You did a search on teen suicide and downloaded information from some sites.
What ARE the warning signs? They’re similar to the signs of severe depression. No one can PREDICT when severe depression will spill into a suicide attempt. Some studies show that the desire may have a chemical or genetic basis. But kids who HAVE tried suicide report many of the same symptoms:
Changes in sleep habits—sleeping late, difficulty waking, frequent naps, constant yawning.
Withdrawal from favorite activities.
Withdrawal from family and friendships.
Inability to concentrate.
A sudden personality change.
Declining grades.
Substance abuse.
Hints in conversation, such as “Nothing matters” or “I won’t be a problem for you much longer.”
Right before an attempt, a sudden cheerfulness and/or a desire to “put things in order.”
You learned that none of these things means that a person will necessarily attempt to kill himself. But each of them is a serious sign. It’s especially serious if someone exhibits more than one.
Or all.
Like Alex.
You feel as if you’re seeing him right up there on the screen.
You print out all the information you can. You file it away in your desk.
Now it’s time to go.
You can use the car. Ted and Dad have brought your car back from the Snyders’.
Tuesday afternoon
When you get to the house, he’s asleep.
But you don’t care.
You’re so happy that he’s ALIVE. The last time you were here, you thought you’d lost him.
You sit at the kitchen table. Mrs. Snyder fixes you a snack. She asks if you like Oreos and milk and you say yes, but she comes back to the table with orange juice and a box of Wheat Thins.
She’s a little out of it. Her hands are shaky, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. She looks as if she’s been up all night.
She sits across from you and starts speaking softly, painfully:
Mrs. S: “I didn’t know, Ducky. I didn’t know he was so desperate. I didn’t even know he was cutting school until Mr. Dean told me. I leave for work before Alex wakes up, I take care of Paula, who is a handful—and I assumed he was going every day. Alex lied to me about that. He lied about the alcohol too. I knew he was drinking after that awful night you brought him home from Jay’s party. I snooped around and found a bottle in his room. Dr. Welsch said that alcoholism wasn’t the problem per se, that it was a symptom of depression, but I didn’t believe it.”
D: “It was impossible to figure him out. I was his closest friend and I didn’t know what was wrong.”
Mrs. S: “When Mr. Snyder and I divorced, Alex didn’t speak for two days. Not a word. I would joke with him, ask him questions—nothing. He didn’t seem angry or sad. Just blank. He finally came around a bit, but I don’t think he was ever the same.”
She goes on and on, recalling more events, remembering angry statements she never should have made, times she should have stayed home from work, hunches she never followed through on.
All her fault. Her fault for divorcing, for having to work two jobs, for not being aggressive enough about getting child support payments, for smoking, for refusing to move to Chicago when her brother offered her a job, for joining her book discussion group instead of staying home on Monday nights.
Your heart goes out to her. She sounds like you.
You try to reassure her. You tell her about some of the information you learned on the Internet—that the symptoms can deceive you, that you can’t predict suicidal behavior.
Mrs. S: “I guess you can drive yourself crazy second-guessing.”
D: “And it’s so hard to help someone who won’t talk. Alex just detached himself, Mrs. Snyder. From school. From me. From his old self. On the one hand, he insisted nothing was wrong—and on the other hand, he was dropping all these hints. How could you know what to take seriously? How could you assume your best friend, a guy who loved life so much, would ever think of—”
You have to stop. Mrs. Snyder is in tears, and finishing that sentence would be cruel.
But now you’re breaking down too.
And something else happens that you never would have predicted.
She opens her arms and hugs you. And you hold each other, sobbing softly, warmed by the morning sunlight that streams through the kitchen window.
A few moments later, you hear a door open upstairs.
You and Mrs. Snyder go to the bottom landing. Alex is standing in his open doorway. His room is shaded and unlit.
He looks like himself. Somehow, this surprises you.
What were you expecting—gray hair? Electrodes? Maybe just a look of unbearable inner torment.
But he looks unfazed, as if nothing has happened.
“What time is it?” he says with a yawn.
You tell him 12:45. He nods and heads back into his room.
His mom gestures for you to go talk to him, so you climb the stairs.
His room has been tidied up—by Mrs. Snyder, you assume. Alex is lying down on the bedcovers, his eyes half open.
You’re nervous. Rigid. What can you say? What does he remember? Should you let him bring it up? Should you be serious? Cheerful? Silent?
You pull out his desk chair and sit next to the bed. Alex speaks first:
A: “Isn’t it a school day?”
D: “I stayed home.”
A: “You? How come?”
D: “Because of you.”
A: “Hey, did you pass that—that English exam?”
D: “French.”
A: “Whatever. I knew it was an exam.”
D: “I don’t know yet. I was supposed to find out today. But it doesn’t matter, Alex. I wanted to be here. To see how you’re doing.”
A: “I’m cool. You didn’t have to cut for that.”
D: “I’m just so glad you’re HERE, Alex. God, I was worried. I couldn’t just leave you. Not after last night. So…how do you feel? I mean—why? You know, last night? When did you—what made you do it?”
