You Are Not Here Read online

  I want to sit on Brian’s bed and pretend

  that it’s four o’clock after school.

  Brian’s windows are open

  and the late spring breeze

  makes the curtains expand

  and contract.

  His mom is working late

  and his dad won’t be home

  for a few hours.

  We are both sitting on his bed,

  but on opposite ends.

  We are listening to music.

  Brian is drawing in his sketchbook.

  I am writing in my English journal,

  but I don’t let him look

  since it’s about him.

  He comes closer to my end of the bed,

  tries to see what I’m writing.

  I swat him away,

  close the covers,

  and slip the book back in my bag.

  He smiles and leans in toward me.

  A chunk of hair falls over his left eye.

  His lips touch mine.

  His hands are on my face,

  then my neck,

  my shoulders,

  my chest.

  Buttons are undone.

  I am undone.

  I had been waiting

  for the right time

  for a long time.

  I had been waiting

  for romance,

  for candles,

  for rose petals.

  But when the time came,

  I hadn’t even shaved my legs,

  and I wasn’t wearing fancy underwear.

  It just happened.

  After weeks of saying no,

  I said yes.

  I thought that afterward

  I would cry

  or do something dramatic.

  I thought

  I would feel different,

  but I didn’t.

  It was everything around me

  that felt different.

  As I walked home

  from Brian’s that afternoon,

  I suddenly felt connected

  to the birds, to the trees,

  to the people around me.

  I felt a part of everything.

  Not including the day Brian died,

  Marissa and I have only spoken twice

  in the last few weeks.

  The first conversation,

  the one that deepened

  the already growing rift,

  went like this:

  “You did what?” she asked.

  “We did it,” I said.

  “Is he even your boyfriend?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Did he say ‘I love you?’”

  “No.”

  “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Okay.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, at least that’s something.”

  “Why are you being like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a bitch.

  Can’t you just be happy for me?”

  “All you do is complain

  about Brian.

  And now you have sex with him?

  Good plan, Annaleah.

  I don’t want to hear about it

  when you start freaking out.

  Because if you do,

  it’ll be your own fault.”

  “I can’t believe you.

  You don’t even know him.

  You’re probably just jealous

  that I had sex and you didn’t.”

  “Hardly, Annaleah.

  Hardly.”

  “Thanks for the support, Maris.”

  It bothers me that I can’t remember

  all the details

  of the last time Brian and I had sex.

  I didn’t know

  it would be the last time.

  If I had,

  I would have traced Brian’s face,

  run my fingers over his eyelids,

  nose, and mouth.

  I would have connected

  his freckles and beauty marks,

  memorized them

  like a star chart.

  I would have ruffled his soft, dark hair,

  run my hands over his chest and arms.

  I would have held him

  tightly—

  measured the space

  he took up in my arms.

  I would have

  nestled into his neck,

  smelled him,

  taken all of him in—

  enough to make it last

  my whole life.

  I can’t

  stop thinking

  that Brian and I

  never

  danced.

  I don’t know why

  it sticks out so much,

  but it does.

  The last time Marissa and I talked

  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.

  Marissa comes back from the bathroom

  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.

  On the way upstairs to my bedroom,

  I pause to look at the photos on the wall.r />
  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.

  Every day at Sacred Heart Hospital,

  my mother helps people heal.

  She gives them comfort.

  She listens to them.

  She sees

  them.

  But I do not think

  she sees

  me.

  This time,

  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.

  I wake up a little while later

  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.

  I look down at the postcard

  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.

&nb
sp; 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.

  At home,

  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.

  The last time I talked to Joy

  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.