The Climb to Charley

"Climbing the mountain won't be easy, but the view at the top will be worth it."

That's what my mom told me when I was having a hard time coping with the loss of my brother. I wanted to believe her, but all I could think about was throwing myself off the mountain when I got to the top. But, I knew I couldn't leave my mom the way my brother left us, so I decided to climb.

The beginning of my climb was difficult. I could barely get out of bed, so I missed a lot of school. Going back to school was worse. I had to drive in the morning alone instead of my brother next to me in the passenger seat. I got stares in the hallway from strangers who I hadn't said a word to in my life. I received half-assed, "I'm so sorry" statements from his friends who never spoke to me before he died. I despised the pitiful expressions teachers shot at me when I entered the classroom and the way everyone would treat me differently, like I was some kind of fragile glass sculpture that would break if someone simply touched it with the tip of their finger.

I didn't know how I was supposed to make it to the top of the mountain. It felt like the mountain was getting steeper with each step I took.

But I decided to climb.

There was one girl that helped me up the mountain. Her name was Vanya.

Vanya was new to the school, so she didn't know my brother had died, therefore, didn't treat me like my brother died. I liked it. I liked Vanya. She made me feel normal.

I met her in the girls' bathroom in the middle of third period. I was going to change my pad and she was standing in the bathroom smoking a joint. She probably noticed I was having a bad day, because let's face it, when was the last time I had a good day? As I washed my hands in the sink, I made eye contact with her through the mirror, she nodded at me as if she understood something was wrong, and held out her joint.

"You need a hit?"

Not really, but I took it anyway.

I never really smoked that much, only at parties and special occasions, so I never thought I'd be smoking with a stranger in a school bathroom, but this was a confusing time in my life. We leaned against the wall, side by side, for a couple minutes in silence. I handed her back her joint after my throat was starting to hurt.

"I'm Vanya," she said.

"Max."

"Nice to meet you."

"You too."

Vanya and I started eating lunch together after that. I didn't have many friends and she was new, so we sat in the corner of the cafeteria and I pointed out to her who was and who wasn't a douchebag at our school. Charlie Gonzalez: not a douchebag. Angeli Thompson: not a douchebag. Rebecca Sinclair: bitchiest douchebag ever. Mario Marquez: Dumbest douchebag to walk the face of the earth.

She and I became close friends quickly. I liked how she distracted me from my brother.

But there were things that reminded me of him-- even when I wasn't looking for them. I'd get a whiff of his cologne when a random boy would push past me in the hallway. Yes, he got it from the men's aisle in Target, so that's probably why, but I missed it and I hated the empty feeling I got when I smelled it.

The sound of sneakers squeaking on tile. My brother had this weird thing of cleaning his shoes in a solution he got off a janky website and it'd make the soles of his shoes squeak on tile. I hated his squeaky shoes, but every time I heard one, I wished it was his.

Basketball. Just anything that had to do with basketball reminded me of him. My brother lived, breathed, and dreamed about basketball. He wanted to go to the NBA one day. He didn't think he could do it, but I always did. I believed in him a lot more than he did.

I know people say that the memory of a dead loved one lives on, but I didn't want to remember. I just wanted to forget. Forgetting would be a lot less painful than remembering. Whenever I'd be reminded of him, the climb seemed to grow more arduous.

But I decided to keep climbing.

Christmas wasn't easy, in fact, it was one of the worst days of my life. It was just my mom and me on Christmas and the house felt eerily empty. Even though she got me the sweater I had been wanting and the most beautiful necklace I had ever received, I still felt empty inside. So, so, so incredibly empty.

"I baked cookies," she said after dinner, setting down a tray on the dining table as I read the book she got me. "They're your brother's favorite."

"Thanks, Mom," I said and took a cookie. She got a call from my grandparents and left the room, locking herself in her bedroom, leaving me alone in the dining room.

I just stared at the cookie in my hand.

My brother used to make these cookies all the time-- they were his favorite. I remember how focused he would be, my brother was almost never focused. He'd pack the powders into the measuring cups, sifting off the excess material on the top with his finger. He'd make sure he'd let the butter soften for exactly two hours and forty-one minutes before using it and didn't stop stirring the sugar with the butter until it was creamy-smooth. He'd stuff the cookie dough scooper perfectly so each cookie had a circumference of two inches. The cookies would always turn out amazing, crispy on the outside and doughy on the inside with the right amount of saltiness and a perfect ratio of mini chocolate chips to cookie dough.

