Chasing William (16 page)

I send my mom a quick text to let her know
I’m still alive and have yet to be mugged and beaten. While on my
phone I notice I have several missed calls from someone I’m not a
direct descendent of… Amanda. I’d like to say I’m surprised, but
it’s just like her. She acts like she’s being the bigger person,
all while letting you know exactly how small she thinks you are.
Normally, the idea of a missed voicemail from Amanda would make me
shake, and a long time ago it would have made me happy, but now I
just don’t care. It is strange. I tell myself to be upset but I’m
not. I tell myself it might be important but I know it never is. I
delete the voicemail without a second thought. She was probably
only calling to tell me about another party I’m not invited to.
Maybe she was getting creative. She could be calling me to say she
was deleting my number from her phone and it accidentally dialed
instead. That’d be a new one. The whole idea makes me smile. It is
all so ridiculous. And this is the shit I’ve been wasting my time
with when life is so short.

I have a plan for what to say. I am going to
go up to the person at the front desk and tell her my story. I am
going to ask if there is anyone I can talk to that knew William.
I’ll be led on a tour of the building, maybe meet a couple of
people who were friends with him, they’ll tell me how hard he
worked and how there was no way he would have relapsed. They’ll
tell me he must have died some other way. A way that I couldn’t
have stopped.

I pull into the parking lot and I can’t go
in. It finally makes sense what I’ve been looking for this whole
time. I’m not the innocent, grieving girlfriend who just wants him
back. I want him back so I can know why and how. I want him to
answer my questions. I’m not following his ghost so I can hold him
one more time. I’m chasing him down so I can… what? Shake him down
for an answer? Threaten him until he talks? I can’t go inside now.
I can’t appeal to these people’s sympathies anymore. My motives
aren’t totally pure. I want answers more than I want him.

The realization hits me hard. I slam myself
back into the car but I don’t know where I want to go. I pull out
my phone and get on Facebook. It seems like that’s what everyone
does these days when they don’t know what else to do.

To:
William Davis

Message:
Why?

There is nothing else to the message. No “I
miss you” or “I love you.” I just want him to tell me why. Why he
was such a fucking idiot. Why he relapsed. Why he started in the
first place. Why no one bothers to give me an answer one way or
another. Why I so desperately need this kind of closure. Why it
isn’t enough to just know that he loved me. Why I can’t figure out
what I want. Why I’m doubting everything we’d had.

I’ll be done with high school at the end of
the year. I’ll be moving on to college and I’ll have the chance for
a fresh start. But what good will that do if I have no idea what to
do with it? I find myself without any girlfriends to confide in, no
boyfriend to lean on, and I have no idea who I am on my own. I
can’t go into “That Place” now. I can’t do anything.

I sit in my car for hours and watch people
go in and out. Some people are carrying flowers or bags or boxes,
some people go in with nothing, and some people come and go as a
group. I finally get out of my car and walk around. Across the
street from “That Place is a park. Well, really it’s just a
nicely-maintained grassy field, but it looks peaceful. I find a
tree to sit under where I can still see “That Place”. William was
so much braver than I am. He saw what he wanted, he saw what he had
to do to get it, and he did it. He probably would have made it
through those doors hours ago.

I make the bold decision to get back in my
car and try again tomorrow.

To:
William Davis

Message:
Hey again, Will. I don’t
know how you did it sometimes. Sure, from the outside it looked
like you weren’t “with it” or together like me. You were the
“messed up” one, the bad influence. But at least when you saw your
flaws you did something about it. You wanted to be better.

Remember that night? Our last night
together. We were outside, looking at the stars, hopelessly in
young love. You told me you thought I was so lucky. You said how
proud you were of me for not screwing my life up the way you did.
You said how much you wanted my life to be everything I deserved.
You acted like I deserved the world. It was sweet. Romantic. Every
girl dreams about having a guy like that, a guy who wants to give
them the world… I don’t think I ever deserved you.

