Walking Backward Read Free Page B

pants and a matching jacket. He looks like he’s begging to be put out of his misery. I have to get the camera.
    It’ll be good to start at a new school with teachers who never knew Mom, so they won’t ask about her or tell me how sorry they are. I wish we’d move to the subdivision with Simpson, because I’m tired of condolences from our neighbors. I never said two words to any of them in my life, but now they all talk to me. Especially Mr. Smitts next door. He used to snowblow our driveway for no good reason, and he’d bring us DVDS he’d rented that weren’t due back yet. He’s retired and needs things to do, Mom always said. Now he talks to me every time I see him. On my way to the park, he’ll be sitting on his porch and he’ll call out, “Josh, you are a good boy! You take good care of your little brother! Your mother in Heaven is proud of you!” On our way back he yells out the exact same thing, like I might not have heard him the first time.
    He was at Mom’s funeral, so I guess he saw me freak out. That’s something I can’t explain, even though Dr. Tierney has asked me to explain it. Mom told me once that she wanted to be cremated. Dad hated that thought, and so did Aunt Laura—but I don’t know why she was involved in the conversation when I wasn’t. A son is more important than a sister. Grandma and Grandpa don’t like cremation either. So they all decided to bury Mom, even though she didn’t want to be buried.
    Something weird happened inside me when the earth hit her coffin. I suddenly felt sure she wanted out. I knew she wasn’t alive. That used to happen to people sometimes—everyone thought they were dead but they weren’t, so they got buried alive—but that never happens anymore. Machines check your vital signs after you die. And with Mom crashing into a tree at high speed, it was pretty obvious she was dead. But I still wanted to stop them from burying her. So I freaked out.
    The worst thing is how much it scared Sammy. He’s attached to me like a barnacle, so to see me spaz out at Mom’s grave shook him up something awful. I still catch him spying on me sometimes, like I can’t be trusted. It must have been embarrassing for Dad. He said no, not at all, it was just sad. Dad can be nice when he’s not hiding in the basement.
    There were so many people at Mom’s funeral I don’t even know who was there, so when I pass someone and they smile at me, I wonder if they’re remembering how I freaked out on Mom’s grave. Karen was there—she’s sort of my girlfriend, or at least she used to be. She left the funeral early, but not so early that she missed me jumping on Mom’s coffin and trying to scratch it open. God, I can’t believe I did that.
    In the Muslim religion, you’re not allowed to freak out at funerals. No wailing, shrieking, beating your chest, scratching your face, pulling your hair, tearing your clothes, breaking things, swearing or blaming God. I didn’t scratch my face or tear my clothes, but I did an awful lot of wailing, and I tried to break the coffin open. It’s a good thing I’m not Muslim. They only mourn for three days after someone dies— except widows, who are supposed to mourn for four months and ten days. People probably mourn a lot longer if they loved the dead person, but three days is all that’s required. Then it’s back to life as usual. If you’re Muslim, you believe the dead person is going to their afterlife, and you’re not supposed to be sad about that.
    It’s like how Christians believe in Heaven. There’s no set time for mourning in Christian churches. But we’re not Christian, either, so it doesn’t matter. We’re not anything. We don’t know what to do.
    I should go make dinner now. Dad said he would make it, but that was an hour ago, and nothing’s cooking. I do a lot of the work Mom used to do at home. I feed Sammy and do the dishes and laundry. I shrunk every pair of Sam’s pajamas by washing them in hot water with his