You Are Not Here (5 page)

before the day Brian died,

went about as well as when

I told her Brian and I

slept together.

She called and said,

“Hey. How are you?”

“Okay,” I answered.

“And Brian?”

That was new.

She never asked about him.

“Good. I saw him a few days ago.”

“I saw him today.”

She said those four words so quickly

they practically blurred.

“Oh. Cool.

Did you say hi?”

“No. He was with some girl in the park.

She was blond and really pretty.”

“Oh.

Okay.”

“They looked cozy.”

Was she trying to start a fight?

Because this was a great way to do that.

“It could have just been a friend, Maris.”

“Or not.

Have you talked about being exclusive yet?”

“Maris, what are you doing?

We haven’t spoken in a while

and
this
is what you call me to say?”

“I’m trying to get you to see

that he’s not good for you.”

“Well, this conversation

doesn’t feel like it’s

any good for me.”

“I thought you should know.”

“Well, now I know.

Thanks.”

And I hung up.

I tried not to think about what Marissa said,

but that night I called Brian

and asked what he had done that day.

His answer was,

“I slept late and then hung out with Peter.”

Maybe he didn’t mention the girl

because he thought I would get the wrong idea.

Or maybe it was because Marissa was right

and something was going on.

It made me sick to think about,

so I just stopped thinking.

and wants to know

my plans for the rest of the afternoon.

Do I want to hang out and talk,

watch a movie, go for a walk?

All I want

is to go upstairs to Brian’s room.

I want to open his window

and sit on his bed,

but I can’t.

It doesn’t feel right

with all these people here.

Without Brian here.

I want

to say something

to Brian’s friends and family,

but I don’t.

What would I say?

“Hello, I’m the girl

who was in love with Brian.

Oh? You haven’t heard of me?

That’s because we weren’t really dating.”

Instead, I leave with Marissa.

I pause to look at the photos on the wall.

There’s one of my mom’s parents

on their wedding day.

Both of them died before I was born.

My mom says I look like my grandma,

but I don’t see it.

There’s a photo of my mom

the day she graduated nursing school.

There’s one of me as a baby,

sitting on a man’s lap.

My whole hand is curled

around one of his fingers.

You can’t see his face—

just his hand and his crotch.

This is my father,

Robert Rollins,

and it is the only picture of him

on display in our house.

He left when I was only a year old.

My mom almost never talks about him.

She says that the last thing

they ever agreed on was my name.

She wanted Anna.

He wanted Leah.

my mother helps people heal.

She gives them comfort.

She listens to them.

She sees

them.

But I do not think

she sees

me.

when I walk past my mom’s room

she is in bed,

back from the night shift.

She rolls over when she hears me pass

and groggily says,

“Annaleah, did you go

to that boy’s funeral?”

I nod and say, “With Marissa.”

As I walk over to her bed she says,

“Glad to see you and Marissa

are talking again.

It’s been a while.

I hope that whatever came between you

isn’t a problem anymore.”

She takes in and lets out

a deep breath before continuing,

“Do you know how rare it is

for a healthy seventeen-year-old boy

to die from IHSS?”

I do.

I looked it up online.

“Well, that was nice of you to go.

This is such a small community.

I’m sure his parents were glad

that so many people turned out.”

She shifts over,

then pulls back the covers for me.

“Wanna get in?” she asks.

I slip in next to her.

We’ve never done this.

I wonder if she knows

that I was lying when I said

that I only knew Brian in passing.

I wonder if she’s waiting for me

to tell her everything,

but I don’t.

I can’t.

My mom falls back into sleep

easily, but I don’t.

Instead, I think of my father.

He lives in Los Angeles.

He is remarried

to a woman named Lauren.

They have twin seven-year-old girls,

Lisa and Sage.

My father is an engineer.

He likes to golf.

He is training for a marathon..

He also likes to cook,

but is terrible at it.

Lauren teases him,

says his best meal is buttered toast.

I tell myself these things

when I miss my dad.

