ICEES in the Rain

We used to drink ICEEs in the rain.  We never had them when it was sunny out – Matt wouldn’t let us.  He would tell his story about the time he went to Magic Mountain and it was about one hundred and ten degrees out.  He bought a red ICEE to cool down, and then went on The Viper.  “Seriously, Meg,” he would say to me.  “Red ICEE barf went everywhere.”

“Then why drink them at all?” I would ask.

“Because they are just so freakin’ good,” he would reply as his face slowly stretched into a smug grin.

It was like following a script.  I don’t even remember how many times we had the same conversation.  It was a pointless conversation at that, as I had heard the story so many times before.  But it didn’t matter; that was the reason we never had ICEEs when it was sunny out. 

Matt and I grew up across the street from each other.  As we were the only two kids on the street our age we learned early on that we had to stick together.  While the elderly couples that occupied our quiet cul-de-sac were kind and always had a treat for us, we needed each other for playmates.  For as long as I can remember we would run across the street – Matt from his picturesque white house with the baby blue trim and me from my slightly off the wall yellow house with the green trim – and we played for hours. 

From our first day in Mr. Rodriquez’s kindergarten class we walked to and from school together.  It was never a question.  We met in the middle of the street and took off from there. 

Everyday, rain or shine, we made our way through our quiet neighborhood, past the plum trees, around the driving range, and finally into our elementary school.  It was an adventure everyday.  We ate the plums once they ripened, even though it usually resulted in an intense stomach-ache that lasted for hours.  We laughed when the driving range flooded and ducks used the new ponds as their homes. 

It was sixth grade when we started what my mom called our “ICEE ritual.”  One day the rain was coming down so hard that kids were talking about school closing due to flooding.  Matt walked over to my desk where I was trying to get my math homework out of the way.  “Meg,” he said.  “How about we stop at Sev on our way home?”

“Why?”  I put my pencil down and stared at him with raised eyebrows.  All I could think about was getting home as fast as possible, as I hated the cement-like quality that jeans somehow take on when wet.  I had no desire to stop at 7-11 and increase the agony of plastered-on pants.

“I want an ICEE,” was all he said.  I waited a few seconds for any kind of explanation.  After finding no answer in his brown eyes, I gave up.

“You want to tell me why you want an ICEE on a day like today?”  The rain was pouring down in sheets, with tiny little hailstones thrown into the mix.  I heard the teacher mentioning thunderstorms to a parent-helper.  And even though the kids in my class talked about school closing due to flooding almost every time it rained, it seemed really possible that time.  I was thinking more along the lines of hot cocoa, or even those instant Cappuccinos that my mom let me drink sometimes. 

“I don’t really know,” he laughed, flashing his lopsided grin.  “I just do.”

I looked at him for a second or two more, and then shrugged.  “Okay,” I said, looking back down at my math.  “Sounds good.”  And the rest is, as they say, history.  From that day on Matt and I stopped at 7-11 every time it rained.  We would plunk down one dollar and twenty-nine cents (sometimes in only coins) and fill our cups to the top.  Matt never chose the red ICEEs.  Instead he went back and forth between the Blue Raspberry and Coca-Cola flavors.  I went with Red Cherry every time. 

After we filled our cups we would say goodbye to Paul, the clerk, and walk around the corner to go home.  Somehow Matt was always finished with his by the time we got to our meeting point in the middle of the street.  I usually had about an inch left in the cup, and that was mostly melted ice and syrup.

We carried our routine through high school.  During tenth grade we shared our seventh period.  When it rained we would look at each other and smile as we dug through our backpacks for loose change.  There was something comforting in knowing that we had a set routine.  It was a tradition that was never put off.  During football season I waited on campus until he finished practice, and when we were in the middle of a play production he waited for me.  It was nice just knowing that we had that.

Leaving for college was the hardest thing I ever had to do.  I remember thinking that there was no way LA could be nearly as wonderful as my little Goleta.  I remember thinking there was no way I could function without my family, and wishfully thinking there was no way they could function without me.  My mom dashed that hope my first day at school.  She looked me in the eyes while we were standing in the doorway of my dorm room and said, “Now honey, you know I love you.  But you can’t come home for at least a month.”  I stared at her. 

