You Are Not Here Read online

  I’m trying to decide what is worse.

  Someone being gone,

  but still out there,

  or someone being gone forever,

  dead.

  I think someone being gone,

  but still out there, might be worse.

  Then there’s always the chance,

  the hoping,

  the wondering

  if things might change.

  If maybe one day he’ll come back.

  There’s also the wondering about

  what his new life is like.

  The life without you.

  Is he happier?

  And if he is,

  you’re left being sad,

  wondering what it would be like

  if you were happy with him.

  But when someone is dead,

  he’s dead.

  He’s not coming back.

  There is no second chance.

  Death is a period

  at the end of a sentence.

  Someone gone, but still out there,

  is an ellipsis…or a question

  to be answered.

  On the seventh day,

  I put on a pair of jean shorts,

  a T-shirt, and flip-flops.

  I walk out of my house,

  turn on my music,

  and put the songs on shuffle.

  I haven’t done this in ages,

  but I am ready

  for a sign.

  There are 318 songs to choose from,

  and when I press the PLAY button,

  it’s like spinning a roulette wheel.

  What song will it land on?

  What will the message be?

  And out of 318 songs,

  my message is nothing.

  Literally, nothing.

  The song that comes up

  is instrumental.

  That can’t be right.

  I hit the SKIP button.

  The next song is “Little Motel”

  by Modest Mouse.

  I’ve never paid attention to the lyrics,

  but I suppose I should now.

  As I walk toward the cemetery,

  I press my earphones farther into my ears

  and strain to hear the words.

  “I hope that the suite

  sleeps and suits you well.”

  That makes me think how people say

  when you’re dead, you’re sleeping.

  And I do hope

  that Brian is sleeping well.

  When the song ends,

  I take my headphones off

  and walk across the cemetery.

  But I don’t go right to Brian.

  I need to make a stop first.

  I sit down on the stone bench,

  right on top of the words:

  FATHER, INTO THY HANDS

  I COMMEND MY SPIRIT

  and face Sylvia and Sidney,

  Ruth and Herman,

  Adele and Morris.

  I’ve been coming to this spot,

  talking to them,

  for years.

  When I was little

  I was drawn to their deeply imprinted,

  old-fashioned names,

  and I would make up stories

  about their lives.

  Sylvia was a dancer

  who performed all over the world.

  Sidney was her manager.

  One night in Paris,

  Sidney confessed his love for her,

  and they were married within the month.

  Ruth and Herman

  were high school sweethearts

  who got married at eighteen.

  They had five kids of their own,

  twice as many grandchildren,

  and even more great-grandchildren.

  Their house was never quiet,

  never empty.

  Adele and Morris got married

  right before Morris went to war.

  He kept her picture in his pocket

  and wrote to her every week.

  She kept all his letters in a tin

  and prayed every night

  that he would come back to her.

  And he did.

  I call them the Dearly Departed,

  and have always thought of them

  as family.

  Instead of telling my mom things,

  I would tell them.

  I told them when I first got my period,

  about crushes on boys,

  fights with friends.

  I told them anything

  I needed to tell.

  And they listened,

  and never criticized,

  and never yelled.

  Today, I ask them all for a favor—

  something I’ve never done before.

  I say, “Could you please

  watch over Brian

  and make sure he’s okay?

  I’m not sure how it all works up there,

  but if there’s anything you can do,

  I would appreciate it.

  He’s really special.”

  The dirt on Brian’s grave is pretty uneven,

  but it looks like someone tried

  to pat it down smooth.

  I’m sure it was the groundskeepers,

  but I can’t help imagining

  it was Brian’s mother—

  as if she were tucking him into bed

  for the last time.

  I look down at the temporary grave marker

  and wonder how long it will take

  for the real headstone to come.

  Brian deserves more than plastic.

  I tell Brian what’s been going on

  as if he doesn’t know.

  “It’s been a week

  since your funeral.

  The ser vice was packed

  with family and friends.

  But maybe you already know that.

  I didn’t talk to your parents,

  but I met your grandmother.

  She seemed pretty cool.”

  I pause.