That was the first time I had thought about my brother in a long time.

The cookie my mom made felt foreign in my hand. They weren't as soft as my brother's cookies, not as perfectly round, and much smaller. She didn't put in mini chocolate chips like my brother did and she even added macadamia nuts.

I looked at that stupid cookie for hours, and I'm not even exaggerating. I put it on my desk and sat in my swivel chair, just staring at it, mind empty.

I heard my mom call me downstairs, so I stuffed the cookie down my throat and it felt rotten in my mouth. I hated how I felt the need to act strong in front of my mother, but she always told me to keep my head up, because I could make it to the top if I tried.

So I decided to keep climbing.

Vanya and I were becoming closer and closer, day after day. She'd come to my house nearly once a week after school, and the two of us would sit together in my room and talk for hours.

And one day, she kissed me while we were sitting on my bed.

I was taken aback, and pulled away from the kiss. She blushed, looking down at her lap and tucking her deep brown hair behind her ear.

"Sorry. I don't know why I did that. That was stupid."

"No, no, it's okay. It's fine."

She shook her head, collapsing on my bed.

"No, it's not, it's not fine at all. I shouldn't have done that, I don't know why I did that. I'm so sorry, Max. I made you uncomfortable, didn't I?"

"No, you didn't, I swear." I leaned over and kissed her on the lips for just a second, and then sat up again. "There. Oops. I don't know why I did that, either. Oh well, I guess we're even."

She grinned.

"Thank you, Max. That made me feel a lot better."

"No need to thank me."

By February, things were seeming better. Vanya and I were best (more than?) friends, my depression was getting better, and I finally felt happy. I was sleeping better, eating healthier, and less things were reminding me about my brother. I figured if I didn't think about him, I couldn't miss him.

Although, the inevitable would come in March-- his birthday. Our birthday. Our eighteenth birthday.

March 19th used to be my favorite day of the year. Me day, well, me and my brother day, but to me it was me day. It felt like a personal Christmas. My mom would spoil me and my brother with gifts and food and love and she'd tell us we were the only people in this world she truly loved.

On my birthday morning, my mom made me my favorite banana nut pancakes for breakfast. She kissed me on the top of my head before she left for work and I got ready for school. I put on one of my favorite outfits, a pink and orange top with a pair of my favorite ripped jeans that were still within the school dress code.

Walking into the school, I received several, "Happy birthday, Max"s and "Happy eighteenth, Max"s. I was glad to have not gotten, "Oh, it's your brother's birthday today, isn't it?" The last thing I needed to be reminded of on my birthday was my dead brother. Today was supposed to be a good day.

But then, I walked past his locker during passing period.

I remember stopping in the hallway when I saw it, a picture of him printed out on a piece of paper smiling back at me. His locker was decorated with streamers that would've been too colorful for his liking, and confetti sloppily taped to the cool metal surface. I couldn't move, paralyzed by the locker.

This was the first time I had looked at his face in months.

I hadn't opened my Photo library to look at pictures of him. I closed my eyes whenever I walked past the family portrait still hanging in the hallway. I mean, I hadn't even said his name out loud since he died. I always tried to avoid picturing his face in my mind because something about seeing him would make me so angry, and then I'd feel resentful to myself for feeling that anger towards him.

I began to cry.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Max?"

I turned and saw Vanya staring at me, with a deep expression of concern in her eyes as she glanced between the locker and me with confusion and sympathy.

"Who is he?" she asked.

I didn't answer her because that's when I realized: I had stopped climbing the mountain. I had stopped climbing it awhile ago after I pushed my brother to the back of my mind. I wouldn't overcome the mountain if I pushed away my sadness of his absence, it would only burden me.

I wasn't climbing, I was hanging on a ledge, and I didn't know if I could recover from that.

Vanya gave me a hug, not pushing me to answer any questions, and I cried into her fuzzy, warm flannel, my tears soaking through the fabric and making it cold and wet. Vanya didn't seem to mind, she didn't even pull away when the bell rang. I was the first to pull away.

"You wanna talk about it?" she asked.

"Not really."

"Okay."

"But I should."

"You don't have to."

"I know, but I need to."

"You wanna skip third?"

"Yeah."

We skipped third. She held out her hand and pulled me away from the ledge. Although I wasn't climbing, I was back on the mountain.