“What? Why?”  I could hear my voice move higher in pitch.

“You need to get set in a routine.  Coming home every weekend will only hurt your chances for getting involved in anything.”  I stared at her, silently hoping she would take those words back.  She leaned in, kissed my cheek and said, “Call me anytime.  I love you.”

My dad wrapped me up in a hug and whispered, “I’ll miss you, Sweet Pea.”  I gave a weak laugh at his use of his pet name for me.  As I pulled back he grabbed my hand and slid some bills into it.  I clutched the money tightly in my fist as I stared at their retreating backs. 

When they were gone from sight I left the hallway and stepped back into my room.  I sat down on my unmade bed.  “Now what?”  I asked the empty room.  My roommate had yet to show up, and I was terrified that when she did we would not get along.  Just as I was about to let myself cry I heard my phone ring.  I stared at it on the desk and debated picking it up.  Just before the last ring I stood up and grabbed it.  

“Hello?” I asked. 

“Moving in sucks, doesn’t it?”  The familiar voice on the other end of the line made me smile.

“Matt!”  He was my lifeline.  “You have no idea how much I needed to hear your voice right now.  How is San Diego?”

“Oh, you know.  Bright, beautiful, and sunny.  How is LA?” 

I could picture him lounging against the wall on his bed, one leg propped up, tossing his pillow up into the air with one hand.  “Oh, you know.  Smoggy and disgusting.”  He laughed.  “No, it’s really okay here.  How’s the roommate?”

“Oh, you know.”  I could almost hear the grin in his voice.  “Smoggy and disgusting.”  I laughed this time.  “No, really, he’s pretty cool.  And yours?”

“Non-existent at the moment.” 

We talked for about an hour as I began the task of putting my things together.  Somehow it was less overwhelming with my friend on the phone.  It was almost as if we were hanging out at home together while I cleaned my room.  I almost expected to see him sitting at my desk with a baseball cap turned backwards over his brown hair.  Finally, though, he said, “Listen, Meg, I gotta go.  Now you get your ass out of that room and meet some people.”  I smiled as I hung up my phone and did just was he told me to.  He never knew how much he helped me that first day.

Just as my mom said, I settled into a routine.  By the third week classes somehow miraculously seemed less foreign to me.  I had a core group of friends I had met at a pizza dinner that first night in the dorms.  I had learned the hard way which foods to avoid in the dining commons.  Even better, I had found an ICEE vending machine there.  My favorite time, though, was every Friday night at about 7:45, when Matt would call. 

Every week we talked for about two hours.  We gave each other the highs and lows of the week.  I listened about his new rugby league he was a part of and he listened as I cried about the roommate from hell.  I am sure he wondered why I was making a big deal out of things, but he never said so.  He just listened.  “Aw, Meg,” he said in his lazy way.  “That sucks.”  He then always tried to give me some advice about the best way to deal with her.  He did not quite understand that I was not looking for answers; I was just venting. 

The first rain of the quarter happened in November.  As I tugged on my pink galoshes I felt a pang of homesickness that I had not felt for weeks.  I pulled out my phone and texted Matt.  Its raining.  I sat through my class in misery, both for the homesickness and for my cement-like jeans.  When I finally checked my phone I started to smile.  Red blue or coke?  I texted him back.  Red of course. you? I walked to the DC and swiped my card as I headed over to the ICEE stand.  Blue today.  The homesickness vanished with the continuance of the ritual.

When the first quarter wound down to finals week we made plans about going home.  As we both had our cars there was no point in his picking me up on the way, but we did settle a meeting time at our spot in the middle of the street.  The reunion was a joyful one, but almost pointless.  With our weekly phone calls, texting, and Facebook messaging I had not felt far from him. 

The next quarter passed in much the same way as the first.  This time, however, we spent more time talking about rugby, classes, and friends than about my lame roommate.  During finals week we again made plans to meet in the middle of our street.

We passed the time this way through the last quarter and spent our summer being lazy.  We went back and forth between our houses, which physically looked the same, although faded.  I had hoped that the fading would improve the look of my house.  It did not.  I still cringed every time I saw it. 

