You Are Not Here (9 page)

the one with the blue flowers

and straps that tie at the shoulders

to visit Brian today.

I even pack lunch.

Brian and I never went on a picnic

so I figure, why not now?

I spread out a small blanket next to him

and take out an apple.

In between chews I say,

“I was reading this book last night

about death and different cultures.

One part talked about how

Hopis use feathers in burials.

I would have liked

to do what they do—

cover you in soft white feathers,

lay them over your eyes and mouth,

and put them on your hands and feet.

That way you could float away,

get wherever you were going quickly,

smoothly.

Oh! And there’s a place

in central Asia called Turkistan,

not that I’d ever heard of it before,

where they dig L-shaped graves.

They lower the body down

and then slip it into a nook on the side.

That way when the grave is filled in,

no dirt falls on the body.

I think it’s kind of nice.

Gentle.

Respectful.”

I stop.

“Maybe you don’t want

to hear about this.”

I think for a moment

and then reach into my bag.

I tear off a bit of my sandwich.

“If a bird or squirrel eats this bread

in less than fifteen seconds,

then you want to hear more.

If nothing tries to eat it,

then you want me to stop.”

I toss the crust several feet away

into the grass and count,

“One, two, three, four,

five, six, seven, eight…”

Two little brown birds

hop toward the bread.

“Nine, ten, eleven…”

The first bird grabs one end of the crust,

the second nibbles the other side.

I smile a little smile.

“Javanese Muslims

do this washing ceremony thing.

They cradle the body on their laps

as if it were a child.

Then they wash the body while holding it,

and get soaked in the process.

The book called it

‘a last demonstration of nurturing love.’

It sounds so beautiful.

So personal.

So intimate.

I wonder who washed you.”

I think about my dad

at my middle school graduation.

He sits toward the front,

right next to my mom.

And even though

it’s hard for them,

they don’t fight.

From up on the stage,

I can see my dad

holding a huge bouquet.

Daisies.

Nothing but dozens of daisies.

He remembered.

When my name is called

and I cross the stage,

I hear a chorus

of cheering and clapping.

I know the loudest of those

is my father.

Afterward, my dad and I

go for lunch.

Just the two of us.

The sky has turned gray.

The air in the car is heavy

with humidity

and the crisp smell of daisies.

As the rain tap-taps

against the windshield

and the windshield wipers

swipe-swipe back and forth,

I lean my head against the window

and sleep

sleep

sleep.

under my left rib.

I wonder if it’s because

my belly is empty.

Or maybe it’s because

all of me is empty.

My tear ducts are empty.

I can’t imagine that I will ever

have any more tears to cry.

My heart is empty.

But my brain—

my brain is full.

It races with thoughts

of what could have been.

two new words today:

columbarium
and
mausoleum
.

The first is a resting place

for someone’s ashes.

The second is an aboveground

burial structure.

These words seem

old and mysterious.

And maybe also

a little beautiful too.

I take out my music and put it on shuffle

to get a message.

“Idioteque” by Radiohead comes up.

The song is fast, frantic.

It makes my heart race

in an uncomfortable way.

And the message is not clear.

“Here I’m alive.

Everything all of the time.”

Is that supposed to mean

that Brian’s soul is alive in heaven,

that he can still take everything in?

Or is he talking about

how I am left here,

alive without him,

and feeling everything—

every painful moment?

my mom says

while standing in my doorway.

She is holding her purse in one hand

and her car keys in the other.

I stare at her from my bed, thinking,

Sure I can.

I’ve been doing it

for the last few weeks.

“Why don’t you come to the mall?”

“You think going to the mall

is better than staying here?”

“Yes. Get dressed.

I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

This time it isn’t a question.

It’s a statement.

And I don’t have the energy to fight,

so I twist my hair into a bun

and root around on the floor

for reasonably clean shorts,

a tank top, and a pair of sneakers.

Washing my face is out of the question.

The most I can manage is deodorant.

My mom does most of the talking in the car.

She tells me what’s been happening

with the other nurses at work.

There’s always some dirty bit of gossip

passing through those sanitized halls.

Usually, it’s entertaining,

but today I’m barely listening.

I’m planning my escape.

“What’s going on

with Marissa, Joy, and Parker?”

she asks, changing the subject.

I don’t have an answer.

I haven’t seen any of them in a while.

The only thing I can tell her with certainty

is that a few blades of grass

have sprouted on Brian’s grave.

“Don’t know.

They’ve all been really busy.

Parker’s got an internship

at an ad agency in the city.

Joy’s working at a boutique.

And Marissa’s nannying.”

“Busy.”

She pauses and shakes her head.

“That’s what you should be.”

The mall is awful.

There’s no way

fighting with my mom

about staying home

would have been worse than this.

It’s loud, crowded, too bright,

smells of greasy food.

And it’s freezing.

It’s almost August.

I shouldn’t need a sweater.

I follow my mom from store to store

as she does her errands:

new dress,

overpriced skin cream,

linen tablecloth.

When she’s done she asks,

“Do you want to go to Victoria’s Secret?

