You Are Not Here (7 page)

but it looks like someone tried

to pat it down smooth.

I’m sure it was the groundskeepers,

but I can’t help imagining

it was Brian’s mother—

as if she were tucking him into bed

for the last time.

I look down at the temporary grave marker

and wonder how long it will take

for the real headstone to come.

Brian deserves more than plastic.

I tell Brian what’s been going on

as if he doesn’t know.

“It’s been a week

since your funeral.

The ser vice was packed

with family and friends.

But maybe you already know that.

I didn’t talk to your parents,

but I met your grandmother.

She seemed pretty cool.”

I pause.

“There are things

I wanted to tell you,

but never did.

So I suppose now

is as good a time as any.

It’s not like you can tell me

that you don’t want to hear it.

A lot of the time you made me crazy.

I was always wondering

where you were,

what you were doing,

why you weren’t calling,

what you were thinking,

if you felt the same way I did.

I wanted to be close to you,

spend more time with you,

for you to share things with me,

but you never did.

But I guess I didn’t

tell you everything either.

I never told you

about the Dearly Departed.

About my father.

Even though I liked

that when we were together

we were in this private little bubble,

I wish we had done things

with your friends or mine.

You only met Marissa twice—

both times just for a minute.

And you never even met Joy and Parker.

Sometimes I wonder if I was your secret,

that you thought something about me

was so embarrassing, so awful

that you couldn’t bear

to introduce me to your friends.”

I pause again and look around.

Brian is next to Lisette Iver.

Her stone says 1903–1997,

that she was a mother,

a grandmother,

and a great-grandmother.

Lisette’s husband, Walter,

is on the other side of her.

This cemetery is filled with pairs

or empty plots waiting to receive

people’s other halves.

There is so much importance

put on being buried next to loved ones,

so what does it mean

that Brian will not

be next to his family,

that he will never

be buried next to his mate,

that Brian is going to spend eternity

sandwiched between Lisette Iver

and Doug Armstrong?

that I have the answers

to the questions

I’ve always asked about Brian:

Where is Brian?

Two blocks away.

What is he doing?

Lying quietly, still.

When is he going to call?

Never.

I think about summer break with my dad.

My dad, Lauren, the twins, and I

go to the beach.

Lauren packs sandwiches and snacks.

My dad packs sunscreen and toys.

As my dad sleeps

and Lauren reads,

Lisa, Sage, and I

build a sand castle.

Over and over,

I dig the plastic shovel

into the wet and gritty sand.

It crunches and scrapes

as it goes in.

When we are done,

there are four towers,

a water-filled moat,

and shells for windows.

Afterward, the twins and I

play in the water.

They run toward the bubbly surf

as a wave rolls in.

But when the water touches their feet,

they run screaming back to their parents,

part in fear

and part in triumph

of what they’ve just done.

When my dad takes the twins for ice cream,

I put on a fresh coat of SPF,

lie on my stomach,

unhook my top,

and close my eyes.

And the sun makes me sleep

sleep

sleep.

“There are so many things

that we will never get to do.

I will never

take a trip with you.

I will never

dance with you at prom.

I will never

know if we had a future

beyond this summer.

I will never

know if you would have said,

‘I love you.’

But there are things

that are much bigger than me.

You will never

graduate high school

or go to college.

You will never

make your friends laugh again.

You will never

go to another concert

and come home with your ears ringing.

You will never

become a successful artist

and sit in Paris or Florence,

sketching people as they go by.

You will never

get married or have kids.

You will never

be hugged again by your parents.

You will never

have your heart broken

and then healed.

There are so many things

you will not get to do.

But what will

you get to do?

Is death the end

or is there more?

Will you watch us from above

and make appearances in our dreams?

Will you rattle the windows

when someone says your name?

Or have you forgotten

us already?”

I walk over to Richardson.

I don’t have a destination.

I just start walking

and don’t stop.

I pass the pharmacy,

the pizza place,

the nail salon,

the realtor.

And everywhere I look,

there are couples and families.

People are holding hands.

Mothers are carrying babies.

Fathers are pushing strollers.

They all look happy.

And I am alone,

just having come back

from visiting my dead boyfriend.

so much tightness,

anger.

I wonder if it’s from holding

in the tears

and the screams

that I so badly want to let out,

but don’t.

I’m calling u in 5 mins.

U better pick up.;)

When my phone rings,

I reluctantly answer.

He says,

“Lee, you haven’t

called me back in days.”

“I know. I haven’t felt

like talking.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Have you seen anyone?”

“No.”

But that’s not true.

I’ve seen Brian.

But I don’t tell Parker that.

He says, “I don’t have to work today.

Why don’t we do something?