Moving back to school was easier sophomore year.  We fell into the same routine, although this time I had no roommate from hell.  He was a starter on his rugby team, and told me one day that he was quickly moving up in the hierarchy of the team.  “I believe it,” I said.  We met at the same time and place for winter break.  We bought our ICEEs in the rain.  My mom says it was that winter break when it happened.  She’s wrong.  It was spring break when my life changed forever.

 Finals week of winter quarter was the same as it had been the year before.  Matt and I confirmed our meeting and he told me about his final rugby game of the regular season.  “Meg,” he said, excitement coursing through his voice.  “If we win today, we go to the quarters.”

“That’s awesome, Matt.  Have you played them before?”

“Yeah,” his satisfied voice made me smile. 

“I take it that it was an easy win?”

“We slaughtered them.” 

“Well then, it looks like you’re going to the quarters.” 

We hung up and went back to searching through my nutrition textbook for the exact definition of a carbohydrate.  If I had known that things would have changed so much I wouldn’t have hung up.  That thought stuck with me for years. 

I drove home in the rain the next day, excited that it was an ICEE day.  I parked my pathetic looking red Ford Ranger in front of my yellow house and sighed at the color contrast.  “This is disgusting,” I muttered to myself.  “Why my parents picked that color, I will never know.”  I ran inside and yelled for my mom.  “Mom!  Mama!  I’m home!”  I stopped short when I saw her.

She was sitting in the dark in one of our high-backed dining room chairs in her faded apron.  I could smell some chicken burning in the oven.  She had her elbows on the table and her face was buried in her hands.  I heard her take a shaky breath.  “Mom?” I asked quietly as I turned on the light.  “Is everything okay?”  I felt my stomach drop to my toes when she looked up at me.  “Mama? What’s going on?”

“Hey, Baby Doll,” she said, offering a shaky smile.  It never reached her tearful blue eyes.  My eyebrows drew together as I tried to think of what could have made my mom cry like this. 

“Mom,” I said, this time more forcefully.  “What is going on?  Why are you so upset?  Is everyone alright?”  My questions tumbled out as I began to realize that something was seriously wrong. 

“Meg-” her voice caught and she cleared her throat.  “Meg, have a seat.”  I pulled the chair closest to me out from its place tucked under the table and dropped down into it.  “Sweetie, I just had a call…” she avoided my gaze as she trailed off.  I sat silently, waiting for the news.  “Honey,” she tried again, still avoiding my eyes.  “Matt’s mom just called me.  There’s been an accident.”

I felt a weight settle on my chest and I struggled to take a deep breath.  “He’s alright, though,” I said.  “Right?  I mean, people get into accidents all the time.  It was the rain wasn’t it?  He was driving too fast on his way home and lost control on the slick roads.  He always drives too fast.  I keep telling him to slow down, but he never listens.”  My voice climbed higher and faster until I was practically squeaking.  My mom just shook her head. 

“No, Meg.  It wasn’t the rain.  It didn’t even happen today.”  I opened my mouth to ask more questions but she held her hand up.  “Yesterday, at his game, Matt took a bad hit.  His mom said that he got up fine, shook his head, and then started to run off the field to sit out for a while.  They all thought it was a concussion.”

“It wasn’t?”

“Meg, please let me finish.”  I looked at my clammy hands, which were clasped tightly in my lap, and nodded.  “And no, it wasn’t.  He never made it off the field.  He was almost there and he just collapsed, unconscious.” My heart began to pound so loudly that I thought my mom was sure to hear it.  I began shaking my head as I tried to grasp what she was saying. 

“Mom.  What happened?”  I made my voice as clear as possible.

“I’m trying to tell you, Sweetie.  The hit caused a subdural hematoma.”  I stared at her blankly, not understanding.  “It’s a bad head injury, Hon.”

“But he’s going to be okay.  He’s at the hospital and he’s going to be fine.”

“No, Honey.”  I began to feel nauseous as I watched my mom shake her head.  “He never made it to the hospital.  No one knew what was going on.  There was no trainer, no ambulance, there at the game.  It took them too long to figure out that it was more serious than a bad concussion.”  Her voice broke again.  “I’m so sorry, Meghan,” she said as tears began making their way down her cheeks.  “I am so sorry.” 

