You Are Not Here (10 page)

and then take a right turn.

Two more blocks

and I’ll be with Brian.

For the first time

in a long time,

I know he’ll be there

waiting for me.

I sit down on the grass next to him.

He has flowers,

but I know they’re not for me.

I wonder who gave them to him,

but I don’t ask.

I tell Brian about my day.

I say, “I saw your dad

at the supermarket.

I didn’t talk to him—

it’s not like he knows who I am,

and even if he did,

I wouldn’t know what to say.

I watched him

take things off the shelves,

look them over,

and then put them back.

There was almost nothing

in his cart.

I wonder if he’s always been like that,

or just lately.”

I say, “I miss you.”

I ask if he’s missed me too,

then wait for his answer.

If that squirrel runs up that tree,

then his answer is yes.

If it stays on the grass,

his answer is no.

The squirrel doesn’t move,

and my breath catches in my throat.

After a moment,

it zips up the tree.

I smile and lie down

next to Brian.

I wish he could hold me

like he used to,

but he doesn’t.

The warm sun makes me drowsy

and I fall asleep on my side

next to Brian.

When I wake up, grass is imprinted

on my arm and leg.

I brush myself off,

but Brian doesn’t move.

I say, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I reach out to touch him,

and my fingers make contact

with words:

that I was being buried.

Not buried alive exactly,

but buried

with a consciousness.

And I could see everything

happening aboveground.

I saw

the dirt being shoveled on top of me.

I saw

it being patted down smooth.

I saw

the mourners leave one by one.

Each time someone else left,

I cried out,

“Don’t leave me.

Don’t leave me here alone.

I don’t want to be

left alone

for forever.”

But there was no sound.

No words.

across from the Dearly Departed,

I prop my elbows on my thighs

and put my chin in my hands.

I stare down at the ground.

Moss, grass, clovers.

Then I look up the hill

and survey the scene.

All the names and dates

on the graves are facing me.

Like faces looking into mine,

poised, ready to talk.

I can see my reflection

in one of the polished gravestones.

It’s blurry,

but it’s there.

When the sun goes behind a cloud,

I disappear.

to write down everything I remember

about Brian—

all the small details.

I remember how

his dark eyelashes made his eyes seem so light

he always carried his sketchbook

he had a freckle right at the corner of his lips

he wore jeans that were a little too big

he always smelled like soap

he liked to quote from movies

his favorite sweatshirt had a hole in the side

he sometimes had a book in his back pocket

the hair on his arms was surprisingly soft

he thought
Family Guy
was the best thing ever

he made fun of me for watching reality TV

his nails were usually ragged

he put at least three packets of sugar in his coffee

he never seemed to wear matching socks

he was obsessed with Stanley Kubrick

he was always hungry

his teeth were perfectly straight

he was squeamish about reptiles

he got the chills whenever I kissed his ears

Morse code messages from Brian.

Crickets chirp

notes that when read on a scale

surely have meaning.

Unfortunately, I don’t speak

their language.

can’t be good for me.

I liked it better when I was

unaware of how my days are numbered.

That one day, maybe soon,

all of this will just stop.

It makes me wonder

about my life

and what I’m doing with it.

What will I do?

What will I never do?

Will I ever see the Egyptian pyramids?

I suppose that’s up to me,

but if I don’t see them now—

in this life—

I will never see them.

And what about school?

I’m stuck in school for one more year.

That will make fourteen years in total

of learning what someone else

has decided is important

so I can take some bullshit tests

that will decide what kind of education

I am worthy of.

Then it’s four more years of school

that are supposed to prepare me for a career—

one that is pretty much a mystery to me.

And what about Brian?

What did all his education get him?

How did knowing algebra help him?

Brian would have been better off

traveling the world rather than memorizing

information in textbooks.

on my way to the cemetery,

I see Brian’s dad getting out of his car.

I stop.

I stare.

If he’s going to visit Brian,

I should come back later.

Give them some time

together.

But he doesn’t walk into the cemetery.

He walks toward the church doors,

which have a group of people around them.

I wonder what could be happening

at church at 7:00 p.m. on a Sunday night.

Maybe it’s a ser vice for Brian.

But why wouldn’t his mom be with his dad?

And where are all the people my age?

There are only adults.

That’s when I notice the hand-painted sign

on the church’s double doors.

AA

When I get to Brian I say,

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?

Did you even know?

Or did you know

and just not want to tell?

Maybe that’s something else

we had in common—

not telling the truth

about our dads.”

I take a deep breath and sit down.

My anger subsides.

