You Are Not Here (6 page)

that today is a typical summer morning.

The sky is cloudless.

Kids are riding their bikes.

People are gardening.

But today is not an ordinary day.

It is the day after Brian’s funeral.

The sky should be black.

Lightning should knife

through the air.

There should be blasts of thunder.

Rain should fall in bullets

and shatter windshields.

I’m wondering

how you’re feeling

and what you’re up to today.

I know things have been weird between us,

but I’m here for you.

Talk to you soon.”

I hit the
DELETE
button

and do not call her back.

to go for a walk around the bay.

I used to do this a lot.

Sometimes it was just to get air,

but mostly it was to find Brian.

Usually, this tactic didn’t work

and I would come home disappointed,

but there were a few times

that I did find him.

Those times, I always thought,

Why didn’t you call me?

I live a few blocks away.

I could have hung out with you.

Why would you rather be alone

than be with me?

Now as I walk through the neighborhood,

I see Brian on the hill by the bay,

hunched over a notebook, drawing.

I see him on the basketball court—

the very place he died—

taking shots.

It was only about a month ago

that I found Brian right here.

He spots me,

lifts up his shirt

and wipes the sweat from his face,

revealing his smooth stomach

and the trail of dark hair

that disappears into his shorts.

I try not to stare.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Nothing. Just needed

to get out of the house.”

But that’s not really true.

“Yeah. My house

was feeling kinda tight too.

My dad’s home.”

I know better than to say anything.

I wait, giving Brian room to continue.

“Wanna play?” he asks.

“I’m not any good.

And besides,

I’m wearing flip-flops.”

“It’s okay.

Just take them off.”

I walk over to the edge of the court

and put my flip-flops on the grass.

I carefully walk back across the warm concrete,

being sure to look for broken glass.

“Can you dribble?” he asks

as he passes me the ball.

Thank God I catch it.

I would have felt like such an ass.

I dribble a few times.

“Okay, not bad,” he says.

“Can you shoot?”

I take a shot.

It’s not great,

but at least it comes close

and hits the backboard.

Brian runs after the ball

and passes it back to me.

“Try again. But this time

follow through with your wrist.”

“Okay, coach.”

When I try again,

I make the shot.

“Nice,” he says

as he catches the ball.

I take a few more shots.

Each time, Brian gives me tips

and encouragement.

I make enough of the shots

to be pretty pleased with myself.

“I think it’s time

for some one-on-one.”

“Seriously?”

Brian plays basketball

nearly every day.

“I don’t know.

That couldn’t be much fun for you.”

“It’s okay.

I’ll take my chances.”

Brian passes me the ball

and I start dribbling,

making my way toward the basket.

Brian comes at me

and reaches for the ball.

It’s obvious he isn’t trying his hardest.

When I turn my back to him,

he leans over me—

almost like we’re spooning

while shuffling back and forth.

My back is pressed against him.

I can feel how warm he is.

I can feel the sweat on his arms.

But Brian seems to get bored

with not trying

because he finally reaches around

and steals the ball.

In one smooth move,

he pivots, shoots the ball,

and makes the basket.

“Show-off,”

I say with a smile.

When the memory fades,

so does my smile.

I am alone

on this court.

is like the first.

On my stomach.

On my side.

On my back.

Curled up in a ball.

Diagonally.

My feet at the head of the bed.

Blanket on.

Blanket off.

TV on.

TV off.

Music on.

Music off.

I cannot sleep.

I cannot stop

this waking nightmare.

I want to dream.

I want to dream of Brian.

I put my pillow over my face,

take a deep breath,

and try to smell Brian.

I imagine him in my room,

talking,

walking,

smiling,

laughing,

lying next to me,

kissing me,

touching me.

I watch as the shadows

move quietly across my walls,

just like he used to move

across my room.

I look at them, searching

for his shape.

Will he come to me?

Will I hear his voice

one more time?

I squeeze my eyes shut.

I imagine his face, his body.

I am trying to will him

into appearing,

but he doesn’t.

All those talk-show psychics

make it seem like this should be easier.

People all over the place

are connecting with the dead.

Why can’t I?

Maybe Brian

doesn’t want to visit me.

Maybe I

am not important enough.

Or maybe, right now,

Brian is hovering over

his parents or close friends,

giving them comfort.

Maybe he’s so busy with them

that he’s forgotten about me.

Or maybe it’s just not my turn

yet.

that Marissa and I were in a taxi

driving on an overpass.

The driver took a turn way too fast

and lost control of the car.

We jumped the guardrail

and soared through the air,

hundreds of feet above the ground.

I knew we were going to die.

I thought about calling my mom

to tell her I loved her,

but there was no time.

Then the taxi became a convertible,

and Marissa fell out of the car.

I caught her sleeve for a second,

but I couldn’t hold her.

I watched her fall

and fall, then hit

the street below.

It was all happening in slow motion.

I knew

I was about to die,

and I couldn’t do anything

but watch the pavement

get closer

and closer.

but Parker and Joy convince me

to leave the house

and watch the Fourth of July fireworks

down by the bay.

Parker and Joy

are like an old married couple.

They finish each other’s sentences

and bicker all the time.

