You Are Not Here Read online

  like she hadn’t said really hurtful things,

  like we hadn’t gone weeks without talking.

  And now we’re back to weirdness again.

  And this time,

  it’s my fault.

  The movie is perfect.

  It’s a comedy about a bunch of guys

  driving cross-country

  and all the hilariously stupid

  things that happen along the way.

  It requires no thought.

  It is a ninety-minute

  vacation from my brain.

  When the movie is over,

  Marissa drives us to the diner.

  Just like we used to,

  we order coffee and cheese fries.

  It’s nice

  that some things don’t change.

  But the conversation isn’t easy.

  We start by talking about the movie.

  But that doesn’t last long.

  She asks, “So, how’s work?”

  “It’s okay.

  Just something to do,

  you know.

  What have you been up to?”

  “Working almost every day for the Grants.

  Steven is walking.

  And Dana’s talking up a storm.”

  “Whoa. That happened fast.”

  “Well, not really.”

  That feels like an intentional jab.

  But she’s right.

  Had Marissa and I been talking,

  I would have known these things.

  She asks, “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay. Better. Sort of.

  It’s hard.

  And the last week

  has been tough.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  I want to tell her

  about finding out about Sarah.

  I want to be close to her again,

  but I don’t want her to say

  I told you so.

  I don’t want her to even think it.

  So I only tell her about Ethan.

  “And now you’re not talking to him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Really?”

  She pauses.

  “I know things haven’t been good

  between us.

  But I have to say this:

  You’re doing it again.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Shutting people out.

  People who want to be there for you.”

  I try to take this in.

  “Annaleah, you’ve got to talk to me

  because I can’t even imagine

  what it’s been like since Brian died.

  Or what it’s like

  to have a dad that walked out

  and hasn’t even called in fifteen years.

  You never talk about any of these things.

  That can’t be good for you.”

  Her words challenge me.

  They challenge all the stories

  I’ve told myself.

  “But there are people that you do have.

  You have me.

  You have Parker.

  You have Joy.

  And maybe you have Ethan.

  Don’t ignore us.”

  I want to get up and leave.

  I want to go and sit in the cemetery.

  I want to tell Brian about this.

  I want him to listen

  and to not speak.

  I want to climb into bed

  and think about my dad.

  Think about all the things

  that could have been.

  But I stay.

  I stay

  and listen to Marissa.

  As a kid, there were a few times

  when I asked my mom about my dad.

  She always answered as best she could.

  “We met and married quickly.

  It wasn’t long before

  our foundation

  started showing cracks.

  When you were about one,

  he left—not honoring

  any promises he’d made.”

  “But don’t you want to find him?

  To know what he is doing?”

  “Yes, of course.

  But I don’t want to look for someone

  who doesn’t want to be found.

  I don’t want someone

  who doesn’t want me.

  If he wanted to find us

  he would have, could have.

  But he clearly doesn’t want to.

  It’s been over a decade.”

  “But—”

  “No ‘but.’

  I’ve got to go on.

  I’ve got to deal with what’s here,

  what’s in front of me.

  And that’s you, Annaleah.

  That’s my friends, my job.”

  Her words were never enough for me.

  Not knowing

  was not acceptable.

  That father-shaped space

  needed to be filled,

  even if it was filled with fiction.

  As we are paying the check,

  Marissa says, “I’m sorry

  for being so hard on you about Brian

  when you were together.

  I didn’t want you to get hurt

  and everything I said

  kept coming out wrong.

  I want to be close again.

  I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you too.”

  “Life’s boring without you.

  You know, I haven’t

  missed a single curfew this summer!”

  “Yeah, well,

  I haven’t even been to any parties.”

  “We should change that.

  Have some fun.

  Take a mini road trip or something.

  Do you think we can

  just go forward from here?

  I’ll try to be less bitchy,

  promise.”

  “And I’ll try to be

  less…

  absent, I promise.”

  Instead of going home,

  I ask Marissa to drop me off at the cemetery.

  As I walk toward Brian’s grave

  I think about how I believed

  that my stories made the Dearly Departed

  feel less lonely

  and more loved.

