. You don’t even really think about what might
happen to the people you leave behind, because all you can think about is
yourself.” She wraps her arms around her knees. “Did Finch ever see a
doctor?”
“I don’t know.” There’s still so much I don’t know about him. I guess now
I’ll never know it. “I don’t think his parents wanted to admit anything was
wrong.”
“He was trying to fix himself because of you.”
I know she wants to make me feel better, but this only makes me feel
worse.
The next day, in U.S. Geography, Mr. Black stands at the board, where he
writes 
JUNE 4
and underlines it. “The time has come … people … your projects
are due soon … so focus, focus … focus. Please come to … me with
any … questions, otherwise I will … expect you to … turn them in on
time … if not before.”
When the bell rings, he says, “I’d like to … talk to you, Violet.” I sit in my
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seat, next to the desk Finch once sat in, and wait. After the last person leaves,
Mr. Black closes the door and sinks into his chair. “I wanted to check
in … with you to see … if you need any help … and also to tell you … to feel
free to turn in whatever … you have so far … I obviously … understand …
that there are extenuating … circumstances.”
Extenuating Circumstances
. That is me. That is Violet Markey. Poor
forever-changed Violet and her Extenuating Circumstances. Must treat her
carefully, because she is fragile and might break if expected to do the same as
everyone else.
“Thanks, but I’m okay.” I can do this. I can show them I’m not some china
doll, handle with care. I just wish Finch and I had pulled together all our
wanderings, and maybe documented each one a little better. We were so busy
being in the moment that I don’t have much to show for it except a half-filled
notebook, a few pictures, and a marked-up map.
That evening, I torture myself by reading our Facebook messages, going
back to the very beginning. And then, even though I know he’ll never read it,
I open our notebook and start to write.