Miles Away from You
Page 20
Somewhere down the hall, I heard Mom chuckling at my expense.
It’s really weird having a secret with Mom. I’m pretty sure that Mamochka has no clue what went down with me in Iceland, but Mom had her own private line. I wonder if he’s called her since I’ve been home. I wonder if he’ll keep seeing her now that he doesn’t have a hotel to trade anymore. Does he even need to?
She helped him, you know? Like, he had a problem, then she offered up some tools and helped him make a plan. He did all that, and it worked. I’m practically a stranger to him, but even I could see that it worked. Sure, it’s going to be shitty and painful for a while, but he’s resilient, right? I can think about him, picture him a year from now, and he’ll be just fine.
And in some ways, what he had to go through was even more difficult than my shit with you. He lost his mom. His dad basically forgot about him. He couldn’t even live in his own home. All he had left was Jack and now he’s gone too.
Yet, as scary at it seems, I envy that tangibility. I’m tired of shouting into the void and hearing only myself echoing back.
Shit. I don’t know if I can do this anymore, V.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
July 3 7:14 PM
I got another tattoo today.
Marlee was working in the shop by herself, and when I came in, she dropped the magazine she was reading and flung her arms around my neck.
“My God, where have you been?”
I said, “Iceland,” but I’m pretty sure she thought I was joking.
And then she asked where you were.
I got all quiet, trying to hold it together.
I mean . . . how could she not know?
“Hey, man, shit happens,” she said before I could gather my thoughts. “You’re too cute for her, anyhow. Let’s get you some ink.”
I now have the vegvísir permanently on my chest. White ink. It looks like scar tissue.
Miles Away to Vivian Girl
July 4 7:32 PM
I’m glad that it’s over. I think I can say that to you now. And I’m glad, too, that ending your life by turning off the ventilators was never a choice I had to make.
I went to Mom’s office yesterday. While she was busy with patients, I went into the office and made paperclip chains and listened to her secretary answer the phone. Then when her last session for the day was over, I strolled down the hall and plopped my ass down on her proverbial couch.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi, Miles.” She dug into one of her desk drawers and pulled out a couple granola bars. I snatched mine out of the air as she tossed it to me.
I pulled at the flap, tearing the wrapper along the seam. “I was mad at you. For the longest time, I thought it was your fault. Because you’re a therapist. I thought you should have seen it coming. I thought you should have been able to stop her somehow.”
“I know. I blamed myself, too,” she said. “I am so sorry.”
“No, I don’t want you to apologize. I’m not mad anymore. It isn’t your fault. Or mine, even. I just wanted to tell you,” I said. “Because you’re alive, and I should be talking to you. It’s probably more beneficial than talking to a dead person, right? That’s what I have been doing. I’ve been writing to Vivian, and that’s a little . . . you know? I mean, I’m sorry. I should have told you about this sooner, but I figured you’d make me stop, and I wasn’t ready yet.”
“Why do you think I’d make you stop?” Typical therapist question.
I peeled the wrapper back from the bar and spread it out across my knees. I attacked the bare rectangle of granola, pulling out the chocolaty bits first. “Because it’s fucking crazy.”
“Did it make you feel better?”
“It made me feel like I still exist.”
There was a long pause. I was staring down at the mess of oats and chocolate in my lap. When I looked up, I saw that Mom was picking hers apart the same way. And she was crying.
“I’m so screwed up I made the therapist cry,” I said, passing over her own box of tissues.
She wiped her eyes and got that intimidating Mom look for a second, then it left and her face softened. “You’re not. You’re not screwed up. Out of all of this, you were the only one who had any sense. She was just so special. She was so hard to lose. Even her parents understood that. But we were all way out of line. I never should have tried to make Vivian’s situation about anyone other than her.”
I’m pausing here because I want you to understand, wherever you are, that Mom is sorry. And I am sorry. And your parents might even be sorry.
We loved you.
I’m not mad at Mom anymore. She went on to say some other stuff, stuff about me and her, but I’m not sure if that’s pertinent here. Like a lot of things in my life, I have yet to figure out if these messages are for me or for you. I know what they started out as. Now I’m not so sure.
I guess they have to be about me now. Because I am the only one left.
Mom told me that writing unseen letters like this is totally sane and, actually, something she recommends that some of her patients try. But I’ve decided to stop
and
just
live
my
life.
It’s like the megapixels. I’m doing the same thing, here, aren’t I? Trying to compress all that’s happened into data. Everything’s zeros and ones.
