You Are Not Here Page 5

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 been trying to sleep for hours.

  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.

  It doesn’t make sense

  that today is a typical summer morning.

  The sky is cloudless.

  Kids are riding their bikes.

  People are gardening.

  But today is not an ordinary day.

  It is the day after Brian’s funeral.

  The sky should be black.

  Lightning should knife

  through the air.

  There should be blasts of thunder.

  Rain should fall in bullets

  and shatter windshields.

  “Hey. It’s Marissa.

  I’m wondering

  how you’re feeling

  and what you’re up to today.

  I know things have been weird between us,

  but I’m here for you.

  Talk to you soon.”

  I hit the DELETE button

  and do not call her back.

  I leave the house

  to go for a walk around the bay.

  I used to do this a lot.

  Sometimes it was just to get air,

  but mostly it was to find Brian.

  Usually, this tactic didn’t work

  and I would come home disappointed,

  but there were a few times

  that I did find him.

  Those times, I always thought,

  Why didn’t you call me?

  I live a few blocks away.

  I could have hung out with you.

  Why would you rather be alone

  than be with me?

  Now as I walk through the neighborhood,

  I see Brian on the hill by the bay,

  hunched over a notebook, drawing.

  I see him on the basketball court—

  the very place he died—

  taking shots.

  It was only about a month ago

/>   that I found Brian right here.

  He spots me,

  lifts up his shirt

  and wipes the sweat from his face,

  revealing his smooth stomach

  and the trail of dark hair

  that disappears into his shorts.

  I try not to stare.

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “Nothing. Just needed

  to get out of the house.”

  But that’s not really true.

  “Yeah. My house

  was feeling kinda tight too.

  My dad’s home.”

  I know better than to say anything.

  I wait, giving Brian room to continue.

  “Wanna play?” he asks.

  “I’m not any good.

  And besides,

  I’m wearing flip-flops.”

  “It’s okay.

  Just take them off.”

  I walk over to the edge of the court

  and put my flip-flops on the grass.

  I carefully walk back across the warm concrete,

  being sure to look for broken glass.

  “Can you dribble?” he asks

  as he passes me the ball.

  Thank God I catch it.

  I would have felt like such an ass.

  I dribble a few times.

  “Okay, not bad,” he says.

  “Can you shoot?”

  I take a shot.

  It’s not great,

  but at least it comes close

  and hits the backboard.

  Brian runs after the ball

  and passes it back to me.

  “Try again. But this time

  follow through with your wrist.”

  “Okay, coach.”

  When I try again,

  I make the shot.

  “Nice,” he says

  as he catches the ball.

  I take a few more shots.

  Each time, Brian gives me tips

  and encouragement.

  I make enough of the shots

  to be pretty pleased with myself.

  “I think it’s time

  for some one-on-one.”

  “Seriously?”

  Brian plays basketball

  nearly every day.

  “I don’t know.

  That couldn’t be much fun for you.”

  “It’s okay.

  I’ll take my chances.”

  Brian passes me the ball

  and I start dribbling,

  making my way toward the basket.

  Brian comes at me

  and reaches for the ball.

  It’s obvious he isn’t trying his hardest.

  When I turn my back to him,

  he leans over me—

  almost like we’re spooning

  while shuffling back and forth.

  My back is pressed against him.

  I can feel how warm he is.

  I can feel the sweat on his arms.

  But Brian seems to get bored

  with not trying

  because he finally reaches around

  and steals the ball.

  In one smooth move,

  he pivots, shoots the ball,

  and makes the basket.

  “Show-off,”

  I say with a smile.

  When the memory fades,

  so does my smile.

  I am alone

  on this court.

  The second night after Brian’s funeral

  is like the first.

  On my stomach.

  On my side.

  On my back.

  Curled up in a ball.

  Diagonally.

  My feet at the head of the bed.

  Blanket on.

  Blanket off.

  TV on.

  TV off.

  Music on.

  Music off.

  I cannot sleep.

  I cannot stop

  this waking nightmare.

  I want to dream.

  I want to dream of Brian.

  I put my pillow over my face,

  take a deep breath,

  and try to smell Brian.

