Goodbye Days

by Jeff Zentner

  We build him a monument of words we’ve written on the walls of our hearts. We make the air vibrate with his life.

  Until our milkshakes are gone.

  Until Judge Edwards begins yawning and says that he has to be up early for court; that he’s not as young as he once was.

  Until it’s almost my curfew anyway.

  Until the wind gusts hard, bringing cool autumn rain, falling like silver arrows.

  He doesn’t apologize and neither do I. He doesn’t offer to absolve me and I don’t request it. He does shake my hand and pulls Mars’s drawing of Sauce Crew from his coat pocket, giving it to me when he drops me off, a few minutes before midnight.

  I go in my parents’ room to hug them good night. They must sense something in me. They hold me between them where they lie—warm and sleepy—and I cry like a child in their dark room. The tears are heavy, weighted with what they’re carrying from me. When I finish, I’m quiet inside for the first time in months. Not happy, not free. Like floodwaters that haven’t receded but are finally tranquil, all that was lost and broken drifting just below the surface under a cloudless sky.

  I sit on my bed, not ready to sleep in spite of my exhaustion at the end of this seemingly year-long day.

  There’s something about the stillness in me that’s too hushed. The way birds don’t sing on a winter night and the frigid air buries every sound.

  I need to try to fix one more thing.

  I stare at my reflection in the screen of my black, lifeless phone. If you survived this day, you can survive anything. And what do you have to lose?

  I pick it up and text Jesmyn, figuring she probably won’t be awake. I’m sorry. Beach in November.

  I wait a minute and there’s no response. Why would there be? I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and change into my sleeping shorts. I turn out the light.

  Behind my closed eyes, I see a pale white glow illuminate my room. I sit up to see my phone buzz, skittering on my desktop.

  My heart pounds what must be my last reserves of adrenaline into my veins. My phone goes dark. I think about not even checking it. If it’s the answer I expect, it’ll leave me lying awake all night, heartache pulling me from my shallow bouts of sleep the way it did for the first month after the Accident.

  But I do it. I pick up my phone.

  Come tell me to my face.

  Now? If the speed of a response to a text is the measure of dignity, I now have approximately zero dignity.

  Now.

  I dress as though I’m trying to escape a fire.

  Around the corner from Jesmyn’s house, I sit and watch the raindrops patter on my windshield and slide down in rivulets, making the streetlights flare orange like squinting at them through tears.

  I spot her running in flip-flops, her jacket pulled over her head. I open the passenger door and she jumps in and slams it behind her. My car fills with the scent of honeysuckle. It makes me feverish with nostalgia. She’s dressed for bed in a tank top and leggings, her hair in a messy ponytail.

  Neither of us says anything. I start my car so the heater blows on her, but I don’t make to turn on the lights or leave. She stares forward and rubs her arms.

  “So.” It must be obvious I’m trying to stall until I have something better.

  “So.” She shivers.

  “I don’t really know how to do this.” A long (or at least it feels that way) silence.

  “I’m glad you’re not going to jail.”

  “Me too.” I grip the steering wheel hard. “Look. I’m sorry. I was wrong. What I did. What I said. How I acted.”

  She takes a deep breath and releases it. “Carver, I want you to tell me right now. If we become friends again, will things be weird between us?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean, will you constantly be comparing yourself to Eli or whoever else? Will you compare what we have to what Eli and I had?”

  “No.” This is a lie. I won’t be able to help it. But I do feel strong enough to never let her know it’s happening. And for her purposes, that’s as good as its not happening. I’d rather have the pain of secreting things away than the pain of her absence.

  She reaches over and angles the middle vent toward her. “I’m still sorting out my emotions.”

  “I know.”

  “And I’m not sure I’ll ever feel about you the way you do about me. If that’s not something you can live with, you better tell me now.”

  Even though hearing this feels like my heart is being pushed through one of those Play-Doh molds, still I nod and say, “That’s cool,” because it is. It’s better than no Jesmyn.