I could see that her lips were moving, but I could no longer hear the words she was saying.  The blood coursing through my body was too loud.  I felt each pulse in my eardrums and felt my heart slow down.  My mother’s face grew fuzzy and indistinct and I could feel myself pulling away from consciousness.  Maybe, just maybe I could faint.  Then I wouldn’t have to listen to what she was saying.  I wouldn’t have to face the truth.  My best friend was gone. 

I had never fainted before in my life, and no matter how much I wanted to at that moment, I couldn’t.  My mouth opened and closed but no sound came out.  I wanted to say something, anything to make her stop looking at me with the pity in her eyes.  I opened my mouth again.  “No,” I whispered.  “No.”  My mom choked back a sob and stood to put her hand on my shoulder. 

I couldn’t take the touch.  I bolted out of my chair, shook my head and held my hand up to keep her away.  “I think-” my voice caught on the rock that had lodged in my throat.  I tried again.  “I think I am going to go to my room,” I whispered as I turned to make my way out of the kitchen and down the hall.  When I closed my bedroom door behind me I leaned back against it for a moment.  I closed my eyes, waiting for tears.  They didn’t come.  I walked slowly over to my bed and curled up in it, still waiting for the tears.  I listened to the rain and thought about how today should have been an ICEE day.  Still no tears. 

I somehow made it through that night, although I don’t really know how.  I don’t think I slept at all.  There was an awful ache in my chest, and the rock seemed permanently lodged in my throat no matter how many times I swallowed.  And my eyes were the worst of it.  My eyes stayed dry.  Every once in a while I could hear my mom’s feet shuffle to a stop outside my door but she thankfully never came in.  I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing her eyes again.  The pity that she held for me was worse than any feeling I had for myself.

The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and I pulled the blanket over my head to shut it out.  I kept hoping that maybe this was all some big misunderstanding, that Matt was going to come pound on my window and demand to know why I hadn’t been at our meeting spot the day before.  My mom knocked softly on my door.  “Meg?” she called quietly.  I ignored her.  I spent the rest of the day in bed, neither eating nor sleeping. 

The next day I felt hunger knowing at my stomach and got out of bed resentfully.  How could the world keep turning without Matt in it?  When I appeared in the living room my mom tried to smile.  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” she said, lamely.  I stared at her silently, knowing that she knew I had not slept.  “Matt’s funeral is tomorrow,” she stated.  I just nodded and went into the kitchen to pour myself a bowl of cereal. 

His funeral went much the same as the rest of my time at home had.  I still could not cry.  I felt guilty, watching his mom and grandmother sobbing.  Everyone else at the funeral was crying, or sniffling, but I couldn’t.  I wanted to so badly that I tried pinching my hand to see if the pain would make me cry.  Nothing.  I left as soon as the preacher finished talking so that I could avoid the questions and stares.  I was his best friend.  I should have been able to cry. 

Somehow those first few days passed into a week, and the first week passed into a month until summer finally came.  I had taken spring quarter off from school, but by the time summer rolled around I felt like I could handle it again.  Life began to get back on track.  I registered for summer classes and went downtown in search of a summer job.  I actually began to smile and then laugh at the funny things Matt and I used to point out to each other.  I was enjoying life again.

I’ve heard it said that for those who lose a close friend or family member, sunny days are the worst.  I’ve been told that the sun is harsh and mocking for those who are missing someone.  After the first few weeks I didn’t find that to be true.  The sunny days were the best for me.  I could go out and enjoy the sunshine with my friends.  I was able to love the sun – as I always had – and laugh on sunny days.  It was the rainy days that mocked me.  The rain pouring down outside my window and on my roof seemed to be whispering, “You used to love these days.  These days were made for you and Matt.  You used to think these days were special.”  I felt old on rainy days; I was hardly able to get out of bed and my whole body ached.  I hurried to class or work as quickly as I could, and then hurried back even faster.  I spent all my time indoors in the rain, instead of dancing in it like I used to. 

Years passed this way.  I began blocking Matt out of my thoughts so I could avoid the constant ache that I felt.  People began to think that I was okay.  They were no longer afraid to bring his name up in conversation.  I was invited out to parties or movies because people wanted to hang out with me, not because they felt sorry for me.  I began my career, smiling and laughing.  Even I began to believe that I was better. 

