You Are Not Here (4 page)

I can’t decide if I feel

like my body is hollow,

light like a balloon,

or if I feel like my bones

are filled with cement.

I can’t decide if I am going

to drift up off the pew, into the air,

and bump into the ceiling,

or if my weight will send me crashing

through the pew, then floor, then earth

and I won’t stop falling

until I am deep underground

like Brian is about to be.

and look over at the casket again.

The box is smaller

than I thought it would be.

I want to lie down next to it

to measure.

I look at the podium

and see people speaking.

I see kids my age,

some adults, and a woman

I assume is Brian’s mother.

I see their mouths move,

but there is no sound.

It is a silent movie.

that I sort of met Brian’s dad

didn’t go how I’d hoped it would.

“Shit,” Brian said

as he looked out his bedroom window.

This was several weeks ago.

“He wasn’t supposed to be home

for another hour.

You need to go.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

He handed me my bag.

I had never met either of Brian’s parents.

He usually ushered me out

before they got home.

I didn’t understand why.

Brian was always talking about

staying out all night.

Surely if his parents could handle that,

they wouldn’t mind

him having a girl in his room.

But maybe they weren’t the problem.

Maybe he was ashamed of me.

I took my bag from Brian,

put on my sneakers,

and followed him down the stairs.

I thought

maybe this made us even.

Brian had never met my mom either.

As we walked past the living room

and to the front door,

I caught a glimpse

of Brian’s dad on the couch.

His necktie was loosened,

he had a beer in one hand,

and the TV remote in the other.

He didn’t even look up

as we walked by.

There was a moment

of awkward silence

as I stood on the stoop with Brian.

I filled it with

“So, that’s the man

who made you?”

“He

didn’t

make

me.”

I bit my lip.

I had never heard Brian

speak in that tone before.

He said good-bye,

then shut the door.

Maybe it wasn’t me

he was ashamed of.

Marissa is lightly pulling me

up and toward the door.

People are filing out,

hugging, touching.

I hardly recognize anyone.

I wish there were more people

who knew me here.

That way they could hold me too,

stroke my hair

and tell me they know

how much it hurts.

But there isn’t anyone

besides Marissa.

the summer sun is blinding.

The insides of the church

were white and cool.

Now everything is painfully bright.

The blue sky, green grass,

and yellow sun are like jewels.

But then I see

all those flat gray stones.

We all parade to the spot

that’s been dug for Brian.

The ground is uneven

and it’s hard to stand.

But maybe that’s just me.

We are each given a single white rose

and then the priest starts up again.

But I’m not listening.

I’m staring at the rose, thinking,

How long before

this flower starts to wilt?

How long before Brian starts to…

I look away.

I shouldn’t think

these things.

Brian’s mom is wailing.

She can barely support

her own weight.

It’s like she has no bones.

Brian’s dad is at her side,

trying to support her.

That’s when I notice

that he and Brian

have the same cloudy blue eyes.

There are loads of kids here.

Most are huddled together,

holding hands,

sniffling, crying.

I always wanted

to hang out with Brian’s friends,

to have him introduce me

as his girlfriend.

But neither of those things ever happened.

And now there’s no one

to introduce me.

No one

to confirm the way that I knew Brian.

It’s like I,

we,

didn’t exist.

reciting prayers, he says,

“And now, Brian’s best friend, Peter,

would like to say a few additional words.”

Peter steps forward.

He is holding a piece of paper.

I look to see if his hand shakes.

It doesn’t.

“This is a poem by Henry Scott Holland.

‘Death is nothing at all.

I have only slipped away into the next room.

I am I and you are you.

Whatever we were to each other,

That we are still.

Call me by my old familiar name.

Speak to me in the easy way you always used.

Put no difference into your tone.

Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed

at the little jokes we enjoyed together.

Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me.

Let my name be ever the household word

that it always was.

Let it be spoken without effort.

Without the ghost of a shadow on it.

Life means all that it ever meant.

It is the same as it ever was.

There is absolute unbroken continuity.

What is death but a negligible accident?

Why should I be out of mind

because I am out of sight?

I am but waiting for you for an interval

Somewhere very near

Just around the corner.

All is well.’”

That is it.

That is where he stops.

After everyone tosses their rose

into Brian’s grave

we begin to walk away.