I’m a coward. I can’t even go and try and
find a piece of you somewhere you lived for months. I don’t want to
fix my flaws. I’d rather pretend they don’t exist and rationalize
them away.

I can’t even say that just knowing you died
loving me is enough. I have to know why. Like I have to know
exactly how you died so I know what to remember you as, and I have
to know what you really thought of me so I know what to remember us
as. What’s wrong with me? Honestly. Can’t you come down here and
haunt some sense into me?

Maybe I’ll try again tomorrow. I guess I
have to keep trying as long as I have time left. That’s what you’d
want me to do. I think. I don’t know what you’d want me to do,
actually. I just have to guess. I don’t even know what I want – how
could I possibly know what anyone else wants?

“
You will meet a strange
stranger.”

This is my third day sitting in the park
across from “That Place” I keep telling myself it’ll get easier,
but it’s just getting harder. It doesn’t help that I’m running out
of time, either. Everything’s just building up and I haven’t had my
miracle yet. I can’t help but think that if I go home like this
nothing will change. It’ll all be the same and I’ll be as miserable
and pathetic as ever. I don’t want to be like this. I want to be
kind and strong and brave. I want to be an example for other people
going through this. Instead I’m meek, pathetic, and, if I’m going
to be really honest, getting a little self-centered. They say
sometimes grief can do that to you, and so can youth. Not a very
good combination. Maybe it’s good for that whole “finding yourself”
thing we’re supposed to be doing in high school, but I’m not sure
how great it is for the rest of life.

I’m starting to recognize some of the people
going in and out of “That Place.” It’s easy to tell who’s there to
visit and who’s there to stay. The ones visiting look nervous and
worried. The ones staying look, well, they all look like William
somehow.

“Are you an almost-patient or an almost
visitor?”

“Jesus Christ!” My mom probably wouldn’t
have appreciated that, but sometimes it’s the only expression that
works. While I was busy working on my self-centered philosophies
about life, someone had traveled from the parking lot and come to
join me at my spot under the tree.

“You’ve been here all day, twice now. That
usually means you’re deciding whether or not you want to go in. At
least in my experience.”

The boy is my age and that makes me feel a
little more comfortable. I never thought people would be looking at
me, but I guess that makes sense. I stick out a lot more than any
of the people going in and out, sitting by myself under a tree and
staring. It still seems weird someone would take the time to do
something about it, though.

“I’m, well, visiting, I guess. Not really. I
don’t know what you’d call it.” I’m not sure if I want to keep
talking or not. I’ve spent so much time inside my own head it feels
good to have another person here. It’s a relief to have a voice
talk back.

“They not know you’re coming?” He sits down
next to me, against my tree. I’m not sure I like him being so close
to my tree.

“Not exactly. No. He’s not here
anymore.”

He looks at me, but not as condescendingly
as I thought he was going to. He doesn’t even look at me like I’m
crazy. I guess spending time anywhere near “That Place” makes you
tolerant.

“He died. I’m just here, well, following a
ghost, I guess. It didn’t make much sense before I left. It made
less sense when I got here. Makes even less sense now that I’ve
said it out loud.”

“Well, I hate to be the voice of reason, but
even if you made it inside, you wouldn’t be able to find out much.
They won’t be able to give you any answers or information, even if
it does exist.”

Now it’s my turn to look at him,
confused.

“They can’t just give you a patient file or
tell you everything he said in group. You’re not family, at least
so I’m assuming, so they can’t really give you anything.”

“How did you know I wasn’t family?” I try to
change the subject quickly. I can’t believe I never realized “That
Place” would have all sorts of confidentiality issues. I can be
such an idiot sometimes. It’s like during this whole trip my brain
had shut itself off to all those normal, practical things I’m
usually so concerned with.

“The way you said
him
. Didn’t sound
like a relative, and if your dad was in there you’d be more upset
than sad.”

“How would you know what I’d feel?”

“My dad’s in there. I know how it feels. You
never really forgive them. I don’t give a shit about how he screwed
up his life, but I’ll never forget what he did to mine. I’ve been
visiting places like this for Christmas since I can remember. Don’t
think I’ve seen a Christmas tree that wasn’t plastered between
hospital walls. But hey, I made it out of the house alive . That’s
something.”