  But these people don’t need me.

  Each stone represents a lifetime of stories—

  stories that existed before me,

  stories that will exist after I’m gone.

  I was the one who needed the stories.

  I was the one who needed to feel

  less lonely and more loved.

  “Back so soon?” Brian’s grandmother asks

  as she comes up beside me.

  “Yeah. I guess so,”

  I say even though I’ve been here

  so many times since she saw me last.

  “Looks like you’ve got the right idea sitting.

  Down isn’t so much the problem.

  Will you give me a lift in a little while?”

  “Sure,” I say

  as she awkwardly lowers herself down.

  “Hello there, Brian.

  I’m with your nice friend, Annaleah.

  You’re missing a beautiful day here.

  But I bet it’s real nice where you are too.

  You be sure to say hello to my Joey.

  And let him know

  that I am thinking about him too.”

  I’ve never heard anyone speak

  at a graveside like this before.

  Like me.

  Freda sees my amazement.

  “Do you talk to him too?” she asks.

  “Sometimes.”

  “I think talking

  about good times helps.

  What do you say?”

  There were

  good times.

  But there were bad times too.

  And a lot of nothing times.
/>
  “All sorts of things, I guess.

  But mostly, what it’s like

  without him.”

  “You were more than just friends.”

  She doesn’t ask it.

  She says it.

  The recognition

  that I’ve been waiting for.

  Tears well up in my eyes.

  “Do you come to talk to him a lot?”

  “Almost every day.”

  “Oh, honey,” she says

  as she takes my hand in hers.

  “It’s important to remember Brian,

  to keep him in your heart,

  and to visit with him.

  But this isn’t a place for every day.

  Nothing grows here

  besides grass.”

  She moves her hand to my back

  and alternately rubs and pats.

  I am crying harder now.

  I don’t want her to feel me shaking,

  but I don’t want her to take her hand away either.

  I look around and think about what she said:

  Nothing grows here.

  She’s right.

  This isn’t a place for growth.

  It’s a place to look back on the past.

  I cannot control

  that my dad left.

  I cannot control

  that Brian died.

  But I can control

  if I choose to maintain my friendships.

  I can control

  if I try to be closer to my mom.

  I can control

  whether or not

  I get to know Ethan better.

  There are spaces in my heart

  that are being filled

  by what could have been with Brian,

  and the stories

  about my father and the Dearly Departed.

  I think I need to free up some of that space

  for the people in my life

  that are actually here.

  I need to not keep that space reserved

  for people who are never coming.

  I slide a napkin across the counter.

  Across it I’ve written,

  I’m sorry for being such a freak.

  Ethan picks it up and smiles.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.

  Yes. No. Maybe.”

  “Are we okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, then…

  here are your slices for table seven.”

  And just like that,

  we are

  okay.

  The death book wants me

  to write a happy list—

  the small things in life

  that make me happy.

  The first thing on the book’s sample list

  is puppies and kittens.

  I can’t help but laugh.

  Are they kidding?

  But I guess laughing

  puts me in a better mood to do this.

  So here goes:

  Garlic knots.

  Soft sheets that smell like detergent.

  Stars in a clear night sky.

  Getting texts from friends.

  Fireflies and crickets.

  Brian’s eyes.

  Strawberry ice cream.

  Sitting in the sun.

  My jeans with the hole in the knee.

  Making friends laugh.

  Seeing Ethan smile.

  Sun showers.

  My beat-up white Converse.

  Pink roses in bloom.

  “Do you want it to be more?”

  Joy asks as we sit on her bed.

  “I don’t know.

  Ethan is fun to be around.

  And cute. But—”

  “Lee, it’s not like you need to decide

  if you want to marry him.

  It’s more simple.

  Are you curious to see

  where it might go?”

  Where can it go?

  All sorts of tragic scenes come to mind.

  Car accidents. Fires.

  Ethan disappearing.

  Me being left, devastated.

  “I don’t know if I’m ready.

  I don’t think I could handle

  the disappointment.”