They are a lullaby

that calms me to sleep.

and find my mom, freshly showered,

in my room, stripping my bed.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Laundry.”

“Stop.”

She doesn’t seem to hear me

because she’s still tugging

the sheet off the bed.

“Stop.” I say it louder.

She stares at me, confused,

as she shakes a pillow out of its case.

“Stop!” I scream.

“You’re never here.

You never do anything mom-like.

Why are you starting now?”

She drops the pillow to the floor

and kicks her way out of the room,

wading through the pile of linens

like high tide.

“Fine, Annaleah.

Do it yourself.”

I fall into the pile

and tears roll down my cheeks.

I raise a handful of cotton to my nose.

Can I still catch a bit of Brian?

Can I still smell him

from the last time he was in my bed?

All I can smell is me

and maybe a little bit

of my mom’s shampoo in the air.

I go to my dresser

and pull out a T-shirt

that Brian left here weeks ago,

a drawing he gave me,

a postcard from the Metropolitan Museum of Art,

and the article about Brian from the paper.

It isn’t much.

But it’s all I have.

that I got at the Met with Brian.

It’s a painting of a ghost-like man

wearing purple and white robes,

sitting on a throne.

His mouth is open.

Teeth exposed, screaming.

He looks like he’s behind bars.

The artist is Francis Bacon.

One Sunday in May,

Brian asked me to go with him

to the Bacon exhibit at the Met.

We go to the railroad station,

buy tickets, and sit on a bench,

drinking too-sweet coffee

as we wait for the train.

While sitting there, I think,

This is it.

Things are changing.

Going to the city to see art

is what couples do.

On the train, Brian uses his phone

to show me some of Bacon’s paintings.

I put my head on his shoulder

and watch as he gently drags

his finger across the screen

over and over again.

Bacon’s stuff is really creepy,

all twisted bodies and swollen faces.

But I don’t say anything.

Brian seems really into it.

When we get off the railroad,

we transfer to the E, then the 6 train.

I don’t know how to get to the Met,

but Brian does—

without even looking at a map.

He says it’s because he goes

to galleries and museums all the time.

I didn’t know that.

When we get off the subway

we cross Lexington, Park,

Madison, and Fifth.

The apartments get more and more amazing

the closer we get to the museum.

Some people have their curtains open,

and you can see right in.

Giant mirrors, paintings,

floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, colorful walls.

I wonder if maybe one day,

I’ll live like that.

That maybe we’ll

live like that.

I know it’s not realistic,

but it’s never fun

to be realistic.

As we walk around the exhibit,

Brian talks, and I listen.

He says, “I like Bacon’s paintings

because they remind me

of my nightmares.”

I wonder, What’s going on

that this

is what you dream about?

I want to ask him,

but I can’t get out the words.

I think it would be pushing my luck

on what is already a monumental day.

When we finish the exhibit,

I tell Brian that I want

to check out the Egyptian wing.

There’s this one tomb

that I remember seeing with my mom

when I was a kid.

At the time, I was sure

that a mummy would jump out

and try to kill me.

I want to see how it looks now,

nearly ten years later.

The tomb is laughably small.

When Brian and I walk inside,

he takes my hand

and jokingly says,

“I’ll protect you.”

And even though

he is just messing around,

I take a moment to breathe in his words.

Joking or not,

he never says things like that to me.

As we walk down the short corridor

and make the only turn,

Brian shouts, “Boo!”

I let out a scream—

one that is much louder

than I would have liked.

“I couldn’t resist,”

he says, laughing.

“You’re a jerk,” I say,

shoving him in the chest.

He quickly covers my hand with his,

pressing my palm flat against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Then he kisses me,

his warm sweet breath a contrast

to the stale coolness

of the tomb.

I check my voicemail.

“Lee. It’s Parker.

Thinking about you.

Call me.”

“Hey, babe. It’s Joy.

I guess you’re not picking up.

We should hang out

and do something.

Or do nothing.

Whatever you want.