Except one big difference

is that Parker is gay,

and Joy falls in love

with every guy she meets.

When we all meet up,

Joy looks adorable.

She’s wearing a vintage dress

and her red hair is twisted into two little buns.

Parker’s wearing longish jean shorts

and, as usual, he’s got on a funny T-shirt.

This one says
BLAH, BLAH, BLAH
.

I look down at my own outfit.

There’s nothing cute

about my dirty jeans and plain white tank.

It’s pretty much a miracle

that I’m out of my house

and not in my pj’s.

We pick a spot on the seawall

that can’t be seen from the road,

and dangle our legs over the edge,

waiting for the show to start.

Joy tells us about the new guy

she’s been talking to.

Parker tells us about the trip

he’s going to take with his family

to the Grand Canyon.

Their lives are moving forward.

Mine is stagnant.

The first fireworks blast knocks

these thoughts from my head.

For a moment, the black sky is lit up

with a shower of sparks

and we are all temporarily cast in red.

All I can think of is blood.

Brian’s heart bursting.

Tears well up in my eyes

and I’m glad

that Parker and Joy

are looking at the fireworks

and not at me.

When the tears pool over,

I wipe them away,

then take a sip of warm beer.

If Brian were alive,

what would he be doing tonight?

Would he be here

with his arm around my shoulder?

As we watched the fireworks,

would he kiss my neck

and whisper to me

that I smelled good?

Or would he be somewhere else,

watching with his friends,

and getting drunk or stoned?

The second scenario sounds about right.

And the not so funny thing is:

I’d be doing the same thing then

as I am now—

missing him.

of the cells in the heart muscle.

In a sense, Brian’s heart

grew too big.

I wish that I had gotten the chance

to experience how big Brian’s heart

could be.

I wonder what it would have felt like

to have a relationship with Brian

where I wasn’t always questioning

and worrying,

and feeling so alone.

since Brian’s funeral.

Six days of watching TV,

but never the news.

Six days of sleeping all day

and then not sleeping at night.

Six days of not eating.

Six days of avoiding my mom.

Six days of unanswered

emails, and texts, and voicemails.

The exception was Independence Day,

and that passed quickly.

Someone being gone,

but still out there,

or someone being gone forever,

dead.

I think someone being gone,

but still out there, might be worse.

Then there’s always the chance,

the hoping,

the wondering

if things might change.

If maybe one day he’ll come back.

There’s also the wondering about

what his new life is like.

The life without you.

Is he happier?

And if he is,

you’re left being sad,

wondering what it would be like

if you were happy with him.

But when someone is dead,

he’s dead.

He’s not coming back.

There is no second chance.

Death is a period

at the end of a sentence.

Someone gone, but still out there,

is an ellipsis…or a question

to be answered.

I put on a pair of jean shorts,

a T-shirt, and flip-flops.

I walk out of my house,

turn on my music,

and put the songs on shuffle.

I haven’t done this in ages,

but I am ready

for a sign.

There are 318 songs to choose from,

and when I press the
PLAY
button,

it’s like spinning a roulette wheel.

What song will it land on?

What will the message be?

And out of 318 songs,

my message is nothing.

Literally, nothing.

The song that comes up

is instrumental.

That can’t be right.

I hit the
SKIP
button.

The next song is “Little Motel”

by Modest Mouse.

I’ve never paid attention to the lyrics,

but I suppose I should now.

As I walk toward the cemetery,

I press my earphones farther into my ears

and strain to hear the words.

“I hope that the suite

sleeps and suits you well.”

That makes me think how people say

when you’re dead, you’re sleeping.

And I do hope

that Brian is sleeping well.

When the song ends,

I take my headphones off

and walk across the cemetery.

But I don’t go right to Brian.

I need to make a stop first.

I sit down on the stone bench,

right on top of the words:

FATHER, INTO THY HANDS

I COMMEND MY SPIRIT

and face Sylvia and Sidney,

Ruth and Herman,

Adele and Morris.

I’ve been coming to this spot,

talking to them,

for years.

When I was little

I was drawn to their deeply imprinted,

old-fashioned names,

and I would make up stories

about their lives.

Sylvia was a dancer

who performed all over the world.

Sidney was her manager.

One night in Paris,

Sidney confessed his love for her,

and they were married within the month.

Ruth and Herman

were high school sweethearts

who got married at eighteen.

They had five kids of their own,

twice as many grandchildren,

and even more great-grandchildren.

Their house was never quiet,

never empty.

Adele and Morris got married

right before Morris went to war.

He kept her picture in his pocket

and wrote to her every week.

She kept all his letters in a tin

and prayed every night

that he would come back to her.

And he did.

I call them the Dearly Departed,

and have always thought of them

as family.

Instead of telling my mom things,

I would tell them.

I told them when I first got my period,

about crushes on boys,

fights with friends.

I told them anything

I needed to tell.

And they listened,

and never criticized,

and never yelled.

Today, I ask them all for a favor—

something I’ve never done before.

I say, “Could you please

watch over Brian

and make sure he’s okay?

I’m not sure how it all works up there,

but if there’s anything you can do,

I would appreciate it.

He’s really special.”