A: “Ducky, it’s no big deal. Really.”
The words smack you. They throw you back.
The same old lines. Right back to where you left off.
As if nothing happened.
You seize up. You feel empty. Helpless. The door is slamming shut again and it feels too familiar.
Only now you know what’s inside. You know what Alex is holding back.
And you’ll be damned if you let him get away with it.
You shout: “How can you say that? How can you possibly say that? Alex, you almost died! I was holding your body. I had to check to see if you were breathing. HOW CAN YOU SAY IT’S NO BIG DEAL? You know what you are, Alex? You’re SELFISH. You’re a SELFISH and FOOLISH and STUBBORN person who can’t take one second to realize that people care about you. I care about you.”
You know the words are harsh. You know he’s fragile. But there it is. You had to say it.
You don’t want praise. You don’t want him to fall all over you with thanks. You don’t wazt promises and declarations.
One word is all you need. One word, one LOOK from Alex—some sign that he has heard you, that he understands—and you’ll stick around.
Anything less and you’ll know it’s time to move on. Leave him to the professionals and pray. As hard as that will be.
Not because you hate him. Not because you don’t want him to get better.
But because if he can’t value the person who saved his life, if he can’t show some emotion to the person who knows his deepest secret, then that person means nothing to him.
And you can’t be nothing.
So you lock eyes with him, waiting for an answer.
But he turns away, his face still as stone.
You stand quietly.
And then you leave.
Mrs. Snyder is staring at you as you walk thr
ough the house. You meet her glance briefly, painfully, but you keep going.
You hear her running up the stairs as you head out the door.
You climb into your car, steeling yourself against tears. You turn on the ignition and shift into drive.
“Ducky! Wait!”
Mrs. Snyder is running toward you across the lawn.
You lower the passenger window, and she leans in. “Alex told me he wants to speak to you. Please don’t go.”
You feel numb as you turn the car off. Numb as you walk toward the house. Numb as you enter and climb the stairs.
Alex’s bedroom door is open.
His back is to you. He’s looking out the window.
You stand for a moment, but he doesn’t move.
So you walk closer.
And you see that he’s crying.
“Alex?” you say.
His face, so blank and unfeeling a moment ago, now looks sunken and hollow. When he speaks, you can barely hear him.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”
You feel your own rage washing away. You reach out and put a hand on his shoulder. “Just get better,” you whisper back.
He raises his eyes to the big sycamore tree in the front yard. A faint smile plays across his face. “You know what I thought of last night in the hospital? The time I fell out of that tree.”
You cringe at the memory. You were only ten. You stood there, helpless, while he howled and howled. “I remember.”
“The pain was unbelievable. I never imagined ANYTHING could hurt so much.”
“I’d never heard you scream like that.”
“Well, last night I thought about how falling out of the tree was nothing compared to this.”
Finally Alex turns toward you.
He’s looking you straight in the eye.
You understand.
Totally.
And you see why he couldn’t open up.
It wasn’t your fault.
Or his.
Opening up meant feeling that pain.
So he buried it inside. Until he couldn’t bury it anymore.
You sit at the foot of his bed. He sits on the pillow.
The way you’ve sat a million other times for a million other conversations.
He talks a little about Chicago. He’s dreading it in a way, but looking forward to a change of scenery.
You tell him to bring back Frango mints. Whenever Mom and Dad go to Chicago, they always bring back Frango mints from some big department store.
It’s a dumb thing to say, but it feels right.
Alex promises he’ll find some.
You help him pull down a suitcase from his closet shelf. You both begin packing his stuff. His mom comes upstairs and reminds Alex that they have to leave soon to pick up his ticket at the airport.
“I’ve got it under control now,” Alex says to you. About the packing.
“Well,” you reply.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Call me.”
“I will.”
You turn to leave, but before you’re out the door, Alex mumbles, “Thank you.” Then he continues packing.
And you leave.
As you walk down the stairs, you feel dazed.
You try not to think that you almost threw away your friendship.
He was the one who pulled you back.
But in a way, that was how it should have been.
After so much blindness and bumbling, after everything you’ve done wrong, at least you know you did one thing right.
Thursday 12/17
Los Angeles International Airport
in which Ducky Returns After a Two-Day Rest
Some rest.
Between school, homework, phone conversations with Mrs. Snyder, e-mail to Alex, preparations for Mom and Dad’s trip, and taking them to meet the plane, you haven’t stopped.
Telling Mom and Dad they should go to Ghana was the hardest part of the last two days.
You reached that decision in the car, on the way back from Alex’s on Tuesday.
What was the point of their staying home? Alex is going to be away. You’ll be fine. All they’d be doing would be moping around the house, thinking about the trip they didn’t take.
Ted and you can buy the botanically correct tree and celebrate a brotherly Christmas. You’ll make it fun.
Mom and Dad kept asking if you were SURE, insisting they’d be HAPPY to stay. You knew they were sincere. But you could sense their relief. And their appreciation.