  “There are things

  I wanted to tell you,

  but never did.

  So I suppose now

  is as good a time as any.

  It’s not like you can tell me

  that you don’t want to hear it.

  A lot of the time you made me crazy.

  I was always wondering

  where you were,

  what you were doing,

  why you weren’t calling,

  what you were thinking,

  if you felt the same way I did.

  I wanted to be close to you,

  spend more time with you,

  for you to share things with me,

  but you never did.

  But I guess I didn’t

  tell you everything either.

  I never told you

  about the Dearly Departed.

  About my father.

  Even though I liked

  that when we were together

  we were in this private little bubble,

  I wish we had done things

  with your friends or mine.

  You only met Marissa twice—

  both times just for a minute.

  And you never even met Joy and Parker.

  Sometimes I wonder if I was your secret,

  that you thought something about me

  was so embarrassing, so awful

  that you couldn’t bear

  to introduce me to your friends.”

  I pause again and look around.

  Brian is next to Lisette Iver.

  Her stone says 1903–1997,

  that she was a mother,

  a grandmother,

  and a great-grandmother.

  Lisette’s husband, Walter,

  is on the other side of her.

  This cemetery is filled with pairs

  or empty plots waiting to receive

  people’s ot
her halves.

  There is so much importance

  put on being buried next to loved ones,

  so what does it mean

  that Brian will not

  be next to his family,

  that he will never

  be buried next to his mate,

  that Brian is going to spend eternity

  sandwiched between Lisette Iver

  and Doug Armstrong?

  As I walk home I realize

  that I have the answers

  to the questions

  I’ve always asked about Brian:

  Where is Brian?

  Two blocks away.

  What is he doing?

  Lying quietly, still.

  When is he going to call?

  Never.

  In bed, I cannot sleep.

  I think about summer break with my dad.

  My dad, Lauren, the twins, and I

  go to the beach.

  Lauren packs sandwiches and snacks.

  My dad packs sunscreen and toys.

  As my dad sleeps

  and Lauren reads,

  Lisa, Sage, and I

  build a sand castle.

  Over and over,

  I dig the plastic shovel

  into the wet and gritty sand.

  It crunches and scrapes

  as it goes in.

  When we are done,

  there are four towers,

  a water-filled moat,

  and shells for windows.

  Afterward, the twins and I

  play in the water.

  They run toward the bubbly surf

  as a wave rolls in.

  But when the water touches their feet,

  they run screaming back to their parents,

  part in fear

  and part in triumph

  of what they’ve just done.

  When my dad takes the twins for ice cream,

  I put on a fresh coat of SPF,

  lie on my stomach,

  unhook my top,

  and close my eyes.

  And the sun makes me sleep

  sleep

  sleep.

  I visit Brian again the next day.

  “There are so many things

  that we will never get to do.

  I will never

  take a trip with you.

  I will never

  dance with you at prom.

  I will never

  know if we had a future

  beyond this summer.

  I will never

  know if you would have said,

  ‘I love you.’

  But there are things

  that are much bigger than me.

  You will never

  graduate high school

  or go to college.

  You will never

  make your friends laugh again.

  You will never

  go to another concert

  and come home with your ears ringing.

  You will never

  become a successful artist

  and sit in Paris or Florence,

  sketching people as they go by.

  You will never

  get married or have kids.

  You will never

  be hugged again by your parents.

  You will never

  have your heart broken

  and then healed.

  There are so many things

  you will not get to do.

  But what will

  you get to do?

  Is death the end

  or is there more?

  Will you watch us from above

  and make appearances in our dreams?

  Will you rattle the windows

  when someone says your name?

  Or have you forgotten

  us already?”

  After talking to Brian,

  I walk over to Richardson.

  I don’t have a destination.

  I just start walking

  and don’t stop.

  I pass the pharmacy,

  the pizza place,

  the nail salon,

  the realtor.

  And everywhere I look,

  there are couples and families.

  People are holding hands.

  Mothers are carrying babies.

  Fathers are pushing strollers.

  They all look happy.

  And I am alone,

  just having come back

  from visiting my dead boyfriend.