I saw your bras and panties in the wash.

You could use some fresh ones.”

Hearing her say “panties” is torture.

And what do I need new underwear for?

I don’t care if they’re dingy

and unraveling.

It’s not like anyone’s looking.

“It’s okay. Thanks.”

“Are you sure?

It’s my treat.”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

“Do you want to stop in anywhere else?

Maybe some new skirts and tops?

Or a pair of pretty sandals?” she asks,

glancing at my less than impressive outfit.

“No, I’m sure. Thanks.

Can we just go?

There’s a yoga class I want to get to.”

“Oh, how nice! Good for you!”

She is way too excited,

which makes me feel bad

because I’m not really going to yoga.

I’m going to visit Brian.

is buried near my house.

It keeps us close.

Slows the separation.

Just like the poem

Peter read at the funeral:

I am but waiting for you for an interval

Somewhere very near

Just around the corner.

I read in the death book

that the Yuqui, in South America,

don’t bury their dead.

They leave the body to decompose

and then clean and paint the skull red.

Next the skull is given to a close relative,

who carries it with him during the day

and keeps it under his hammock at night.

When the skull starts to disintegrate,

it is discarded.

The book says that now

“the duty of honoring the deceased

has been fulfilled.”

This seems so loving.

Keeping the person with you—

even if it’s just his bones.

about shopping with my mom,

when I hear someone come up behind me.

I turn around to see who it is,

then quickly stand up.

It’s Brian’s grandmother.

The one I met at the funeral.

“Oh, I can go,”

I say, picking up my bag.

“Now, why would you do that?

There’s no reason we can’t visit together.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“We met at the funeral,

didn’t we?”

“Yes. I’m Annaleah.”

“Hmmm. Annaleah.

What a beautiful name.”

She pauses for a bit

to stare at Brian’s grave,

then starts again,

“When Brian was little,

he never stopped moving.

Helene, my daughter-in-law,

said she couldn’t get any sleep

while she was pregnant with him.

He just wouldn’t stop moving around.

Even as a child, when he slept,

Brian was always twitching

or kicking free of the covers.

And now,

he’s at rest.

Hard to imagine.”

I’d never heard a story about Brian as a child.

It makes me smile to imagine him, little,

running around like crazy.

A blur in the room.

“What will you remember most

about Brian?” his grandmother asks.

Images flash through my mind.

Brian laughing.

Brian drawing.

Brian leaning in to kiss me.

“I don’t know.

There are a lot of things.”

“He was really special.

But you already knew that.”

She looks right at me.

There are those Dennis blue eyes again.

Maybe Brian told her about us.

Or maybe she senses it.

But it doesn’t really matter right now.

What matters

is that for the first time

since Brian was buried,

I am not standing here alone.

My mom has eggs and toast.

We maneuver around each other.

She reaches for the salt.

I reach for the sugar.

She reaches for the pepper.

I reach for a napkin.

No words.

No touching.

Barely even eye contact.

I have nothing to say,

but I can feel

that she’s building toward something.

“Did you get into a fight with your friends?”

I look back at her with squinted eyes.

“What? No.

They’re just busy with work.”

“You know, I could get you

a volunteer position at the hospital,”

she says gently.

“We always need a hand

with delivering flowers, making copies,

or walking patients to appointments.

A job like that would look great

on your college applications.”

“Thanks, but I don’t think so.

I’ve got a lot going on.”

“Like what?” she snaps.

“You don’t do anything.”

“I do plenty,”

I say, pushing back my chair.

I put my bowl in the sink

and go to my room

to get dressed to visit Brian.

I do

plenty.

instead of Brian?

Would the whole school have turned out

and appeared brokenhearted—

even the girls who talk trash about me?

What would it have been like

to have all those people in my house?

Friends, family, teachers, acquaintances,

maybe even some strangers.

Something would be missing

and that something

would be me.

It’d be like not inviting the guest of honor

to her own party.

And my mom,

my mom,

my mom.

How would it have been for her,

with no husband’s shoulder to cry on,

no parents of her own to give her comfort?

Who would have spoken at my funeral?

What would people have said?

Would my mom have been able to find the words?

Would my dad have shown up?

Maybe one of my teachers would have spoken.

But which one?

Definitely not Mr. Lowry.

He was giving me Ds in history.

I don’t think someone who gave you Ds

would speak at your funeral.

Although he always said

that I had great potential—

just that I wasn’t working up to it.

Maybe he would have said something about that.

Ms. Lohman would be the likely one.

I got As in creative writing.

She said I had a vivid imagination

and a talent for creating characters and stories.

Maybe she would have said something about that.

Maybe Joy and Parker

would have read a poem.

They’re always doing dramatic things like that.

But I hope it wouldn’t have been that poem about God,

and footsteps, and being carried.

Because that’s bullshit.

I hope Marissa would have spoken.

Maybe she would’ve told some funny stories

from when we were kids.

Maybe she would’ve said she was sorry

for how things have been with us lately.

And Brian?

What about Brian?

Would he be going through

the same things I am now?