You Are Not Here Read online

  I thought that after the funeral,

  things would change.”

  “Things have changed.”

  “Yeah.

  I can see that.”

  This time she leaves for real,

  slamming the screen door behind her.

  I stare out the window

  and watch her walk down the street.

  Once Marissa’s out of sight,

  I go upstairs and get dressed.

  I need to tell Brian about this.

  I wear my favorite sundress,

  the one with the blue flowers

  and straps that tie at the shoulders

  to visit Brian today.

  I even pack lunch.

  Brian and I never went on a picnic

  so I figure, why not now?

  I spread out a small blanket next to him

  and take out an apple.

  In between chews I say,

  “I was reading this book last night

  about death and different cultures.

  One part talked about how

  Hopis use feathers in burials.

  I would have liked

  to do what they do—

  cover you in soft white feathers,

  lay them over your eyes and mouth,

  and put them on your hands and feet.

  That way you could float away,

  get wherever you were going quickly,

  smoothly.

  Oh! And there’s a place

  in central Asia called Turkistan,

  not that I’d ever heard of it before,

  where they dig L-shaped graves.

  They lower the body down

  and then slip it into a nook on the side.

  That way when the grave is filled in,

  no dirt falls on the body.

  I think it’s kind of nice.

  Gentle.

  Respectful.”

  I stop.

  “Maybe you don’t want

  to hear about this.”

  I think for a moment

  and then reach into my bag.

  I tear off a bit of my sandwich.

  “If a bird or squirrel eats this bread

  in less than fifteen seconds,

  then you want to hear more.

  If nothing tries to eat it,

  then you want me to stop.”

  I toss the crust several feet away

  into the grass and count,

  “One, two, three, four,

  five, six, seven, eight…”

  Two little brown birds

  hop toward the bread.

  “Nine, ten, eleven…”

  The first bird grabs one end of the crust,

  the second nibbles the other side.

  I smile a little smile.

  “Javanese Muslims

  do this washing ceremony thing.

  They cradle the body on their laps

  as if it were a child.

  Then they wash the body while holding it,

  and get soaked in the process.

  The book called it

  ‘a last demonstration of nurturing love.’

  It sounds so beautiful.

  So personal.

  So intimate.

  I wonder who washed you.”

  In bed, I cannot sleep.

  I think about my dad

  at my middle school graduation.

  He sits toward the front,

  right next to my mom.

  And even though

  it’s hard for them,

  they don’t fight.

  From up on the stage,

  I can see my dad

  holding a huge bouquet.

  Daisies.

  Nothing but dozens of daisies.

  He remembered.

  When my name is called

  and I cross the stage,

  I hear a chorus

  of cheering and clapping.

  I know the loudest of those

  is my father.

  Afterward, my dad and I

  go for lunch.

  Just the two of us.

  The sky has turned gray.

  The air in the car is heavy

  with humidity

  and the crisp smell of daisies.

  As the rain tap-taps

  against the windshield

  and the windshield wipers

  swipe-swipe back and forth,

  I lean my head against the window

  and sleep

  sleep

  sleep.

  There is a pain

  under my left rib.

  I wonder if it’s because

  my belly is empty.

  Or maybe it’s because

  all of me is empty.

  My tear ducts are empty.

  I can’t imagine that I will ever

  have any more tears to cry.

  My heart is empty.

  But my brain—

  my brain is full.

  It races with thoughts

  of what could have been.

  The death book taught me

  two new words today:

  columbarium and mausoleum.

  The first is a resting place

  for someone’s ashes.

  The second is an aboveground

  burial structure.

  These words seem

  old and mysterious.

  And maybe also

  a little beautiful too.

  Sitting with Brian is too quiet.

  I take out my music and put it on shuffle

  to get a message.

  “Idioteque” by Radiohead comes up.

  The song is fast, frantic.

  It makes my heart race

  in an uncomfortable way.

  And the message is not clear.

  “Here I’m alive.

  Everything all of the time.”

  Is that supposed to mean

  that Brian’s soul is alive in heaven,

  that he can still take everything in?

  Or is he talking about

  how I am left here,

  alive without him,

  and feeling everything—

  every painful moment?

