You Are Not Here (2 page)

The air in here is stale.

I need to get out.

Marissa will be here in an hour,

but I can’t wait that long.

On my way out of the house,

I pass my mother’s bedroom.

Her door is open.

Her bed is perfectly made,

unslept in.

Outside, the late June air

is heavy and hot,

but it’s better than in my room.

I’m not sure where I’m going,

but when my flip-flops hit the sidewalk,

I know.

I walk down the street

and take a right turn.

I go two more blocks

and find myself at the cemetery.

It doesn’t take long before I hear it—

the sound of dirt and rock

sliding against metal shovels.

There are men digging Brian’s grave.

They are digging a hole

in the cool earth, on a hot day

for the boy who has occupied

my thoughts and my heart

for the last three months,

for the boy I lost

my virginity to,

for the boy I think I loved.

I’ve heard these guys dig before.

I’ve heard these guys talking,

but today I want to scream

them into silence.

I want to tell them

to have some respect

and not talk

about everyday things,

like how hot it is

or how much more

they have to dig.

This

is not

every day.

I was watching a special about the pyramids

when my cell phone vibrated angrily

against my dresser.

I looked at the phone and was surprised

to see Marissa’s name.

I flipped open my phone

and cautiously said,

“Hey…what’s up?”

“I have to tell you something.

It’s about Brian,” Marissa answered.

There was something

about how she said it

that made me think

she was finally going to apologize

and say she had been wrong about him.

But instead she said,

“Something happened today

while Brian was playing basketball.”

An injury, I figured;

he had a broken leg or something.

But what was with all the drama?

And why was she

calling to tell me?

We hadn’t talked in weeks.

Marissa said, “No one knows

exactly what happened yet.

But he died, Annaleah.

I am so sorry.

I hate that I am the one

telling you this.

Especially after…”

I stopped listening.

My whole body was shuddering.

Uncontrollable.

“What?” I said.

It was the only thing

I could say.

“My dad was walking the dog

by the playground

and saw an ambulance.

He asked who was hurt

and they told him it was a teenager

named Brian Dennis,

and that he had suddenly died.

My dad came home and asked me

if I knew who Brian was.”

“What?” I said again.

“He collapsed on the court.

The paramedics said

he died on the spot.

There was nothing

they could do.”

Not possible, I thought.

Brian was healthy.

Seventeen.

Just finished his junior year.

How could he be playing

basketball one minute

and then be dead the next?

How could there be no in-between?

No treatment.

No drugs.

No surgery.

No hope.

No nothing.

Not possible.

“Annaleah, are you still there?”

“Uh-huh.”

I couldn’t even make real words.

I thought, I need to call someone.

I need more information.

But who could I call?

Brian and I didn’t have

the same friends.

I could call Joy or Parker,

to tell them what happened,

but they didn’t know Brian

other than from my stories.

I could call my mom, but I never

told her Brian and I

were together.

I could call Brian’s house

to see if his parents knew more,

but I bet the last thing they’d want

is to talk to a girl

they’d probably never heard of.

“Annaleah?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna go.”

“Do you want me to come over?”

“No. I’ll talk to you later.”

I hung up the phone

and looked around my room.

There were pages from magazines

and posters on the wall,

photos of friends,

piles of dirty clothes,

and all of it seemed absurd.

It was absurd

that I had dirty laundry

and that Brian

was dead.

That’s what the
Ledger
said

was the cause of death.

The wall between the chambers

of Brian’s heart became thickened

and blocked the flow of blood.

The article said there was no way

to prevent it,

that there would have been

no symptoms,

and that it would have happened

lightning-fast

and without any pain.

They saw IHSS clearly in the autopsy.

There was no doubt about it.

All the rumors that Brian had overdosed

or that there was an outbreak of meningitis

were ruled out.

The thought of Brian on an autopsy table,

cold and alone,

except for a doctor,

makes me want to throw up.

The thought of someone

looking inside of Brian,

holding his heart,

is surreal.

How can a person be

filled with life

and then be empty?

Where does it all go?

how many people

are walking around

with something silent

and terribly wrong inside them.

Our bodies are so complex.

So many opportunities

for something to go wrong—

it’s amazing that people

aren’t dropping dead

on the streets all day long.

I wonder if Brian knew

what was happening.

Was he scared?

Was he in pain?

Did he see his life

flash before his eyes

like in the movies?

I wish I had been there

to hold his hand,

brush the dark hair

away from his cloudy blue eyes,

whisper to him over and over

that he was loved.

But I doubt my face

was the very last one

he’d wanted to see.

on the first really warm day in March.

The kind of day where you feel

as if your bones are thawing out,

and all you want to do

is be outside.

So I went for a walk

and found a sunny spot by the bay,

where I sat and stared at the water.

I don’t know how long I was there,

but it was a while.

When I finally got up,

I heard someone say,

“But I’m not done yet.”

I quickly turned around.