And then, one Saturday afternoon I woke up to the sound of a steady downpour.  I don’t know what was so different about that day.  Six years had gone by, and I had not thought of Matt more than a few times after that first year.  For some reason, though, when I woke up I felt that familiar ache in my chest.  I lifted my hand to rub my heart, but it made no difference.  The rocked was back and felt bigger this time than it had before.  I began to feel difficulty breathing.  Panic set in as I failed to draw in a full breath. 

“Okay!” I yelled to the empty room.  “Fine.  I’ll go.”  Immediately I was able to breathe.  I got out of bed and walked over to my dresser, blindly pulling out jeans and a sweatshirt.  I hurried out to my care and drove to the nearest 7-11.  I knew it well, only because I looked away every time I passed it, as if that would make it go away. 

When I walked in I smiled weakly at the clerk, disappointed for some reason that he was not Paul.  I walked to the back corner where the ICEE machine was kept and pulled out two small cups.  I filled one with the red slushee and set it aside.  “What today?” I murmured to myself.  I picked up the second cup and held it for a second or two.  “Blue,” I decided, and I filled the second cup to the rim. 

I walked over to the counter and paid my money, ignoring the quizzical look the clerk gave me.  I realized how silly I must have looked with two ICEEs on a day that was much like the day Matt and I began our ICEE ritual.  “Have a good day,” the clerk said with a lopsided smile.  I stared for a couple seconds before I caught myself and tried to smile back.  I had not seen a lopsided smile since Matt.  “Thanks,” I murmured, too quiet for him to hear, I’m sure. 

Once in my car I put the ICEEs in the cup holders and made my way to the other end of town.  I tried to listen to music, but for some reason I couldn’t stand it.  I jammed my finger into the power button and turned off the noise.  I drove in silence for the rest of the way.  When I saw a sign that said, “Santa Barbara County Cemetery” I pulled into the parking lot.  I sat in my car with the window wipers running, silently debating on whether or not I would get out of the car.  I set my resolve and turned the key in the ignition.  I took a deep breath and opened the car door, taking the ICEEs with me. 

I made my way along the route that had been burned into my mind, although I had only followed it once before.  Stones – light and dark, straight and lopsided, crumbling and pristine – dotted the manicured green lawn.  Small bouquets of flowers, adorned some stones, pictures decorated others.  Most of the stones, however, were empty of gifts, a sign that people had tried to move on with their lives, like I had.  “It won’t work,” I said to the silence.  “It doesn’t work.” 

Finally I found myself at the place I had avoided for so long.  I looked down at the wet, white stone and read the inscription.

Matthew James Michelson

December 8, 1980 – April 2, 2000

Resting now with the Lord.

I tried to imagine what people who had never met Matt would think about him.  It was impossible to think that his life was summed up in a short dash in between two dates. 

I slowly bent and put the blue ICEE down next to the stone.  I stared at my ICEE for a minute, thinking that it was strange to be holding one again after six long years.  I put the red straw in my mouth and shivered when the cold drink hit my tongue.  After the first shock, I settled into the ease of drinking the slushee. 

I ignored the rain that had long soaked through my clothes and was now sending a chill over my skin.  I thought instead about Matt.  For the first time in six years I was able to think about him without the pain that usually accompanied the thoughts.  I thought about our walks to school, the forts we built, the school projects he always talked me into doing.  I thought about our phone conversations in college, and about how much he helped me through those first two years of school.  And then suddenly I realized something.  For the first time in six years I was crying. 

I noticed the contrast of the cool, icy drink sliding down my throat and the one warm, wet tear sliding down my cheek.  The tear hit my lip, and I licked it off, tasting the salt that mixed with the sweet.  That one tear opened the floodgates and I sat down as I began to sob. 

I don’t know how long I stayed there, drinking my ICEE and crying.  All I know is that when I finally finished my drink and the tears finally quieted I felt a relief that I had not felt in years.  I uncrossed my legs and stood up, taking my ICEE cup with me.  I gently touched the white stone that held Matt’s name.  “Next time I won’t stay away so long,” I promised, and I turned to make my way back to my car.