  “No weirdness.”

  I nod.

  “No drama.”

  I nod. A few seconds pass. “Eli was pretty great,” I say quietly.

  “Yeah. He was,” she murmurs. She leans over, and we have an awkward car hug. “This sucks,” she says. “Get out.”

  We meet at the front of the car and hug for an unreasonable amount of time in the rain, which douses us like an ablution. Now she smells like honeysuckle wet with dew. Green things becoming new and growing again.

  We break the embrace and jump back into the car. I turn the heater up full blast and we rub our hands in front of the vents. She lifts her bare feet to the vent on her side. We’re both giddy and giggly. That calms as we slowly warm.

  “It felt pretty Beach in November when we weren’t talking or hanging out,” I say.

  “It felt Torn-Up Song.”

  I cock my head in query.

  “While we weren’t talking, I’d go running at the Harpeth River Greenway because it always helps me blow out all my shitty feelings. So one night, after an especially bad day of practicing, I went running, and I saw these little bits of paper scattered on the path. I picked one up and it seemed to have lyrics on it. I kept picking them up and putting them together like a puzzle. It was a song somebody had torn up.”

  “Man, that’s some Nashville-ass litter.”

  “Right? It way bummed me out to think about this song someone poured their heart into, torn up and abandoned on the ground. So, Torn-Up Song.”

  “I might have to steal that.”

  “Go for it.”

  “Was the song any good?”

  Jesmyn starts laughing so hard she can’t talk, and tears roll down her face. “No,” she mouths.

  I laugh with her.

  When our laughter subsides, she becomes somber again and says, “Remember how everything was snotty green? Everything was black-blue when we were apart. Still not the right color.”

  “You’ll get there. We’ll get there.”

  “Can we still be Sweat Crew even with the weather getting cold?”

  “I think so.”

  “Me too.”

  We listen to the rain drum on the roof of my car while a silken lull passes between us. It drapes itself over my heart like one of those days when the temperature is so perfect, you can’t feel your own skin when you step outside.

  Finally, Jesmyn turns to me, poised to speak, her face illuminated in a gauzy orange halo of dappled streetlight. It looks like the light is coming from inside her.

  I know already I’ll say yes to whatever she asks, because there’s nothing I would rather do than tell her yes.

  “Want a ride to school tomorrow?” she asks.

  Yes.

  Sometimes, when I’m in nature, I imagine how placid; how idyllic it must have been before humans came along. A stillness so profound, it needs a witness. That’s how I feel as I sit across from Dr. Mendez. My emotion resembles happiness enough that a smile is the only outward display that will express it.

  Dr. Mendez smiles back. “You seem well today.”

  I lean forward, head down, and then look up at Dr. Mendez. “Can I tell you a story?”

  He rests his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands, as though in prayer. “Please.”

  I spoke before knowing exactly what to say, but I wanted to say something. I ru
b my palms together. Then I rub my mouth and nose. I stare at the floor and chew the inside of my cheek. “Sorry,” I whisper.

  “Take your time,” Dr. Mendez says.

  “On, um, August first, Carver Briggs was at the bookstore where he worked, shelving books. His three friends, Mars Edwards, Blake Lloyd, and Eli Bauer, were at a movie and were supposed to meet him. They were going to go get milkshakes and then hang out at the park, which was a tradition of theirs.” I swallow hard and draw a quaking breath. “They’d been friends since eighth grade.”

  My throat begins to constrict. I cough and wait for it to slacken. “He knew they’d be by soon to pick me—him—up, but he was impatient. So he texted them: ‘Where are you guys? Text me back.’ ”

  I begin trembling and my vision blurs with tears. Dr. Mendez sits absolutely still. I wait for a sob to die in my chest, inhale, and continue, my voice quavery but strong, somehow. “A little later he found out they were, um, killed in an accident that happened right around the time he was texting them. Mars, actually. He was texting Mars, who was driving, because he knew that Mars would text him back, just like he asked. Even though Mars was driving. And he knew Mars was driving.”