He says “that’s something” like he doesn’t
think it counts for anything at all. I can tell he’s bitter. It’s
like he’s stuck in the kind of rage I’d felt in the car. The anger
that won’t go away at people who can’t (or won’t) change their
ways. He reminds me a lot of William. William’s dad walked out on
him before he was old enough to remember. The man walked out on his
son so he could have more time with his beer, or at least that’s
how William tells it. Told it. That’s how William
told
it.

I am able to talk about William in the past
tense pretty easily. I don’t like it, but I can do it. William is
dead, people know that, and I know how they expect me to talk about
him. Thinking about him in the past tense is a totally different
thing. There are no social norms to adhere to in my mind, and he is
a lot less dead there than out in the real world.

I wonder if this guy knew William. Maybe
they ran into each other sometime. I could use a coincidence like
that. Maybe they were best friends somehow. Maybe he can give me
all the answers I’m looking for. Things like that happen in real
life, right? I mean, not usually, but to people who are really
lucky. I could use a really lucky moment. I think I’ve earned
it.

“And don’t tell me how sorry you are. I hate
when people say how sorry they are, like it changes things or makes
it okay how embarrassed they are to have brought the subject
up.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” I hate that he thinks he knows me,
that he thinks I fit so easily into the slot of “everybody else.”
Just like all those other people think they know what I’m going
through or what my problems are like. And I’m not thinking about
him at all. “I was going to ask if you ever met William Davis.” My
voice starts shaking and he probably assumes I’m crying, but I’m
not this time. I’m nervous. I think this is it. All those answers.
This is finally it.

“Nope. Don’t think so. I try not to
socialize with the patients. Sooner or later they all leave to go
somewhere. And sooner than later they all usually come back.” He
looks at me for a few seconds and seems to regret what he said. “I
mean, no offense. I’m sure what’s-his-name was a great guy.”

“Even great guys do stupid things. And if
you’re gonna feel sorry for me then I’m going to start apologizing
to you.” I look him right in the eyes, my voice doesn’t waver, and
I don’t feel out of my element. It’s a new experience for me. I’m
actually feeling confident.

“Alright. That’s fair.” He chuckles a
little. “My name’s Luke.”

“Crissy. So, tell me, Luke, why are you
here?”

“Curiosity.”

“Bull. If you don’t want to get involved
with the people inside “That Place” why would you bother with
someone working out issues next to it?”

“’That Place?” It has a name, you know.”

“Of course I know. I’m in denial, probably
about more than that, but I don’t see any reason to stop. It’s not
like my denial’s hurting anyone.” I say that a little more angrily
than I mean to, but it just makes Luke chuckle again. I’ve been
doing that a lot recently, saying things more angrily than I mean
to. I think my filter’s broken.

“And there’s the bitterness. Welcome to the
club.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Which was?”

“Why did you bother coming over here?”

“I don’t know. I just didn’t feel like going
in today.”

I shrug, not really sure what to say. I’d
like to tell him something helpful or encouraging. I’d like to be
able to relate, but I can’t. I’d give anything to have just one
more hour with William, even if I had to spend it in “That
Place”.

“You, um, wanna go for a walk? Maybe we’ll
be able to build up our courage to go in together.” Luke smiles and
for the first time looks genuinely friendly.

“Sure.” I don’t have anything else to do,
and now that I know people had noticed me I want to get away from
my little spot. “I don’t know what good it’ll do, though. Like you
said, it’s not like they can tell me anything.”

“Your guy, how old is he?”

“Seventeen, he was seventeen,” I emphasize
the
“
was” for Luke’s benefit. I hate when people talk about
William like he’s here, just on vacation. If someone’s gone,
they’re gone, and no matter what you do to try and bring them back
they’re going to stay that way. I can slip up, the people who cared
about him can slip up, but the people who only knew him as dead
can’t talk about him like he’s alive.