Authors: Samantha Schutz
that today is a typical summer morning.
The sky is cloudless.
Kids are riding their bikes.
People are gardening.
But today is not an ordinary day.
It is the day after Brian’s funeral.
The sky should be black.
Lightning should knife
through the air.
There should be blasts of thunder.
Rain should fall in bullets
and shatter windshields.
I’m wondering
how you’re feeling
and what you’re up to today.
I know things have been weird between us,
but I’m here for you.
Talk to you soon.”
I hit the
DELETE
button
and do not call her back.
to go for a walk around the bay.
I used to do this a lot.
Sometimes it was just to get air,
but mostly it was to find Brian.
Usually, this tactic didn’t work
and I would come home disappointed,
but there were a few times
that I did find him.
Those times, I always thought,
Why didn’t you call me?
I live a few blocks away.
I could have hung out with you.
Why would you rather be alone
than be with me?
Now as I walk through the neighborhood,
I see Brian on the hill by the bay,
hunched over a notebook, drawing.
I see him on the basketball court—
the very place he died—
taking shots.
It was only about a month ago
that I found Brian right here.
He spots me,
lifts up his shirt
and wipes the sweat from his face,
revealing his smooth stomach
and the trail of dark hair
that disappears into his shorts.
I try not to stare.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“Nothing. Just needed
to get out of the house.”
But that’s not really true.
“Yeah. My house
was feeling kinda tight too.
My dad’s home.”
I know better than to say anything.
I wait, giving Brian room to continue.
“Wanna play?” he asks.
“I’m not any good.
And besides,
I’m wearing flip-flops.”
“It’s okay.
Just take them off.”
I walk over to the edge of the court
and put my flip-flops on the grass.
I carefully walk back across the warm concrete,
being sure to look for broken glass.
“Can you dribble?” he asks
as he passes me the ball.
Thank God I catch it.
I would have felt like such an ass.
I dribble a few times.
“Okay, not bad,” he says.
“Can you shoot?”
I take a shot.
It’s not great,
but at least it comes close
and hits the backboard.
Brian runs after the ball
and passes it back to me.
“Try again. But this time
follow through with your wrist.”
“Okay, coach.”
When I try again,
I make the shot.
“Nice,” he says
as he catches the ball.
I take a few more shots.
Each time, Brian gives me tips
and encouragement.
I make enough of the shots
to be pretty pleased with myself.
“I think it’s time
for some one-on-one.”
“Seriously?”
Brian plays basketball
nearly every day.
“I don’t know.
That couldn’t be much fun for you.”
“It’s okay.
I’ll take my chances.”
Brian passes me the ball
and I start dribbling,
making my way toward the basket.
Brian comes at me
and reaches for the ball.
It’s obvious he isn’t trying his hardest.
When I turn my back to him,
he leans over me—
almost like we’re spooning
while shuffling back and forth.
My back is pressed against him.
I can feel how warm he is.
I can feel the sweat on his arms.
But Brian seems to get bored
with not trying
because he finally reaches around
and steals the ball.
In one smooth move,
he pivots, shoots the ball,
and makes the basket.
“Show-off,”
I say with a smile.
When the memory fades,
so does my smile.
I am alone
on this court.
is like the first.
On my stomach.
On my side.
On my back.
Curled up in a ball.
Diagonally.
My feet at the head of the bed.
Blanket on.
Blanket off.
TV on.
TV off.
Music on.
Music off.
I cannot sleep.
I cannot stop
this waking nightmare.
I want to dream.
I want to dream of Brian.
I put my pillow over my face,
take a deep breath,
and try to smell Brian.
I imagine him in my room,
talking,
walking,
smiling,
laughing,
lying next to me,
kissing me,
touching me.
I watch as the shadows
move quietly across my walls,
just like he used to move
across my room.
I look at them, searching
for his shape.
Will he come to me?
Will I hear his voice
one more time?
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I imagine his face, his body.
I am trying to will him
into appearing,
but he doesn’t.
All those talk-show psychics
make it seem like this should be easier.
People all over the place
are connecting with the dead.
Why can’t I?
Maybe Brian
doesn’t want to visit me.
Maybe I
am not important enough.
Or maybe, right now,
Brian is hovering over
his parents or close friends,
giving them comfort.
Maybe he’s so busy with them
that he’s forgotten about me.
Or maybe it’s just not my turn
yet.
that Marissa and I were in a taxi
driving on an overpass.
The driver took a turn way too fast
and lost control of the car.
We jumped the guardrail
and soared through the air,
hundreds of feet above the ground.
I knew we were going to die.
I thought about calling my mom
to tell her I loved her,
but there was no time.
Then the taxi became a convertible,
and Marissa fell out of the car.
I caught her sleeve for a second,
but I couldn’t hold her.
I watched her fall
and fall, then hit
the street below.
It was all happening in slow motion.
I knew
I was about to die,
and I couldn’t do anything
but watch the pavement
get closer
and closer.
but Parker and Joy convince me
to leave the house
and watch the Fourth of July fireworks
down by the bay.
Parker and Joy
are like an old married couple.
They finish each other’s sentences
and bicker all the time.
Except one big difference
is that Parker is gay,
and Joy falls in love
with every guy she meets.
When we all meet up,
Joy looks adorable.
She’s wearing a vintage dress
and her red hair is twisted into two little buns.
Parker’s wearing longish jean shorts
and, as usual, he’s got on a funny T-shirt.
This one says
BLAH, BLAH, BLAH
.
I look down at my own outfit.
There’s nothing cute
about my dirty jeans and plain white tank.
It’s pretty much a miracle
that I’m out of my house
and not in my pj’s.
We pick a spot on the seawall
that can’t be seen from the road,
and dangle our legs over the edge,
waiting for the show to start.
Joy tells us about the new guy
she’s been talking to.
Parker tells us about the trip
he’s going to take with his family
to the Grand Canyon.
Their lives are moving forward.
Mine is stagnant.
The first fireworks blast knocks
these thoughts from my head.
For a moment, the black sky is lit up
with a shower of sparks
and we are all temporarily cast in red.
All I can think of is blood.
Brian’s heart bursting.
Tears well up in my eyes
and I’m glad
that Parker and Joy
are looking at the fireworks
and not at me.
When the tears pool over,
I wipe them away,
then take a sip of warm beer.
If Brian were alive,
what would he be doing tonight?
Would he be here
with his arm around my shoulder?
As we watched the fireworks,
would he kiss my neck
and whisper to me
that I smelled good?
Or would he be somewhere else,
watching with his friends,
and getting drunk or stoned?
The second scenario sounds about right.
And the not so funny thing is:
I’d be doing the same thing then
as I am now—
missing him.
of the cells in the heart muscle.
In a sense, Brian’s heart
grew too big.
I wish that I had gotten the chance
to experience how big Brian’s heart
could be.
I wonder what it would have felt like
to have a relationship with Brian
where I wasn’t always questioning
and worrying,
and feeling so alone.
since Brian’s funeral.
Six days of watching TV,
but never the news.
Six days of sleeping all day
and then not sleeping at night.
Six days of not eating.
Six days of avoiding my mom.
Six days of unanswered
emails, and texts, and voicemails.
The exception was Independence Day,
and that passed quickly.
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.
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.”