  I imagine him in my room,

  talking,

  walking,

  smiling,

  laughing,

  lying next to me,

  kissing me,

  touching me.

  I watch as the shadows

  move quietly across my walls,

  just like he used to move

  across my room.

  I look at them, searching

  for his shape.

  Will he come to me?

  Will I hear his voice

  one more time?

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  I imagine his face, his body.

  I am trying to will him

  into appearing,

  but he doesn’t.

  All those talk-show psychics

  make it seem like this should be easier.

  People all over the place

  are connecting with the dead.

  Why can’t I?

  Maybe Brian

  doesn’t want to visit me.

  Maybe I

  am not important enough.

  Or maybe, right now,

  Brian is hovering over

  his parents or close friends,

  giving them comfort.

  Maybe he’s so busy with them

  that he’s forgotten about me.

  Or maybe it’s just not my turn

  yet.

  Part Two

  I had a dream last night

  that Marissa and I were in a taxi

  driving on an overpass.

  The driver took a turn way too fast

  and lost control of the car.

  We jumped the guardrail

  and soared through the air,

  hundreds of feet above the ground.

  I knew we were going to die.

  I thought about calling my mom

  to tell her I loved her,

  but there was no time.

  Then the taxi became a convertible,

  and Marissa fell out of the car.

  I caught her sleeve for a second,

  but I couldn’t hold her.

  I watched her fall

  and fall, then hit

  the street below.

  It was all happening in slow motion.

  I knew

  I was about to die,

  and I couldn’t do anything

  but watch the pavement

  get closer

  and closer.

  It takes a lot of harassing texts,

  but Parker and Joy convince me

  to leave the house

  and watch the Fourth of July fireworks

  down by the bay.

  Parker and Joy

  are like an old married couple.

  They finish each other’s sentences

  and bicker all the time.

  Except one big difference

  is that Parker is gay,

  and Joy falls in love

  with every guy she meets.

  When we all meet up,

  Joy looks adorable.

  She’s wearing a vintage dress

  and her red hair is twisted into two little buns.

  Parker’s wearing longish jean shorts

  and, as usual, he’s got on a funny T-shirt.

  This one says BLAH, BLAH, BLAH.

  I look down at my own outfit.

  There’s nothing cute

  about my dirty jeans and plain white tank.

  It’s pretty much a miracle

  that I’m out of my house

  and not in my pj’s.

  We pick a spot on the seawall

  that can’t be seen from the road,

  and dangle our legs over the edge,

  waiting for the show to start.

  Joy tells us about the new guy

  she’s been talking to.
>
  Parker tells us about the trip

  he’s going to take with his family

  to the Grand Canyon.

  Their lives are moving forward.

  Mine is stagnant.

  The first fireworks blast knocks

  these thoughts from my head.

  For a moment, the black sky is lit up

  with a shower of sparks

  and we are all temporarily cast in red.

  All I can think of is blood.

  Brian’s heart bursting.

  Tears well up in my eyes

  and I’m glad

  that Parker and Joy

  are looking at the fireworks

  and not at me.

  When the tears pool over,

  I wipe them away,

  then take a sip of warm beer.

  If Brian were alive,

  what would he be doing tonight?

  Would he be here

  with his arm around my shoulder?

  As we watched the fireworks,

  would he kiss my neck

  and whisper to me

  that I smelled good?

  Or would he be somewhere else,

  watching with his friends,

  and getting drunk or stoned?

  The second scenario sounds about right.

  And the not so funny thing is:

  I’d be doing the same thing then

  as I am now—

  missing him.

  IHSS is caused by abnormal growth

  of the cells in the heart muscle.

  In a sense, Brian’s heart

  grew too big.

  I wish that I had gotten the chance

  to experience how big Brian’s heart

  could be.

  I wonder what it would have felt like

  to have a relationship with Brian

  where I wasn’t always questioning

  and worrying,

  and feeling so alone.

  It’s been six days

  since Brian’s funeral.

  Six days of watching TV,

  but never the news.

  Six days of sleeping all day

  and then not sleeping at night.

  Six days of not eating.

  Six days of avoiding my mom.

  Six days of unanswered

  emails, and texts, and voicemails.

  The exception was Independence Day,

  and that passed quickly.