You Are Not Here Read online

or just lately.”

  I say, “I miss you.”

  I ask if he’s missed me too,

  then wait for his answer.

  If that squirrel runs up that tree,

  then his answer is yes.

  If it stays on the grass,

  his answer is no.

  The squirrel doesn’t move,

  and my breath catches in my throat.

  After a moment,

  it zips up the tree.

  I smile and lie down

  next to Brian.

  I wish he could hold me

  like he used to,

  but he doesn’t.

  The warm sun makes me drowsy

  and I fall asleep on my side

  next to Brian.

  When I wake up, grass is imprinted

  on my arm and leg.

  I brush myself off,

  but Brian doesn’t move.

  I say, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I reach out to touch him,

  and my fingers make contact

  with words:

  BRIAN DENNIS

  DIED AGE SEVENTEEN

  BELOVED SON AND FRIEND

  I had a dream

  that I was being buried.

  Not buried alive exactly,

  but buried

  with a consciousness.

  And I could see everything

  happening aboveground.

  I saw

  the dirt being shoveled on top of me.

  I saw

  it being patted down smooth.

  I saw

  the mourners leave one by one.

  Each time someone else left,

  I cried out,

  “Don’t leave me.

  Don’t leave me here alone.

  I don’t want to be

  left alone

  for forever.”

  But there was no sound.

  No words.

  Sitting on the bench

  across from the Dearly Departed,

  I prop my elbows on my thighs

  and put my chin in my hands.

  I stare down at the ground.

  Moss, grass, clovers.

  Then I look up the hill

  and survey the scene.

  All the names and dates

  on the graves are facing me.

  Like faces looking into mine,

  poised, ready to talk.

  I can see my reflection

  in one of the polished gravestones.

  It’s blurry,

  but it’s there.

  When the sun goes behind a cloud,

  I disappear.

  The death book wants me

  to write down everything I remember

  about Brian—

  all the small details.

  I remember how

  his dark eyelashes made his eyes seem so light

  he always carried his sketchbook

  he had a freckle right at the corner of his lips

  he wore jeans that were a little too big

  he always smelled like soap

  he liked to quote from movies

  his favorite sweatshirt had a hole in the side

  he sometimes had a book in his back pocket

  the hair on his arms was surprisingly soft

  he thought Family Guy was the best thing ever

  he made fun of me for watching reality TV

  his nails were usually ragged

  he put at least three packets of sugar in his coffee

  he never seemed to wear matching socks

  he was obsessed with Stanley Kubrick

  he was always hungry

  his teeth were perfectly straight

  he was squeamish about reptiles

  he got the chills whenever I kissed his ears

  Fireflies blink

  Morse code messages from Brian.

  Crickets chirp

  notes that when read on a scale

  surely have meaning.

  Unfortunately, I don’t speak

  their language.

  All this thinking about death

  can’t be good for me.

  I liked it better when I was

  unaware of how my days are numbered.

  That one day, maybe soon,

  all of this will just stop.

  It makes me wonder

  about my life

  and what I’m doing with it.

  What will I do?

  What will I never do?

  Will I ever see the Egyptian pyramids?

  I suppose that’s up to me,

  but if I don’t see them now—

  in this life—

  I will never see them.

  And what about school?

  I’m stuck in school for one more year.

  That will make fourteen years in total

  of learning what someone else

  has decided is important

  so I can take some bullshit tests

  that will decide what kind of education

  I am worthy of.

  Then it’s four more years of school

  that are supposed to prepare me for a career—

  one that is pretty much a mystery to me.

  And what about Brian?

  What did all his education get him?

  How did knowing algebra help him?

  Brian would have been better off

  traveling the world rather than memorizing

  information in textbooks.

  As I am walking past the church

  on my way to the cemetery,

  I see Brian’s dad getting out of his car.

  I stop.

  I stare.

  If he’s going to visit Brian,

  I should come back later.

  Give them some time

  together.

  But he doesn’t walk into the cemetery.

  He walks toward the church doors,

  which have a group of people around them.