  I have so much tension in my face,

  so much tightness,

  anger.

  I wonder if it’s from holding

  in the tears

  and the screams

  that I so badly want to let out,

  but don’t.

  Parker texts me:

  I’m calling u in 5 mins.

  U better pick up.;)

  When my phone rings,

  I reluctantly answer.

  He says,

  “Lee, you haven’t

  called me back in days.”

  “I know. I haven’t felt

  like talking.”

  “What have you been doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Have you seen anyone?”

  “No.”

  But that’s not true.

  I’ve seen Brian.

  But I don’t tell Parker that.

  He says, “I don’t have to work today.

  Why don’t we do something?

  You don’t have plans, do you?”

  I was going to visit Brian,

  but I suppose he’ll be there later.

  Even though I am silent,

  Parker says, “Great! I’ll call Joy.”

  A little while later,

  Parker pulls up in front of my house

  and honks his car horn.

  When I get in, Parker turns back and asks,

  “So where should we go?”

  When I don’t answer, Joy says,

  “There’s a new café on Richardson

  with an especially hot barista

  I’ve been eyeing.”

  “Done,” says Parker.

  As we drive out of my neighborhood

  and past the cemetery,

  I hold my breath.

  It’s not hard.

  This cemetery’s only a few blocks long.

  I’m not sure why I do it

  or where I heard the wives’ tale

  that if you don’t hold your breath,

  you’ll die young

  or not go to heaven.

  But it’s something I’ve done

  since I was little.

  I remember doing it

  when my mom and I drove to the city.

  There are a few big cemeteries on the way—

  some more than a half mile long.

  I would hold my breath,

  pucker my lips, squint my eyes,

  and hold it, hold it, hold it

  as long as I could.

  Sometimes I made it.

  Sometimes I didn’t.

  There is silence

  after we get our coffees.

  We all sip and look

  at each other over the rims of our cups.

  Joy’s red hair

  is pinned back in an artful

  but messy way.

  Parker’s wearing a new T-shirt

  that says THANKS FOR NOTHING.

  Parker goes first, telling me

  “We don’t really know what to say.”

  Joy continues, “Lee,

  you must be going through hell.”

  I take another sip of my latte

  and try not to look at them.

  It feels like they are leading up to something.

  Oh, God.

  Is this some sort of intervention?

  I’ve seen shows about that,

  and it’s never pretty.

  That’s when Parker reaches into his bag.


  “We got this for you.”

  He slides a book across the little table.

  Surviving Loss: A Teen’s Guide to Healing

  Joy says, “Maybe it will help.

  Well, not help.

  I mean, it’s not going to

  make it stop hurting.

  But maybe it will make it hurt less.

  Shit. I don’t know.”

  I pick up the book

  and look at the cover.

  It’s all blue sky and white clouds

  on a beautiful day—

  like the day Brian was buried.

  “Thanks,” I tell them.

  And that’s all I have.

  I don’t know

  what to say either.

  A while ago,

  Joy, Parker, and I

  had planned to go to an open mic night

  with Brian.

  It was the first time

  they were going to meet him,

  and I was as nervous as if Brian

  were meeting my mom and dad.

  Not that that would ever happen.

  I had picked an open mic on purpose.

  We could all talk,

  but not too much.

  The performers would be a buffer.

  Around 3:00, I texted Brian:

  Parkers getting me at 715.

  Will get u after that.

  See you later.

  But I got no answer.

  Maybe Brian didn’t think

  he needed to respond.

  It’s not like I had asked a question.

  But by 4:30 I was worried.

  Had he forgotten?

  Was his phone dead?

  To distract myself

  I took a shower and got dressed.

  I had picked my outfit days before:

  a fitted green T-shirt with birds on it,

  with skinny jeans and flats.

  I liked wearing flats with Brian.

  Then I’d have to stand on my toes

  to kiss him.

  I took extra time to do my hair,

  putting in the mousse, section by section,

  then twisting smaller bits

  so the curls would be perfect.

  I put on a thick coat of black mascara

  to make my green eyes stand out

  and then brushed on some shimmery lip gloss

  that Joy had given me.