  “Lee, you can handle a lot.

  You made it through this summer.

  What could be harder than that?”

  “I guess.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.

  I’ll think about it.”

  Joy throws a glittery pillow at my head.

  “Thinking never got anyone anywhere.”

  Sitting next to Ethan,

  eating lunch in the back.

  We are squeezed together.

  His shirt is touching my arm.

  Our knees are inches from each other.

  I want to close the gap,

  the painful gap.

  I cross my legs the other way

  to fill the space.

  My knee lands against his.

  Contact.

  I can finally breathe.

  There is this one page in the death book

  that talks about relaxation.

  It suggests that when you are in bed

  you try imagining

  being on a beach or in a field

  with the warm sun on your face.

  I never did the exercise,

  but right now I’m on a work break,

  actually sitting outside in the sun,

  so I give it a try.

  I shut my eyes

  and try to remember what the book said—

  something about letting in the rays of sunlight

  to help get rid of the dark.

  Immediately, the Sesame Street theme song

  creeps into my head and makes me smile:

  “Sunny day, sweepin’ the clouds away…”

  Okay. Focus.

  This is serious.

  I shut my eyes again.

  I feel the sun hitting my face,

  warming the top of my head.

  Behind my eyelids, all I see is bright yellow.

  The longer I sit,

  the brighter the yellow grows,

  the warmer I feel.

  The more the tension in my shoulders

  melts away.

  I try to focus only on that—

  the warmth and the yellow.

  And for a few moments,

  that’s all there is.

  Ethan and I both have the afternoon off.

  He asks me if I want

  to hang out

  and I say yes.

  Being with Ethan

  feels different.

  Talking to him

  and having him

  talk back to me.

  Looking at him

  and having him

  look back at me.

  And then there are the times

  when we touch.

  They’re just accidental bumps

  or nudges,

  but it feels amazing.

  We stop and sit.

  The grass is speckled with dandelions,

  the kind that have turned white and poofy.

  I pick one up,

  twirl the stem between my fingers.

  “Make a wish,” he says.

  “Really?”

  “Go on. I’ll do it too.”

  We both pause for a moment,

  then blow.

  The seeds scatter in the air,

  then float back down like tiny parachutes.

  “What’d you wish for?” he asks.

  “I can’t tell you.

  It won’t come true.”

  “Well, fine then.

  I won’t tell you my wish either.”

  He fake-pouts like a little kid.

  It’s getting late,

  nearly dinner when Ethan says,

  “I better go.

  I’m
having people over tonight—

  kind of an end-of-summer party.

  You should come,

  if you can.”

  My body buzzes

  as I try to get dressed for Ethan’s party.

  I can’t decide what to wear,

  mostly because I am too busy

  imagining what it’d be like to kiss him.

  This image makes my heart

  flutter.

  It makes between my legs

  flutter.

  I feel all of this energy

  going through me.

  I have not been able to sit still all night.

  My fingers tap the table.

  My toes tap the floor.

  I cannot focus.

  My chest feels tight

  but instead of anxiety,

  I feel excitement.

  At the party, I find Ethan

  standing on his back deck,

  wearing an untucked button-down and jeans.

  It’s a treat to see him again in real clothes

  and not those horrid checkered pants.

  Crowds of people are around

  and below him.

  But he seems sort of oblivious.

  He’s just staring up at the dark sky.

  He sees me coming and nods at the stars,

  “Should we make a wish?”

  “What’s with you and the wishes today?”

  He just shrugs and points up into the darkness.

  “I’m wishing on that one.

  Which one are you going to wish on?”

  “That one,”

  I say, pointing upward.

  We are quiet for a moment

  before he asks,

  “So…what’d you wish for?”

  “Ethan, we’ve been through this.”

  “Okay, okay,” he says.

  “How about we each

  write down our wish,

  then exchange.

  When we are both home

  and getting into bed,

  we can look.”

  I laugh.

  I didn’t figure him for the cheesy type.

  “All right,” I say

  and he goes into the house

  and comes back with paper and pens.

  I write:

  I wish that we had kissed this afternoon.