You don’t have plans, do you?”

I was going to visit Brian,

but I suppose he’ll be there later.

Even though I am silent,

Parker says, “Great! I’ll call Joy.”

A little while later,

Parker pulls up in front of my house

and honks his car horn.

When I get in, Parker turns back and asks,

“So where should we go?”

When I don’t answer, Joy says,

“There’s a new café on Richardson

with an especially hot barista

I’ve been eyeing.”

“Done,” says Parker.

As we drive out of my neighborhood

and past the cemetery,

I hold my breath.

It’s not hard.

This cemetery’s only a few blocks long.

I’m not sure why I do it

or where I heard the wives’ tale

that if you don’t hold your breath,

you’ll die young

or not go to heaven.

But it’s something I’ve done

since I was little.

I remember doing it

when my mom and I drove to the city.

There are a few big cemeteries on the way—

some more than a half mile long.

I would hold my breath,

pucker my lips, squint my eyes,

and hold it, hold it, hold it

as long as I could.

Sometimes I made it.

Sometimes I didn’t.

There is silence

after we get our coffees.

We all sip and look

at each other over the rims of our cups.

Joy’s red hair

is pinned back in an artful

but messy way.

Parker’s wearing a new T-shirt

that says
THANKS FOR NOTHING
.

Parker goes first, telling me

“We don’t really know what to say.”

Joy continues, “Lee,

you must be going through hell.”

I take another sip of my latte

and try not to look at them.

It feels like they are leading up to something.

Oh, God.

Is this some sort of intervention?

I’ve seen shows about that,

and it’s never pretty.

That’s when Parker reaches into his bag.

“We got this for you.”

He slides a book across the little table.

Surviving Loss: A Teen’s Guide to Healing

Joy says, “Maybe it will help.

Well, not help.

I mean, it’s not going to

make it stop hurting.

But maybe it will make it hurt less.

Shit. I don’t know.”

I pick up the book

and look at the cover.

It’s all blue sky and white clouds

on a beautiful day—

like the day Brian was buried.

“Thanks,” I tell them.

And that’s all I have.

I don’t know

what to say either.

Joy, Parker, and I

had planned to go to an open mic night

with Brian.

It was the first time

they were going to meet him,

and I was as nervous as if Brian

were meeting my mom and dad.

Not that that would ever happen.

I had picked an open mic on purpose.

We could all talk,

but not too much.

The performers would be a buffer.

Around 3:00, I texted Brian:

Parkers getting me at 715.

Will get u after that.

See you later.

But I got no answer.

Maybe Brian didn’t think

he needed to respond.

It’s not like I had asked a question.

But by 4:30 I was worried.

Had he forgotten?

Was his phone dead?

To distract myself

I took a shower and got dressed.

I had picked my outfit days before:

a fitted green T-shirt with birds on it,

with skinny jeans and flats.

I liked wearing flats with Brian.

Then I’d have to stand on my toes

to kiss him.

I took extra time to do my hair,

putting in the mousse, section by section,

then twisting smaller bits

so the curls would be perfect.

I put on a thick coat of black mascara

to make my green eyes stand out

and then brushed on some shimmery lip gloss

that Joy had given me.

At 5:15, I texted Brian again:

Did u get my txt?

At 6:43, he finally wrote back.

Been out all day.

not gonna make it.

need to chill.

I wanted to explode.

I wanted to break something.

If I hadn’t liked my phone so much,

I would have bashed it into pieces.

How was I going to tell Parker and Joy?

They already thought Brian was a flake.

I threw my hair up in a ponytail,

not caring that it would dent the curls

that had taken so long to tame.

It didn’t matter now.

When Parker honked for me,

I grabbed my bag and went outside.

When I got in, they both said, “Hey.”

Then Parker asked,

“Which way to Brian’s house?”

“He’s not coming.”

“What?” They both whipped around

and looked at me like angry parents.

“Why not?” asked Joy,

her eyes wide with disbelief.

“He better be dying,” said Parker.

I didn’t know what to say.

I wanted to lie

and say he was sick,

but I couldn’t.

“He’s just not. Okay?

Let’s get there already.”

But as far as I was concerned,

the night was already over.

the one Parker and Joy gave me,

wants me to visualize death as an ocean.

My first thought is that

death would be a sinking ship

and that I would be terrified

as I was being pulled under the water,

away from my mom and my friends.

Or maybe death would be me,

alone

in a rowboat,

on an endlessly calm sea.

But that doesn’t seem right either—

especially the part about being alone.

Maybe death is a giant cruise ship

that sails the seas and is inhabited

by everyone who has ever died.

We would play ghost bingo

and have ghost dinners

and stand on the deck

and admire the endless view.