I am not a photograph. I am not binary code.
At the end of all this, I am still as confused as ever about the almighty Purpose of My Trip. But with all that happened, good and bad, it served as indisputable proof that whether I’m bleeding in the mud or wrapped in someone else’s arms, I have no choice but to continue on. My synapses are still firing, and my heart is still pounding in my chest.
I still exist.
I am here now at your grave. There’s dirt and grass and gates and trees. It’s dusk, and the fireflies are twinkling, but I’m not really getting any of that because I’m staring into a screen. In a moment, though, I’ll hit send. Tuck my new phone into my pocket and look up. There will be fireflies and a sunset. Trees and grass.
And fireworks. There’ll be fireworks because it’s my Independence Day.
I’ll dig my fingers into the dirt covering your casket, and I’ll wish, for at least a moment, that my fingers were winding into your curly hair.
And then I’ll let go.
I’ll get up from where I’m sitting and step out of your boots. Your oxblood Doc Martens with the dent on the toe. Your boots, V. Your fucking boots.
I’ll peel off my socks and walk barefoot away from your burial plot. I’ll walk slowly, careful not to step on some fucking hypodermic needle or something. Or a bumblebee.
And I’ll be walking. Away.
And, yeah, I’ll probably cry. But I’ll be smiling too. I mean it this time, Vivian. This is my last message to you.
Epilogue
Óskar Franz Magnússon to Miles Away
December 12 7:32 AM
Halló, American boy.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my besties Keenan Pixley, Laura McElroy, and Aleshia Morley for being my first readers and convincing me I should keep on doing this writing thing. All the love to Mom, Dad, Josh, and all my extended family for molding me into the strange, artsy creature I am today. Thank you to Travis Rutledge for taking me to Iceland and then allowing me to basically ignore you for a few years while I figured out how to write this book. You have my heart forever.
Thank you to my CPs: Laura Creedle, Dannie Morin, Laura Hitchcock, Laura Felicetti, Jennifer Todhunter, Maria Dascalu, Ryan Page, Lena Maye, Polly J. Brown, and Sera Flynn. And to TC Safavi for dropping us all off at the Kiddie Pool. Big, big thanks to Jessica Gibson and Meredith Russo for all your help with Vivian.
Thank you Francesca Lia Block and all the magical faerie girls I met through your workshop, especially Jessa Marie Mendez, Jilly Dreadful, Laura Thorne, Melanie Terrill, Jess Mullen, Jennifer Martin, and Tegan We
bb. You’re my oldest and truest writer buddies. I’ll always cherish our late-night word wars, tarot sessions, and ridiculous inside jokes. You people get me.
Thank you to #TeamMoe, especially Sophie Gonzales, who single-handedly got me through six months of sub hell by being hilarious and snarky and awake on the other side of the planet so I could have someone to complain to at three a.m. I can’t wait to see your books on the shelf someday soon.
Thank you to all the magic-makers who turned my scribbles into something real. Alana Saltz, you are the guardian angel of this book. I’ll be forever grateful that you picked my story out of the slush and gave me the courage to submit it to agents. Thank you to Moe Ferrara for being the world’s coolest agent. Your editorial notes are always full of win and I really appreciate all the care and attention you have given me and Miles. Thank you to Jim Secula and everyone at HMH who worked to make this book beautiful inside and out. Thanks to my cover designer, Sharismar Rodriguez. I can’t get over how stunning this cover is. And, lastly, thank you to my editor Margaret Raymo for giving this offbeat little tale a home. I thought editing would be frustrating and terrifying, but I haven’t felt overwhelmed even once. Thank you for making my wildest dream come true.
Resources:
If you’re having suicidal thoughts, please, please reach out to someone. I promise you that you’re not alone and there are people who can help.
Trans Life Line can be reached at 1-877-565-8860.
The Trevor Project has a 24/7 lifeline at 1-866-488-7386 or you can text “Trevor” to 1-202-304-1200.
The National Suicide Prevention Hotline is 1-800-273-8255.
About the Author
Author photo © 2017 A. B. Rutledge
A. B. RUTLEDGE is an optician from Southeast Missouri. She likes ’90s alternative music, dresses with pockets, and leaving Halloween decorations up all year long. When she’s not up at 3 a.m. scribbling out stories, you can find her in her art studio covered in paper scraps, paint, and cats. Miles Away From You is her first novel.
ABRUTLEDGE.COM
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