Not twenty feet behind me

was a guy about my age.

He was holding a sketchbook

and smiling.

He was cute,

really cute,

with dark brown hair

and blue eyes.

I couldn’t believe

that I hadn’t heard him

come up behind me.

I couldn’t believe

that he had been drawing me

the whole time.

I suddenly became self-conscious.

Had I done anything embarrassing

while I was sitting there,

like pick my nose

or fix a wedgie?

I walked toward him

and looked down at his sketchbook.

There I was,

sitting in profile on the hill.

It mostly looked like me.

The only thing that was different

was that he had put

an imaginary gust of wind in my hair

so that it floated behind me.

“I’m Brian,” he said.

“Annaleah,” I replied.

He asked which way I was walking,

and I pointed in the direction of home.

“I’m going that way too,” he said.

As we walked, we talked.

We were both juniors.

He went to the nearby high school

and I told him that my school

was a few towns over.

We tried to see

if we knew people in common,

but it didn’t work.

Most of my friends

were from school and didn’t live nearby.

Most of his friends

were from the neighborhood.

Before we split to go different directions,

he asked for my phone number.

I couldn’t believe

how easy this was.

Guys in my school acted

like I didn’t exist.

And random guys this cute

never asked for my number.

So I gave it to him.

But he never called.

The next time I saw him

was kind of like the first.

We ran into each other

two weeks later by the bay.

It was only sort of by accident.

After we met,

I started taking walks by the water,

hoping to run into him.

When we talked this time,

it was as easy

as it had been before.

We discovered

that as kids we’d both been obsessed

with Arlene’s, the local candy store,

that had since turned into a travel agency.

I told him, “During the summers when I was little,

I hung out at the pool with my friend Marissa.

We were always wandering around barefoot,

and sometimes, without even realizing,

we’d start walking and end up

at Arlene’s, more than half a mile away.

That place was magnetic.”

“I know. That candy was like crack.

They had everything: Sugar Daddies and Babies,

Charleston Chews, Laffy Taffy, Swedish Fish—”

“And candy lipsticks and cigarettes,

Now ’n’ Laters, Nerds, Fireballs, jawbreakers—”

“The Lemonheads were the best,” he said.

“I was more of a Candy Button girl.”

“Gross. You ate paper,”

he said, giving me a little shove.

I tried to imagine an eight-year-old Brian.

He’d have been scrappy.

Rail thin with scabbed knees.

“Maybe we fought

over the last Laffy Taffy,” I said.

“Maybe…”

This time when we parted,

he promised to call

and he did.

wasn’t much of a date.

Not that Brian ever actually

used the word “date.”

When he finally called,

he asked me to “hang out.”

That afternoon, our conversation

was like an epic road trip—

but with no map to guide us

and all the time in the world

to get where we were going.

We meandered, lost our way,

doubled back.

It was nice not having

any friends in common.

I felt like I could be me

without all the crap

that came with me.

I could just show Brian

the parts of me that I wanted.

So I didn’t mention my dad,

or that my longest relationship

had been for three weeks

in camp to a boy who kissed

like he was searching my mouth

for something he’d lost,

or that even though senior year was looming,

I had only skimmed the college catalogs

my mom had been stacking on my desk.

Instead I said,

“I’m reading
The Bell Jar
by Sylvia Plath.

But it’s going really slowly.”

“Why?” he asked. “Too boring?”

“No. The opposite.

It’s so amazing that I have to stop

every few pages to read passages twice.”

The topic of crazy people reminded Brian

of the hysterical laughing fits

he has while watching
Family Guy
.

“I can watch that show for hours

without even taking a bathroom break.”

“I’m that way about documentaries—

especially ones about ancient Egypt or the ocean.”

That led us to talking about vacations.

“A few years ago, my mom and I

went to Mexico, and while I was snorkeling,

I got the worst sunburn of my life.

A few days later, my back started peeling.

I looked like a molting reptile or something.”

“That’s freaking disgusting.

But get this: I was at a concert last month

and this huge, tattooed guy

had an iguana on his shoulder.

I almost barfed up my beer.”

“Do you go to concerts a lot?”

The only concert I had ever been to

was the
American Idol
tour a few years ago.

And that was with Marissa and both our moms.

Not something I wanted to brag about.

“Yeah. I try to.

Nothing’s better than leaning against a speaker

and feeling the bass vibrate

through my body.”

Which eventually led him to

“This one night, my friend Peter and I were

at a show in the city and missed the last train home.

So we wandered around the Lower East Side,

bought bread still hot from a bakery oven,

and watched the sun rise up over the East River.

I think it was one of the best nights of my life.”

That afternoon felt like

one of the best days

of my life.

Brian and I went on like that for weeks.

We’d go for walks or hang out

at whoever’s house had no parents.

We’d listen to music,

rarely do homework,

and mostly hook up.

He never drew me again

after that first day at the bay,

and I always wished

he had.