  I breathe down another sob. My hands shake violently. I ball them into fists and press forward. “And Carver is pretty sure he caused the wreck by texting Mars, but he’s not completely sure. What he is sure of is that he didn’t mean to hurt them. Ever. Ever. If he’d known what would happen, he never would have done it. And he’s very sorry.” I hesitate. “I’m very sorry.”

  I can’t control my tremors and I begin weeping. I lean so far forward that Dr. Mendez can probably see only the top of my head. I cover my eyes with my hand and cry like that for a minute or two. It feels so good. It feels like dream bawling. Dr. Mendez leans over and scoots the box of tissues to within my reach. I take one, wipe my eyes, and wad it up in my hand.

  I finally sit upright again and slump down in my chair, exhausted. I laugh a congested cry-laugh. “Sorry. Such a baby.”

  Dr. Mendez’s face is solemn. He shakes his head. “No.” He leans back in his chair and taps his lips. He stares past me. He starts to say something but catches himself. He looks me dead on. I’ve never seen such a stormswept, haunted look in his eyes. “Now I want to tell you a story,” he says softly. Almost as though asking permission. “I don’t normally do this, but this time, I feel I need to.”

  I give him the “Dr. Mendez go-ahead” gesture. He smiles when he recognizes it. I see a slight tremble in his lips.

  “When I was in high school, I had a dear friend named Ruben Arteaga. Anyway, one night, we’re supposed to hang out, and we fight over something. I don’t even remember what now. Something stupid. Something petty. We go our separate ways. I stay home; he heads over the bridge to Juarez to party.”

  Dr. Mendez shakes his head. He puts his finger to his lips as though trying to stop himself from talking. But he continues, clearing his throat, his voice overcast. “I wake up the next day, and, um, Ruben isn’t at school. I wait for him to show up; he doesn’t. I call him after school; nothing. I come to learn he was found in an alley behind some bar, badly beaten. He’s alive, but barely. He holds on for a while with machines living for him. But then…”

  A single tear slides down Dr. Mendez’s cheek. “I’m sorry. This is still hard for me.” His voice cracks. He removes his navy-blue-frame glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.

  I scoot the tissue box over to him. We laugh.

  “Thank you, doctor,” he says. He sighs and puts his glasses back on. “I knew in my heart I killed Ruben. If only I had swallowed my pride and not fought with him. If only I had stopped him from going. If only. If only. I looked to the moon and I saw Ruben’s face. I looked to the clouds and saw a finger pointing at me.”

  “Pareidolia.”

  “Pareidolia.”

  “All the therapists in the world and I get one who understands better than anyone,” I murmur.

  “You were owed a bit of luck.”

  “Is that why the stories?”

  “It was only by engaging with other stories—stories that removed me from the equation—that I was able to close this wound so I could heal. The universe—fate—is cruel and random. Things happen for many reasons. Things happen for no reason. To shoulder the burden of the universe’s caprice is too much for anyone. And it’s not fair to you.”

  “So I still have a ways to go, huh?”

  “This isn’t the end of a journey but the beginning. You’re now where most people who lose a loved one or loved ones start. You’ve done the work to properly understand and contextualize your place in this tragedy, but there’s more healing to come. You’ve beaten the infection in the wound, so now it can heal.”

  “I hope I feel completely right again someday.”

  Dr. Mendez’s eyes, though teary red, twinkle. “You won’t. And yet you will. I’ll remember Ruben’s smile, or I’ll smell a cologne that reminds me of him—like a lot of teenage boys, he always wore too much. And when those memories hit me, I feel that ache. So will you. But your life will be full enough, big enough to absorb it, and you’ll go on.”

  A few moments pass.

  “Can I tell you something?” I ask.

  “Of course.”

  I tell him I’m going to do a goodbye day with my parents someday soon. More of a hello day, actually. So they can hear my story. So I can offer them all of myself that I put behind walls for no good reason.