  I wonder what could be happening

  at church at 7:00 p.m. on a Sunday night.

  Maybe it’s a ser vice for Brian.

  But why wouldn’t his mom be with his dad?

  And where are all the people my age?

  There are only adults.

  That’s when I notice the hand-painted sign

  on the church’s double doors.

  AA

  When I get to Brian I say,

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me?

  Did you even know?

  Or did you know

  and just not want to tell?

  Maybe that’s something else

  we had in common—

  not telling the truth

  about our dads.”

  I take a deep breath and sit down.

  My anger subsides.

  After about an hour

  of listening to my music on shuffle

  and talking to Brian,

  people begin filing out of the church.

  That’s my signal

  to leave Brian’s grave

  and go back near the church doors.

  I want to get a better look at Mr. Dennis.

  Maybe even hear his voice.

  Eventually, Brian’s dad comes out,

  shakes some hands,

  and gets some pats on the back.

  Then, hands in his jeans pockets,

  he walks into the cemetery.

  I wish I could hear

  what he is saying to Brian.

  Or know what he is thinking.

  I wish I could know their family stories,

  see the insides of their photo albums.

  I wish I could make new memories with them,

  and that one day I could have been invited

  for Christmas or Thanksgiving.

  But that’s never going to happen now.

  The best I can do

  is come back next Sunday night

  and see if his dad is here again.

  Mayb
e I’ll work up the courage

  to talk to him then.

  I don’t have to wait

  a week to see Brian’s dad again.

  He’s at the deli a few nights later.

  I’m buying a box of donuts,

  and he’s at the counter ordering sandwiches.

  Seeing him must be a coincidence,

  but then I wonder

  if it’s some kind of sign from Brian.

  Maybe his dad has a message for me.

  Maybe I have one for him

  and don’t even know it.

  I am desperate to hear Mr. Dennis’s voice.

  But more so,

  to hear his voice

  directed to me.

  But what I would say?

  Maybe, “Hello,

  I was a friend of Brian’s,

  and I am sorry for your loss.”

  That hardly seems appropriate

  while standing in front of sliced meats.

  But is there really ever a good place or time

  to express grief?

  When Mr. Dennis pays and walks by me,

  I get lost in his eyes—

  Brian’s eyes.

  I am frozen.

  My mouth hangs open a little.

  I say nothing.

  In bed, I cannot sleep.

  I think about Christmas

  with my dad in LA.

  Piles of presents are positioned

  underneath a massive sparkling tree.

  Lisa and Sage are running around the house,

  high on sugar, draped in garlands.

  My father keeps hugging me.

  He kisses my forehead,

  tells me how much I’ve grown

  since the summer.

  He asks how school is

  and how dating is going.

  I tell him school sucks

  and that it’s gross

  to talk to your dad about dating.

  But he insists, tells me

  that anyone who is important to me

  is important to him.

  But there isn’t anyone important

  yet.

  That night,

  Lauren cooks a Christmas feast,

  and after we eat, all five of us

  squeeze onto the couch.

  We watch Rudolph on DVD

  and then sleep

  sleep

  sleep.

  Lewis Armin

  died on April 10, 1877.

  He was 41.

  Sarah Armin

  died on July 27, 1896.

  She was 68.

  I suppose they were

  husband and wife.

  But they could have been

  brother and sister.

  The bottom of their stone says:

  GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

  Maybe that was true in 1896

  and for a while after.

  But is that true now,

  more than one hundred years later?

  Is there anyone left

  who remembers them?

  Who will visit Brian

  in one hundred years?

  Who will remember him then?

  Who will remember me?

  What’s the point of having all this

  if you are forgotten?

  The death book wants me

  to make a Question Jar.

  It says to write down my questions,

  put them in the jar,

  and then let them go.

  It tells me that this is not

  about finding answers.

  That it’s just about

  the process of asking.

  I pull a glass jar out of the recycling bin,

  rinse it out, and then dry it off.

  Next I take a piece of paper

  and rip it into small strips.

  Then I start writing.

  Why did this happen?

  I crumple it up and toss it in the jar.

  Is there a heaven?