After about an hour

of listening to my music on shuffle

and talking to Brian,

people begin filing out of the church.

That’s my signal

to leave Brian’s grave

and go back near the church doors.

I want to get a better look at Mr. Dennis.

Maybe even hear his voice.

Eventually, Brian’s dad comes out,

shakes some hands,

and gets some pats on the back.

Then, hands in his jeans pockets,

he walks into the cemetery.

I wish I could hear

what he is saying to Brian.

Or know what he is thinking.

I wish I could know their family stories,

see the insides of their photo albums.

I wish I could make new memories with them,

and that one day I could have been invited

for Christmas or Thanksgiving.

But that’s never going to happen now.

The best I can do

is come back next Sunday night

and see if his dad is here again.

Maybe I’ll work up the courage

to talk to him then.

a week to see Brian’s dad again.

He’s at the deli a few nights later.

I’m buying a box of donuts,

and he’s at the counter ordering sandwiches.

Seeing him must be a coincidence,

but then I wonder

if it’s some kind of sign from Brian.

Maybe his dad has a message for me.

Maybe I have one for him

and don’t even know it.

I am desperate to hear Mr. Dennis’s voice.

But more so,

to hear his voice

directed to me.

But what I would say?

Maybe, “Hello,

I was a friend of Brian’s,

and I am sorry for your loss.”

That hardly seems appropriate

while standing in front of sliced meats.

But is there really ever a good place or time

to express grief?

When Mr. Dennis pays and walks by me,

I get lost in his eyes—

Brian’s eyes.

I am frozen.

My mouth hangs open a little.

I say nothing.

I think about Christmas

with my dad in LA.

Piles of presents are positioned

underneath a massive sparkling tree.

Lisa and Sage are running around the house,

high on sugar, draped in garlands.

My father keeps hugging me.

He kisses my forehead,

tells me how much I’ve grown

since the summer.

He asks how school is

and how dating is going.

I tell him school sucks

and that it’s gross

to talk to your dad about dating.

But he insists, tells me

that anyone who is important to me

is important to him.

But there isn’t anyone important

yet.

That night,

Lauren cooks a Christmas feast,

and after we eat, all five of us

squeeze onto the couch.

We watch
Rudolph
on DVD

and then sleep

sleep

sleep.

died on April 10, 1877.

He was 41.

Sarah Armin

died on July 27, 1896.

She was 68.

I suppose they were

husband and wife.

But they could have been

brother and sister.

The bottom of their stone says:

GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

Maybe that was true in 1896

and for a while after.

But is that true now,

more than one hundred years later?

Is there anyone left

who remembers them?

Who will visit Brian

in one hundred years?

Who will remember him then?

Who will remember me?

What’s the point of having all this

if you are forgotten?

to make a Question Jar.

It says to write down my questions,

put them in the jar,

and then let them go.

It tells me that this is not

about finding answers.

That it’s just about

the process of asking.

I pull a glass jar out of the recycling bin,

rinse it out, and then dry it off.

Next I take a piece of paper

and rip it into small strips.

Then I start writing.

Why did this happen?

I crumple it up and toss it in the jar.

Is there a heaven?

I crumple it up and toss it in the jar.

When will it not hurt like this?

I crumple it up and toss it in the jar.

Did Brian actually care about me?

I crumple it up and toss it in the jar.

Can Brian hear me when I talk to him?

I crumple it up and toss it in the jar.

I still feel like shit.

of hearing my own voice.

I need a sign.

Something from Brian

telling me what to do.

I position myself so I am

facing Brian squarely.

I sit up straight,

cross my legs like in yoga,

rest my upturned palms on my knees,

and I wait

and wait.

I wait

for another car to backfire,

for a butterfly to fly by,

for a bee to sting me,

for something.

Anything.

And I wait

and I wait

and I wait.

There is nothing

except the sound

of birds and cars.

I stand up and grab my stuff.

I am so mad

I can’t even look at Brian.

as if Brian and I

had gotten into a fight.

I throw my bag on my desk,

and it knocks into a stack of college catalogs.

As they spill onto the floor,

a menu from Renzo’s, covered in doodles,

falls too.

From across the room

I recognize the drawings.

I dive for it

as if some great gust of wind

might rip through my bedroom

and blow it away forever.

My mouth goes dry.

I trace my finger over the ink lines

as if tracing the veins in Brian’s arm.

This drawing isn’t new.

It isn’t from beyond the grave.

Brian was doodling on this menu

while he was in my room one afternoon.

But it can’t be a coincidence

that I am finding this now.

This is definitely my sign.