  I tell him I believe we are stories of breath and blood and memory and that some things never finally end.

  I tell him I hope, after we’re gone, there’s a day when a great wind fills our stories with life again and they rise from sleep; and that I write the best story I can—one that echoes in the void of the eternities at least for a time.

  I tell him I hope I see my friends again someday.

  I tell him I hope.

  Though two of Adair’s dance buddies flank her as we pass in the leaf-strewn parking lot, still I stop for a moment and open myself to her. Offer myself, more like. I have nothing to tell her; I just want to give her the chance to say what she needs to say. It’s not enough that you took my brother; you also took my parents’ marriage. It’s not enough that he’s dead; I have to see you hanging out with his girlfriend. It’s not enough that you never went to prison; I also have to see you every day.

  I can receive it now, I think. Whether it was the therapy, the medication, or both, I haven’t had a panic attack in a long time. I can absorb whatever she has for me and survive. Whatever comfort, whatever peace it’ll bring her, I want her to have it. I try to tell her this with my face.

  But she looks past me, somehow staring me down without ever looking in my direction. Her gray eyes are as hard and hot as a fever. One from which you never become wholly well. One that takes part of you and never gives it back. One you don’t survive completely.

  If nothing else, I understand.

  Jesmyn stops playing abruptly, stands, and whoops, startling me.

  “What?” I set down my laptop with my almost-completed college admission essay and slide out from under the piano to see her springing up and down, shouting.

  She’s incandescent. She grabs my hands. “I finally saw the blue! The right blue!”

  I join her jumping and yelling.

  When we settle down and catch our breath, I say, “You’re done practicing for today. Pumpkin spice milkshake time.”

  We take our milkshakes to Centennial Park and drink them while we sit on the tailgate of Jesmyn’s truck, listening to Dearly through the open cab windows, talking and laughing. We wrap Jesmyn’s stargazing blanket around ourselves against the chill of the dimming autumn twilight—purple like a healing bruise—watching what leaves still cling to the trees fall spiraling to the ground, one by one.

  I’m standing in line at Target, buying a Coke, when I remember, once, Sauce Crew was talking about how funny it would be if you congratulated people not on hav
ing babies but on having had sex. You had a baby? Nice! You had sex! Congrats on having had so much cool sex! People at church and work and stuff would say this to you.

  I start laughing right there in line, laughing like I did then.

  Like I did so many times.

  Some days—the good ones—this is how they visit me.

  Georgia’s voice is sunny as she answers the door. “Hey!” I hear her talking with someone. “Carver!” she calls.

  It’s late-ish and it’s supposed to snow, so I’m not expecting anyone. I put down my book and head for the door.

  “So how long is UT on Christmas break?” Jesmyn asks Georgia as I turn the corner.

  “I’m off until the first week of January,” Georgia says.

  Jesmyn’s face brightens when she sees me. “Hey!”

  “Hey! What’re you doing here?”

  “Surprise. Go put on your shoes and coat. We’re walking to Percy Warner Park.”

  “Huh?”

  She makes a scooting motion. “Don’t ask questions. Hurry.”

  I comply.

  Georgia insists on hugging Jesmyn before we go. “Have fun, kids. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “Okay,” I say, “we’ll try not to wake up before eleven a.m. or shower while we’re at Percy Warner.”

  “Oh, all right,” Georgia says. “We gonna do this, Carver? Right in front of Jesmyn? Huh?” She sticks her pinky in her mouth. “Do I need to hand you your ass?”

  “Dude, don’t!” I try to make it out the door and down the front steps, but Jesmyn, giggling, grabs me in a bear hug, pinning my arms to my sides right as I’m trying to clamp my hands over my ears. If I’m being honest, her being wrapped around me is so pleasurable that I don’t try very hard to get away.

  Georgia lunges forward and nails me in the left ear despite my frantically shaking my head and squalling. Then the right ear. “Had enough?”

  “Yes, you gross idiot.”