Marissa gives my arm a little squeeze

and asks, “Do you want to go

to the after-thing?

It’s at Brian’s house.”

Brian is one.

I am another.

But Brian is all over this house.

There are photos.

There are memories of him

that are collectively shared

by friends and family.

I am a different kind of ghost.

There are no traces of me here

except for my fingerprints.

Brian was the only other person

who shared my memories here.

And now that he’s gone,

I am their sole keeper.

and an older woman sits down next to me.

She’s got the same cloudy blue eyes

as Brian and his dad.

She turns to me and extends her hand.

“I’m Freda, Brian’s grandmother.”

“Annaleah,” I say as I take her hand.

Her skin is transparent

like tracing paper, but soft and warm.

Mountainous veins ridge her hand.

“You all are too young for this,”

she says, then sips her water.

“When I lost Joey, my husband,

there was warning.

He was sick. Old.

But Brian.

So sudden. So sudden.”

She sips again.

“Did you and Brian go to school together?”

“No. I—We—”

I can’t even begin to explain,

but her eyes seem to understand.

Could Brian have told her about me?

She slides her hand over mine.

Strokes it.

It feels so different

from Marissa’s.

Marissa’s hand is firm.

This hand is light.

It slides over mine like silk.

All I can see is his back.

He’s got a cigarette in one hand,

a beer in the other,

and a lot of empties at his feet.

Brian’s dad didn’t speak at the funeral,

and I haven’t seen or heard him talking

to anyone this afternoon.

And since I always called Brian on his cell,

I’ve never even heard his dad’s voice.

Maybe he doesn’t have one.

I want to sit on Brian’s bed and pretend

that it’s four o’clock after school.

Brian’s windows are open

and the late spring breeze

makes the curtains expand

and contract.

His mom is working late

and his dad won’t be home

for a few hours.

We are both sitting on his bed,

but on opposite ends.

We are listening to music.

Brian is drawing in his sketchbook.

I am writing in my English journal,

but I don’t let him look

since it’s about him.

He comes closer to my end of the bed,

tries to see what I’m writing.

I swat him away,

close the covers,

and slip the book back in my bag.

He smiles and leans in toward me.

A chunk of hair falls over his left eye.

His lips touch mine.

His hands are on my face,

then my neck,

my shoulders,

my chest.

Buttons are undone.

I am undone.

for the right time

for a long time.

I had been waiting

for romance,

for candles,

for rose petals.

But when the time came,

I hadn’t even shaved my legs,

and I wasn’t wearing fancy underwear.

It just happened.

After weeks of saying no,

I said yes.

I thought that afterward

I would cry

or do something dramatic.

I thought

I would feel different,

but I didn’t.

It was everything around me

that felt different.

As I walked home

from Brian’s that afternoon,

I suddenly felt connected

to the birds, to the trees,

to the people around me.

I felt a part of everything.

Marissa and I have only spoken twice

in the last few weeks.

The first conversation,

the one that deepened

the already growing rift,

went like this:

“You did what?” she asked.

“We did it,” I said.

“Is he even your boyfriend?”

“Not exactly.”

“Did he say ‘I love you?’”

“No.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“How do you feel?”

“Okay.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Not really.”

“Well, at least that’s something.”

“Why are you being like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like a bitch.

Can’t you just be happy for me?”

“All you do is complain

about Brian.

And now you have sex with him?

Good plan, Annaleah.

I don’t want to hear about it

when you start freaking out.

Because if you do,

it’ll be your own fault.”

“I can’t believe you.

You don’t even know him.

You’re probably just jealous

that I had sex and you didn’t.”

“Hardly, Annaleah.

Hardly.”

“Thanks for the support, Maris.”

all the details

of the last time Brian and I had sex.

I didn’t know

it would be the last time.

If I had,

I would have traced Brian’s face,

run my fingers over his eyelids,

nose, and mouth.

I would have connected

his freckles and beauty marks,

memorized them

like a star chart.

I would have ruffled his soft, dark hair,

run my hands over his chest and arms.

I would have held him

tightly—

measured the space

he took up in my arms.

I would have

nestled into his neck,

smelled him,

taken all of him in—

enough to make it last

my whole life.

stop thinking

that Brian and I

never

danced.

I don’t know why

it sticks out so much,

but it does.