Driving to the airport, you were totally fine.
Saying good-bye, though, was a different story.
For the first time since you were a little boy, you cried. You never thought you’d miss them so much.
They cried back. You hugged each other until the final boarding announcement. And you stood by the window and waved to the plane as it took off.
The way you did when you were little.
Everything’s changed so much since the day you picked them up here. YOU’VE changed.
As a son.
As a brother.
As a friend.
You feel funny about going back to Palo City now. To Life Without Parents.
Or Alex.
When he called you from Chicago this afternoon, he didn’t say much. But he sounded a little upbeat, I think. He said he hopes to come home soon.
You talked to Mrs. Snyder afterward. She thinks he sounds “fragile.”
She’s not so sure about the coming-home-soon part.
Neither am I.
Oh, well. I guess it’ll be pretty lonely for awhile.
At least I have Ted. And my friends.
They’ll be glad Good Old Ducky’s back.
I’m not sure I’m up to being Good Old Ducky just yet, though.
Maybe just plain Ducky.
If I can figure out who that is.
A Personal History by Ann M. Martin
I was born on August 12, 1955, in Princeton, New Jersey. I grew up there with my parents and my sister, Jane, who was born two years later. My mother was a preschool teacher and my father was an artist, a cartoonist for the New Yorker and other magazines.
When I was younger, my parents created an imaginative atmosphere for my sister and me. My dad liked circuses and carnivals and magic, and as a teenager, he had been an amateur magician. My father would often work at home, and I would stand behind his chair and watch him draw. When he wasn’t working, he enjoyed making greeting cards.
My parents were very interested in my sister’s and my artistic abilities, and our house was filled with art supplies—easels, paints, pastels, crayons, and stacks of paper. Coloring books were allowed, but only truly creative pursuits were encouraged, and I took lots of art classes.
Our house was as full of pets as it was of art supplies. We always had cats, and, except for the first two years of my life, we always had more than one. We also had fish, guinea pigs, and turtles, as well as mice and hamsters.
When I think about my childhood I think of pets and magic and painting and imaginary games with my sister. But there is another activity I remember just as clearly, and that’s reading. I loved to read. I woke up early so I could read in bed before I went to school. I went to bed early so I could read before I fell asleep. And from this love of books and reading came a love of writing.
In 1977 I graduated from Smith College in Massachusetts. I taught elementary school for a year, which is what I had wanted to do, and used children’s literature in the classroom. I loved teaching, but by the end of the school year I had decided that what I really wanted to do was work on children’s books. So I moved to New York City, entered the publishing field, and at the same time, began writing seriously. In 1983, my first book, Bummer Summer, was published.
In 1985, after the release of my first three books—Bummer Summer, Inside Out, and Stage Fright—an editor at Scholastic asked if I’d be interested in writing a series about babysitting
. She had a title in mind—the Baby-Sitters Club—and she was thinking of a miniseries consisting of four books. So I created four characters: Kristy, Claudia, Stacey, and Mary Anne, and planned to write one book featuring each girl. The series was supposed to start in 1986 and end in 1987. Instead, it ended fourteen years later in 2000, with over two hundred titles and four related series, including Dawn’s spinoff, California Diaries.
Saying good-bye to the Baby-Sitters Club was sad. It had been nice not to have to let go of the characters at the end of each book. But by 2000, I had found that I wanted more time to spend working on other kinds of stories (though I did return to the series to write a prequel, titled The Summer Before, in 2010).
I felt myself drawn to the 1960s, the most important decade of my childhood. I think this interest was due in large part to the fact that my mother’s diaries came into my possession, and I spent a good deal of time reading them, especially the ones that covered the 1960s. The next thing I knew, I had written three books set in that decade. The second, A Corner of the Universe, is the most personal of all the books I’ve written. It’s loosely based on my mother’s side of the family, and in a way, it started on a summer day in 1964 when I learned that my mother’s younger brother, Stephen, who had died shortly before my parents first met, had been mentally ill. Stephen was the basis for the character of Adam in A Corner of the Universe. The book won a Newbery Honor in 2003.
The life I lead now is not terribly different from the one I led as a child, except that I no longer live in Princeton. I moved to the Catskill Mountains in New York a number of years ago. Animals are still very important to me. Influenced by the many stray cats I’ve known, and inspired by my parents, who used to do volunteer work for Princeton’s animal shelter, I became a foster caregiver for an animal rescue group in my community. I also still have cats of my own, and only recently said good-bye to my dog, Sadie, the sweetest dog ever. She was the inspiration for my book A Dog’s Life.
Although I grew up to become a writer, my interest in art never left, except that now I’m more interested in crafts, and especially in sewing and needlework. I like to knit, but I most enjoy sewing, especially making smocked or embroidered dresses. And of course, I continue to write. In 2014, the fourth Doll People book, The Doll People Set Sail, will be published, as well as Rain Reign, a novel about a girl with Asperger’s syndrome and her beloved dog, Rain.