  “You can’t just lie here all day,”

  my mom says

  while standing in my doorway.

  She is holding her purse in one hand

  and her car keys in the other.

  I stare at her from my bed, thinking,

  Sure I can.

  I’ve been doing it

  for the last few weeks.

  “Why don’t you come to the mall?”

  “You think going to the mall

  is better than staying here?”

  “Yes. Get dressed.

  I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  This time it isn’t a question.

  It’s a statement.

  And I don’t have the energy to fight,

  so I twist my hair into a bun

  and root around on the floor

  for reasonably clean shorts,

  a tank top, and a pair of sneakers.

  Washing my face is out of the question.

  The most I can manage is deodorant.

  My mom does most of the talking in the car.

  She tells me what’s been happening

  with the other nurses at work.

  There’s always some dirty bit of gossip

  passing through those sanitized halls.

  Usually, it’s entertaining,

  but today I’m barely listening.

  I’m planning my escape.

  “What’s going on

  with Marissa, Joy, and Parker?”

  she asks, changing the subject.

  I don’t have an answer.

  I haven’t seen any of them in a while.

  The only thing I can tell her with certainty

  is that a few blades of grass

  have sprouted on Brian’s grave.

  “Don’t know. />
  They’ve all been really busy.

  Parker’s got an internship

  at an ad agency in the city.

  Joy’s working at a boutique.

  And Marissa’s nannying.”

  “Busy.”

  She pauses and shakes her head.

  “That’s what you should be.”

  The mall is awful.

  There’s no way

  fighting with my mom

  about staying home

  would have been worse than this.

  It’s loud, crowded, too bright,

  smells of greasy food.

  And it’s freezing.

  It’s almost August.

  I shouldn’t need a sweater.

  I follow my mom from store to store

  as she does her errands:

  new dress,

  overpriced skin cream,

  linen tablecloth.

  When she’s done she asks,

  “Do you want to go to Victoria’s Secret?

  I saw your bras and panties in the wash.

  You could use some fresh ones.”

  Hearing her say “panties” is torture.

  And what do I need new underwear for?

  I don’t care if they’re dingy

  and unraveling.

  It’s not like anyone’s looking.

  “It’s okay. Thanks.”

  “Are you sure?

  It’s my treat.”

  “Yeah. I’m sure.”

  “Do you want to stop in anywhere else?

  Maybe some new skirts and tops?

  Or a pair of pretty sandals?” she asks,

  glancing at my less than impressive outfit.

  “No, I’m sure. Thanks.

  Can we just go?

  There’s a yoga class I want to get to.”

  “Oh, how nice! Good for you!”

  She is way too excited,

  which makes me feel bad

  because I’m not really going to yoga.

  I’m going to visit Brian.

  I am thankful that Brian

  is buried near my house.

  It keeps us close.

  Slows the separation.

  Just like the poem

  Peter read at the funeral:

  I am but waiting for you for an interval

  Somewhere very near

  Just around the corner.

  I read in the death book

  that the Yuqui, in South America,

  don’t bury their dead.

  They leave the body to decompose

  and then clean and paint the skull red.

  Next the skull is given to a close relative,

  who carries it with him during the day

  and keeps it under his hammock at night.

  When the skull starts to disintegrate,

  it is discarded.

  The book says that now

  “the duty of honoring the deceased

  has been fulfilled.”

  This seems so loving.

  Keeping the person with you—

  even if it’s just his bones.

  I’m telling Brian

  about shopping with my mom,

  when I hear someone come up behind me.

  I turn around to see who it is,

  then quickly stand up.

  It’s Brian’s grandmother.

  The one I met at the funeral.

  “Oh, I can go,”

  I say, picking up my bag.

  “Now, why would you do that?

  There’s no reason we can’t visit together.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “We met at the funeral,

  didn’t we?”

  “Yes. I’m Annaleah.”

  “Hmmm. Annaleah.

  What a beautiful name.”

  She pauses for a bit

  to stare at Brian’s grave,

  then starts again,

  “When Brian was little,

  he never stopped moving.

  Helene, my daughter-in-law,

  said she couldn’t get any sleep

  while she was pregnant with him.