Just call me.

Love you.”

I hit the
DELETE
button.

I do not

call either of them back.

was the weekend before Brian died.

She asked me if I wanted to go

to the movies with her and Parker.

“What are you seeing?”

“A Miyazaki film.”

“I don’t know.

Anime’s not my thing.

Plus, Brian and I

might be doing something.”

“Might?”

“Yeah. We talked earlier

and he said maybe

we’d do something later.

That he’d call me.”

“Lee.”

“What?”

“Come with us.

Or call Brian and invite him,

but don’t sit home and wait

for his call.

He’s not worth

ruining your night over.”

“I’m not.

I won’t.”

But I was

and probably would be.

All right, it’s your call.

Movie’s not until nine,

so call me if you change your mind.

We’ll even pick you up.

And Parker says he’ll pay for you.”

“Okay. Thanks.

Talk to you later.”

6:00

Nothing.

7:00

Nothing.

8:00

Nothing.

8:15

I could’ve probably

still asked Parker and Joy to pick me up.

8:30

I could’ve still

called a cab and gotten to the movie in time.

9:00

I decided I didn’t want to see that anime shit anyway.

I’ve seen the minute hand

go around and around many times.

I flip over on my stomach,

bury my face in the pillow

and cry.

I think about screaming,

but I bet the sound

only gets muffled in the movies,

not in real life.

I settle for kicking my legs up and down,

letting them bang against my mattress

like a fish trying to swim out of water—

but I’m getting nowhere.

I flip over to my back,

then get out of bed.

I turn on the bathroom light

and it burns my eyes.

I squint and look in the mirror.

Pimples dot my forehead.

I go for the whiteheads first.

I pop and squeeze until there is blood.

Then I move on to my cheeks and chin.

I don’t know how long

I’ve been standing there,

but my legs are stiff and hurt.

My face is blotchy.

It’s obvious

that I’ve made my skin worse,

but I feel like I was productive.

Like I just did

something.

I go back to my room

and look at the clock.

It’s been forty-five minutes.

Forty-five minutes of not thinking

about Brian.

Not wondering what life

will be like without him,

even though I never really knew

what life was like

with him.

I get back into bed.

The only sound I can hear

are the crickets.

But then there’s a sound

at my window.

I know it’s probably just a branch,

but still I get up to look.

There is nothing besides

the streetlamp casting a glow

in the spot where Brian stood

a few weeks ago.

On that night, I had heard

the sound of pebbles

smacking against glass.

I got out of bed

and looked out my window.

There, underneath the streetlamp,

was Brian.

I could see him grinning,

even from two stories up.

I pushed open my window

and whispered as loudly as I could,

“Are you crazy?”

“Yes. Come down.”

And I did.

As I walked across the wet grass

and into the street,

Brian looked me over

in my boxers and thin tank top.

“You’re not wearing a bra.”

“It’s hot. And I was sleeping.”

He pulled me toward him,

his hands firm on my lower back.

His kiss was warm and wet

and tasted like beer.

I pulled back.

“Are you drunk?”

“No.”

But then I saw a forty-ounce beer at his feet.

“I’m going back to bed.”

“But I wanted to see you…

to tell you…”

But he stopped.

He always stopped.

I waited for a moment,

but nothing else came.

“I’m going back to bed.”

As I walked away,

Brian didn’t try to stop me.

I quietly closed the front door

and went up the stairs.

I brushed off my feet

before getting back into bed

and wondered

how I was going to fall asleep now.

My body was tense

with energy, frustration.

I curled my toes,

stretched out my legs,

balled my hands into tight fists,

lengthened my arms,

raised my shoulders to my ears,

squeezed my eyes shut,

then released

with one long exhale.

Just as I was wondering

if Brian was still out there,

I heard a bottle shatter

against the pavement.

I guess that was my answer.

For the next five days

Brian didn’t call

to apologize.

He didn’t send me

an email,

an IM,

or a text.

He didn’t do anything.

He never did

anything.