  I crumple it up and toss it in the jar.

  When will it not hurt like this?

  I crumple it up and toss it in the jar.

  Did Brian actually care about me?

  I crumple it up and toss it in the jar.

  Can Brian hear me when I talk to him?

  I crumple it up and toss it in the jar.

  I still feel like shit.

  I’m getting sick

  of hearing my own voice.

  I need a sign.

  Something from Brian

  telling me what to do.

  I position myself so I am

  facing Brian squarely.

  I sit up straight,

  cross my legs like in yoga,

  rest my upturned palms on my knees,

  and I wait

  and wait.

  I wait

  for another car to backfire,

  for a butterfly to fly by,

  for a bee to sting me,

  for something.

  Anything.

  And I wait

  and I wait

  and I wait.

  There is nothing

  except the sound

  of birds and cars.

  I stand up and grab my stuff.

  I am so mad

  I can’t even look at Brian.

  At home I am as furious

  as if Brian and I

  had gotten into a fight.

  I throw my bag on my desk,

  and it knocks into a stack of college catalogs.

  As they spill onto the floor,

  a menu from Renzo’s, covered in doodles,

  falls too.

  From across the room

  I recognize the drawings.

  I dive for it

  as if some great gust of wind

  might rip through my bedroom

  and blow it away forever.

  My mouth goes dry.

  I trace my finger over the ink lines

  as if tracing the veins in Brian’s arm.

  This drawing isn’t new.

  It isn’t from beyond the grave.

  Brian was doodling on this menu

  while he was in my room one afternoon.

  But it can’t be a coincidence

  that I am finding this now.

  This is definitely my sign.

  Part Three

  I walk through the door at Renzo’s.

  I’m not sure

  what I am supposed to be doing

  or what I am supposed to be looking for.

  So I just stand there,

  by the counter.

  Every time the door opens behind me,

  I turn to see who it is.

  My heart hopes

  that Brian will walk through that door

  and tell me that all this has been a mistake.

  But I know that’s not going to happen.

  So I wait

  and stare.

  After a few minutes a voice breaks my trance.

  “Can I help you?”

  asks a guy from behind the counter.

  Annoyed that he has disrupted my thoughts,

  I just shake my head.

  I need to keep looking for signs.

  But he starts talking again,

  “’Cause, you know,

  if you like standing around here so much,

  you should apply for the waitress job.”

  I don’t even process what he’s said.

  He is a car honking in the background.

  He is an annoying person talking during a movie.

  He is a mosquito buzzing in my ear.

  I try to focus,

  keeping an eye out for signs.

  They could come in any form.

  “It could be the change

  you’re looking for,” he says.

  That snaps me to attention.

  For the first time since I came in,

  I really look at him.

  He’s tall and thin,

  an
d maybe a little older than me.

  He’s got light hair and brown eyes,

  and a glob of pizza sauce on his shirt.

  “A change?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “Working a few days a week,

  making some extra money,

  and, of course, all the pizza you can eat.”

  “A change?” I ask again.

  But this time

  I am saying it to myself

  and not to him.

  The next morning,

  I show my mom the job application.

  “A pizza place?” she asks skeptically.

  “I’m glad you decided to get a job,

  but wouldn’t you rather work at a clothing store?

  What about the boutique Joy’s working at?

  Or babysitting like Marissa?”

  “No. I have this feeling

  that working at Renzo’s is gonna be good.”

  “A feeling?

  Well, if this is what you want…

  then I think it’s great.”

  I go up to my room

  and fill out the application.

  The top half is easy.

  I write in my name,

  address, birthday,

  social security number,

  and school info.

  The bottom half is harder:

  work experience and skills.

  I don’t really have either.

  I’ve babysat,

  but I don’t think that counts.

  So under skills I just write:

  I’m really good at math.

  I’m a little nervous.

  I’ve never done anything

  like this before.

  In fact, I haven’t done anything

  in a long time.

  On the way to Renzo’s,

  I pass the cemetery.

  I don’t stop to see Brian,

  but do nod in his direction.

  I’ll be back later.