  He just wouldn’t stop moving around.

  Even as a child, when he slept,

  Brian was always twitching

  or kicking free of the covers.

  And now,

  he’s at rest.

  Hard to imagine.”

  I’d never heard a story about Brian as a child.

  It makes me smile to imagine him, little,

  running around like crazy.

  A blur in the room.

  “What will you remember most

  about Brian?” his grandmother asks.

  Images flash through my mind.

  Brian laughing.

  Brian drawing.

  Brian leaning in to kiss me.

  “I don’t know.

  There are a lot of things.”

  “He was really special.

  But you already knew that.”

  She looks right at me.

  There are those Dennis blue eyes again.

  Maybe Brian told her about us.

  Or maybe she senses it.

  But it doesn’t really matter right now.

  What matters

  is that for the first time

  since Brian was buried,

  I am not standing here alone.

  I have cornflakes.

  My mom has eggs and toast.

  We maneuver around each other.

  She reaches for the salt.

  I reach for the sugar.

  She reaches for the pepper.

  I reach for a napkin.

  No words.

  No touching.

  Barely even eye contact.

  I have nothing to say,

  but I can feel

  that she’s building toward something.

  “Did you get into a fight with your friends?”

  I look back at her with squinted eyes.

  “What? No.

  They’re just busy with work.”

  “You know, I could get you

  a volunteer position at the hospital,”

  she says gently.

  “We always need a hand

  with delivering flowers, making copies,

  or walking patients to appointments.

  A job like that would look great

  on your college applications.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think so.

  I’ve got a lot going on.”

  “Like what?” she snaps.

  “You don’t do anything.”

  “I do plenty,”

  I say, pushing back my chair.

  I put my bowl in the sink

  and go to my room

  to get dressed to visit Brian.

  I do

  plenty.

  What would it be like if I had died

  instead of Brian?

  Would the whole school have turned out

  and appeared brokenhearted—

  even the girls who talk trash about me?

  What would it have been like

  to have all those people in my house?

  Friends, family, teachers, acquaintances,

  maybe even some strangers.

  Something would be missing

  and that something

  would be me.

  It’d be like not inviting the guest of honor

  to her own party.

  And my mom,

  my mom,

  my mom.

  How would it have been for her,

  with no husband’s shoulder to cry on,

  no parents of her own to give her comfort?

  Who would have spoken at my funeral?

  What would people have said?

  Would my mom have been able to find the words?

  Would my dad have shown up?

  Maybe one of my teachers would have spoken.

  But which one?

  Definitely not Mr. Lowry.


  He was giving me Ds in history.

  I don’t think someone who gave you Ds

  would speak at your funeral.

  Although he always said

  that I had great potential—

  just that I wasn’t working up to it.

  Maybe he would have said something about that.

  Ms. Lohman would be the likely one.

  I got As in creative writing.

  She said I had a vivid imagination

  and a talent for creating characters and stories.

  Maybe she would have said something about that.

  Maybe Joy and Parker

  would have read a poem.

  They’re always doing dramatic things like that.

  But I hope it wouldn’t have been that poem about God,

  and footsteps, and being carried.

  Because that’s bullshit.

  I hope Marissa would have spoken.

  Maybe she would’ve told some funny stories

  from when we were kids.

  Maybe she would’ve said she was sorry

  for how things have been with us lately.

  And Brian?

  What about Brian?

  Would he be going through

  the same things I am now?

  I walk down my block

  and then take a right turn.

  Two more blocks

  and I’ll be with Brian.

  For the first time

  in a long time,

  I know he’ll be there

  waiting for me.

  I sit down on the grass next to him.

  He has flowers,

  but I know they’re not for me.

  I wonder who gave them to him,

  but I don’t ask.

  I tell Brian about my day.

  I say, “I saw your dad

  at the supermarket.

  I didn’t talk to him—

  it’s not like he knows who I am,

  and even if he did,

  I wouldn’t know what to say.

  I watched him

  take things off the shelves,

  look them over,

  and then put them back.

  There was almost nothing

  in his cart.

  I wonder if he’s always been like that,