We went into her car and smoked again. I told her everything, how my brother left my mom and I last October and how I was gone from school for a month because I could barely get out of bed. I told her how I didn't like to think about him. I hated reminiscing about the past because I knew I would never be able to make similar memories in the future. I told her I resented myself for being angry at him.

"Why didn't you tell me any of this?" she asked, looking across the car at me. "I went through the same thing."

"You did?"

"Yeah. I lost my little sister last year," she said. "I mean, it's not the same exact thing as losing a twin brother, but it's still losing a sibling. I could've helped you."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, I'm just saying you can talk to me, Max. I know you know that," said Vanya. "When I lost my sister, I felt the same way you did. I didn't want to talk about her because it wouldn't do me any good, I'd just end up crying or depressed. But, the more I grieved her, the more I came to realize that if I pushed down the feelings of sadness and guilt, they would just come back stronger. It's like trying to swim against an ocean's current, you're not gonna win. You're just gonna end up drowning. You just gotta let yourself feel."

She was right. I felt good for a month or two, but I've felt the worst sadness I've ever felt in that past hour of seeing my brother's face on his locker. Vanya looks concerned.

"Do you want to talk about him? You don't have to, but it might help."

"Yeah, I guess."

She nodded. "Okay. Tell me what you miss about him. That's what helped me with my sister."

"God, there are so many things. I miss his laugh, his smile, his humor. I miss his strange obsession with having perfectly gelled hair everyday. I miss his smell, the smell of his cologne on his shirt, but not in a weird way obviously, because I'm his sister. I miss his voice, how it would crack when he was excited. I miss how he liked Taylor Swift more than I did. I miss how we would sing together every morning on the way to school and by the time we got to the parking lot, we'd be out of breath from screaming the whole time. I want nothing more than to see him again, to hold him and give him a hug. I want to hold onto him forever and just be beside him. But I'm never going to be able to do that again. I can't feel him anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"When he died, I could feel him with me, but I've neglected him and my memories of him for so long, I can't feel him anymore. He's gone, it's like he's actually dead."

Vanya thought to herself for a second. "The mind has a weird way of blocking things out, and I think that's what yours is doing. It was so hurt after he passed, it numbs any feeling when you think about him. You just need to train it to feel again when you think about him." She paused. "Have you visited his grave yet?"

I shook my head. She nodded.

"Maybe you should try doing that. It might help."

A week later, I brought up the courage to follow her advice. After school, I drove myself to the graveyard and found his grave.

There was a bouquet of withered flowers-- blue, his favorite color. Engraved in the stone were the words, "Charley Ramirez: Loving son and brother."

I knelt to the ground in front of his grave and stared at the shiny stone. I ran my hand along the grooves and the dips his name made in the stone and brushed off pieces of grass and spare dirt.

And for the second time after Charley died, I let myself cry. I cried harder than I ever had that day to the point where I was sore the next day. My eyes stung and my abdomen was tight as I held myself because I couldn't hold him, and I looked at his grave and pictured his face: smiling, laughing, and bright.

And for the first time in months, I didn't feel angry at him. I was sad he wasn't with me.

"I miss you, Charley," I said to the stone. "I love you so much. I miss you so much. I wish you were here. I wish I could hold you."

"Maxine?"

I turned around, and standing behind me was my mom, tears in her eyes and holding a fresh bouquet of blue flowers. She smiled sadly at me and knelt down next to me, placing the bouquet of flowers on Charley's grave and put an arm around my shoulders, kissing the top of my head.

"It's okay, sweetheart. It's okay."

I leaned into her embrace, sniffling and shakily catching my breath as I stared at my brother's name. She kissed me again and rubbed her hand along my arm.

"I can't climb the mountain, Mom. I tried, I really did."

"Oh, honey. I didn't say climbing the mountain would be easy," she said, wiping her own tears. The smell of her perfume engulfs me. It's comforting. "When people climb a mountain, they have setbacks. Sometimes they need to reroute. They need to take breaks. Everyone climbs a mountain differently, but if they try hard enough, they can make it to the top."

Have I made it to the top of the mountain? No, not yet. Am I close?Only God knows. But I know one thing for sure: I will make it to the top of the mountain. Because I know Charley will be waiting at the top for me, and I know that he's gonna be waiting for me to take his hand and he'll pull me up with him and we'll enjoy the view together.

So, I'm gonna keep climbing.