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,
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.